The Fog - James Herbert [58]
She was knocked again, and this time went under, losing her grip on the boy, her lungs filling with salty water. She emerged fighting for breath, blinded by the salt water, screaming and kicking out in panic. What was happening? Had she killed herself and was this the hell all suicides entered? She fell to her knees again, and this time, as she attempted to rise, other bodies fell on top of her. She squirmed around beneath the water, becoming tangled in other arms and legs. Air escaped from her lungs as she tried to scream and then felt a tiredness beginning to overcome her. Her struggles became weaker and she finally lay there in the blackness, bodies stumbling over her, some falling on top of her, pinning her to the soft sea floor. Her eyes were open as the last bubbles of air escaped from her lips. The terror had gone. There was no pain. There was no recollection of her life, no memories to taunt her in her dying. Just a misty blankness. No thoughts of God. No questions why. Just a descending white veil. Not a veil of peace, nor one of horror. Not even one of emptiness. Nothingness. Free of emotion and free of coldness. She was dead.
The inhabitants and the holidaymakers of Bournemouth came from their homes, hotels and guest houses in their thousands and made for the sea, filling the streets, pouring on to the beach. The fog that had ruined their day yesterday was killing them that morning. They walked into the sea to drown like lemmings, the people behind them climbing over the dead bodies that were heaping up on the sea-bed. People who, for various reasons, could not walk, killed themselves in other ways. Hundreds could not reach the sea because it was too full of others who had already drowned, and these were later pulled back screaming from the beach by people who rushed to the seaside resort in a vain attempt to minimize the destruction.
The fog rejected the sea either because of its coldness or because the winds were too strong for it. It moved inland again, as though it were a living thing, leaving behind its evil, never settling in one place, always moving, as though searching for something.
11
Holman entered the dark home, trying to make as little noise as possible.
‘It would be a better idea to ring the bell and wake them up, wouldn’t it?’ came Barrow’s voice from behind.
‘No,’ Holman whispered.
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘All right. But this is breaking and entering, you know that, don’t you?’
‘You can wait outside if you want,’ Holman whispered back fiercely.
‘Oh, no, mate, I’m going to hang on to you.’
‘Then keep quiet and follow me.’
‘I’ll keep quiet for now, but later—’
Holman turned away, ignoring the CID man, angered by his arrogance. He moved towards the lounge and quietly pushed the door open. It was empty. He closed the door again and made his way down the hall, towards the room he knew to be Simmons’ study. He thought he heard a muffled sound as he turned the handle, but Barrow’s urgent whisper distracted him.
‘There’s a light on upstairs.’ Barrow had already begun to climb the stairs and Holman hurried after him. He took the steps two at a time in an effort to catch up with the swift-moving policeman.
‘It’s her father’s bedroom,’ he told Barrow as he reached him.
‘We’re going to look pretty silly when we find him getting dressed for work,’ the Detective Inspector sneered.
‘Better we look silly than end up with a knife in our throat.’
‘My God, and she’s your girlfriend.’
‘I told you, she’s not responsible. For the moment she’s out of her mind.’
‘Huh!’ Barrow snorted. ‘Someone is.’
Holman frowned at him. ‘You still don’t believe me.’
‘Listen, mate. I’m under orders from Wreford to play along with you. It doesn’t mean I have to believe you!’
‘Barrow, you’re a bundle of charm.’ Holman grinned without humour.