The Fog - James Herbert [15]
Casey left in a wretched daze, tears blurring her vision. At first, she hadn’t been sure if it even was John, his physical appearance had seemed so different, and now she wanted to tell herself that it hadn’t been. But it was useless to pretend. She had to face up to the facts if she were to help him recover – and if he didn’t? Could she go on loving the thing she’d just seen?
She returned to the hotel, her mind in a turmoil, her emotions confused. A conflict began deep inside her. After hours of weeping, of fighting the repulsion she felt for his madness, she began to lose the battle. She rang her father. He urged her to come home immediately and she had to resist the impulse to agree to it; she wanted his protection, his comforting words, the words that would take the responsibility away from her.
But not. She owed it to John to stay near him while there was a chance – the flimsiest chance. The illness couldn’t destroy what had been, the closeness that had been theirs. She told her father she would stay until she knew about John one way or the other. She was adamant that he shouldn’t come down, that she would come home only when satisfied John was beyond help.
Casey’s wretchedness increased that evening when she visited Holman again. The doctor felt that she should know about the young child rescued with him who had died that afternoon without ever coming out of the unusual coma she’d been in since the eruption. They now thought she’d been affected by gas released from below the ground. It was possible that Holman also had been affected and this, in some strange way, was the cause of his madness. The next few days would tell if the brain damage was permanent or would pass. Or if the effects were fatal.
She hardly slept that night. Now that death had to be considered, her emotions had become clearer: if he lived, even if he were still insane, she would never leave him. Reality told her that her love could not be the same as before, that it would be a different kind of love, a love born out of his need for her. If he died – she forced her mind to accept the words – if he died, then she would forget the creature she had seen these last two days and remember only what he’d been, what they’d shared. In the early hours of the morning she finally fell into an exhausted and dream-filled sleep.
When she returned to the hospital in the morning, dread in her heart but still hopeful, Holman was completely sane.
Weak, ashen-faced, but totally sane. And one week later, he was ready to go home.
Sitting on the steps next to him, Casey took Holman’s hand. He kissed her cheek and smiled at her. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘For being here. For not running away.’
She was silent.
‘The doctors told me how I was,’ he continued. ‘It must have been frightening for you.’
‘It was. Very.’
‘They’re still trying to work out how a complete maniac could become normal again so quickly. They say the gas, whatever it was, must have been responsible. It temporarily affected the brain then wore off. I was lucky. It killed the little girl.’ He stared at the ground, unable to hide his grief.
She squeezed his hand and asked, ‘Are you sure it’s all right for you to leave the hospital so soon?’
‘Oh, they wanted me to stay. Wanted to do more tests, find out if there’d be any permanent damage. But I’ve had enough. Reporters, television interviewers – they’ve hounded the survivors that are well enough, and I’ve been a prime target. Even Spiers came down yesterday to