The Fog - James Herbert [45]
Damn them, he cursed inwardly, years of bitter resentment welling up inside him. Damn them for laughing, damn the driver for swearing at him! Damn the whole town. Damn the Midland Bank! Damn Symes!
He saw a man ahead of him stoop to pat the upturned head of a friend’s dog. Edward strode briskly up to him and gave the offered bottom a hearty kick. The man jumped up with an astonished yelp, the dog holding on to his hand with its teeth in fright. He yelped again and turned back to the dog, smacking its head with the palm of his other hand. Edward marched on, ignoring the confused barking and shouting he’d left behind. A trader came out of his shop to see what the disturbance was about and as Edward passed him, he whirled and dealt the inquisitive shopkeeper a swift kick to his seat.
The man turned, using both hands to rub his smarting bottom, and stared after the retreating assistant bank manager, not quite sure of what had happened. Edward made his way along the street kicking bottoms at random, his victims too astonished to do anything but stare after his tall, foot-thrusting figure. He rounded a corner and spotted the most enormous backside he’d ever seen trundling along ahead of him. It belonged to a neatly and, of course, expensively dressed business man, whose wide neck bulged over a spotlessly white collar. He was the proprietor of one of the costlier hotels in Ringwood, a pompous man and a perfectionist in his trade; this morning he was on his way to complain about the quality of yesterday’s lamb to the owner of the large wholesale butcher who supplied most of the hotels in the area with their fresh meat.
The sharp blow to his rear startled him from his irascible thoughts. He turned quickly to discover the source of his rude surprise, and to his amazement found a tall, bespectacled man glaring challengingly into his face.
The fat man was too dumbfounded to muster up much vehemence in his indignant demand. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked.
Edward did not reply but raised his leg to kick the side of the fat man’s thigh, his foot curling round in an attempt to reach the ample backside.
‘Here, stop that!’ The man backed away nervously.
Edward manoeuvred himself into a more favourable position for reaching the man’s rear.
‘Stop it!’ But the blow had already landed. The hotel proprietor rubbed his reddening bottom with both hands, using friction to dull the smarting. ‘I’ll have the law on you! Who do you . . .?’ He half-turned to trundle away, frightened by the gleam in the advancing Edward’s eye. ‘Get away!’ he spluttered, his fat legs increasing their pace, finally breaking into a lumbering run. Edward followed, his longer legs easily enabling him to keep up and deal out more kicks to the large wobbling target before him.
They left a trail of bewildered onlookers behind them, who stared and then chuckled at one another in delight. It made a fine comedy, the contrasting figures of the two men – one tall and thin, the other, short and roly – adding to the ridiculousness of it.
The hotel proprietor was becoming winded, his bottom sore and bruised. His pleas for help from the people he passed met only with incredulity turning to amusement. Finally he saw what he had been praying for. A policeman was just emerging from a shop and striding across the pavement to his panda patrol car.
‘Help!’ the fat man panted. ‘Help me!’
Fortunately for Edward, he’d seen the policeman too and had slowed down to a casual stroll. The fat man grabbed the policeman by the arm and was stabbing an agitated finger towards the now-passing assistant bank manager.
‘That man! That man has been chasing me!’ The policeman calmly turned and looked down at the fat