The Fog - James Herbert [34]
She bit into his already wounded neck, deep and hard, drawing blood and savouring it. He cried out and tried to pull away, but she clung to him, her head rising with him. He could feel his flesh break again as her teeth sank deeper. He released one of her arms, which immediately clawed at his hair, and drew his fist back. He punched her hard in her ribs but still she would not let go. Desperately, ignoring the pain, he pulled one knee up so it rested high between her legs, causing his back to make a hole between their bodies. Then he raised his fist again and slammed it low into her stomach.
Her head fell back to the floor and she lay there gasping in air through blood-stained lips, her legs drawn up, her free hand clutching her stomach. Then he slapped her. A hard, cruel, swiping blow that threw her head to one side. He pulled her half to her feet and hit her again, knocking her to the floor once more. At the sight of her lying there, moaning, tiny whimpering noises coming through tears of pain, his rage vanished.
He knelt beside her and cradled her in his arms, tenderly rocking her to and fro.
‘Oh, Casey, I’m sorry, darling,’ he said softly, forgetting her madness, thinking only of the pain he had caused her. But even as he held her and her breathing became more even, he could feel her body stiffening, her whimpers becoming low murmurings. He looked around quickly and caught sight of the rumpled sheets on the floor. He lowered her body, praying she was still too helpless to move, and grabbed for them, pulling them towards him. Her shoulders began to heave now, not from breathlessness but from insane anger building up. She raised herself on one elbow. Hastily, he pushed her back down and rolled her over, pulling her hands behind her back. She began to kick out but he sat heavily on her to make her helpless. As he tied her hands with the rolled-up sheet, she thrashed her head from side to side, scraping it on the hard floor, oblivious to the pain. Then, without warning, her body went limp, her eyes became glazed as though she were in a deep cataleptic trance, and saliva, pink from Holman’s blood, drooled from her once-sweet lips to the floor.
He turned her over and anxiously wiped away the thin layer of moisture from her brow. She stared ahead unseeingly. Lifting her gently, he took her over to the bed, and laid her on it, propping her head and shoulders up with two pillows. He drew the sides of her ripped blouse together, covering her breasts, the proud little breasts he had lovingly kissed so often and arranged her skirt to cover her thighs, the soft thighs he had also lovingly kissed so many times before. Then he wiped the spittle and blood from around her mouth with the edge of a sheet, reminding himself of the wound she had re-opened with her sharp teeth. He put his handkerchief to his neck and winced at the pain now that he had become conscious of it. There was quite a lot of blood on the handkerchief when he drew it away, but he didn’t think too much damage had been done.
He sat there in the gloom staring at the girl, one hand with the handkerchief to his throat, the other resting lightly on her knee. She was unresponsive when he quietly spoke her name. How much had the gas, the fog – whatever it was – how much had it affected her? Would she ever be normal again? Would she try to kill herself as Spiers had done? Even he, Holman, had tried to throw