The Fog - James Herbert [24]
‘What’s wrong?’ Holman asked, concerned. ‘What’s—’ He broke off as Spiers rose from his chair, staring over Holman’s head. Spiers turned and walked to the window; Holman was still too puzzled to move. Spiers opened the window and turned again to look at the surprised young man, his eyes for a second almost losing their blankness, a flicker of recognition returning to them but lost again in an instant. Then he turned back to the window, climbed on to the sill and before Holman could make a move towards him, jumped out.
Holman was stunned. He sat rigid, his mouth open, unable to take in what he had just witnessed. Then, shouting Spiers’ name, he rushed to the window. He saw the crumpled figure lying on the pavement nine floors below, a pool of blood spreading swiftly from beneath the smashed head. From that distance, he could just make out one hand curiously raised in the air, the elbow resting on the ground, the fingers of the hand clenching and unclenching in a twitching spasmodic motion. Then the whole body arched upwards in a violent jerk and just as suddenly collapsed again, this time to lie perfectly still, the twitching hand finally resting.
Holman drew in a long, uneven breath and leaned against the window frame. People were rushing towards the broken body, others keeping well away, averting their eyes. He turned back in towards the room and saw Spiers’ secretary standing in the doorway, a frightened look on her face.
‘He – he jumped,’ Holman managed to say at last.
She backed away from him into her own office. The door burst open behind her and several people rushed in. ‘What’s happened?’ one of the men demanded to know. ‘Who was it?’
Holman sank into the chair Spiers had occupied only moments ago, strangely, perversely, noting it was still warm. He didn’t answer the people who crowded around him; he just sat staring at the desk top. What had happened? Why had he jumped? What had unhinged his mind so suddenly? The feeling came over Holman again. The sense of skin crawling, the feeling he’d had when they’d entered the fog. It couldn’t be, there was no reason to it. But his brain needed no reason, the feeling was enough. He sprang to his feet and pushed past the startled people crowding into the office. He had to get to Casey.
6
Redbrook House stood in its own grounds in one of the quieter roads in Andover. A long gravel drive with trees on either side separated it from the outside world, the large red-bricked building looming frighteningly for any young newcomer taking his first journey down to it. Though built long before, it was established in 1910 as a school for only the privileged classes. It flourished successfully until the 1930s when it suddenly fell out of favour with the very rich who had begun to notice that some of the boys admitted were not quite as well-bred as their own offspring, though the parents were obviously wealthy enough to afford the exorbitant fees the school demanded; but then, money was not just a matter of inheritance anymore. The school declined in stature over the next fifteen years until the arrival of an eager, energetic and young deputy headmaster who managed to sweep away the old traditions and teaching methods maintained from Lord Redbrook’s days, and to introduce new, more exciting ways of training, more vigorous approaches to the old and often boring subjects. Within five years he had established himself as headmaster and rejuvenated the school into a modern, forward-looking college, still private, but not quite as exclusive. His name was Hayward, and now, after over thirty years, the very methods he had introduced were the old, tired ways.
Five years before, Hayward had taken on a deputy headmaster in the hope of breathing new life into the school, knowing his methods were out of date but loving the old place too much to leave it himself. And, after all those years, perhaps too