The Fog - James Herbert [59]
He turned away from the fuming policeman, and mounted the rest of their stairs, pausing at the top to listen for any sound. Barrow joined him and they moved stealthily towards the thin bar of light coming from beneath the bedroom door.
Holman slowly turned the handle, involuntarily holding his breath, and gently pushed the door open.
The light came from a small bedside lamp, so its brightness did not hurt their eyes. A figure lay in the bed. All they could see was the head, the eyes looking up towards the ceiling; the face was grey and sunken, the pallor of death about it.
‘Simmons!’ Holman hurried over to the bed and stopped before the prone figure, his worst fears realized. The shocked eyes slowly turned towards him, and the pale lips moved as though to speak. Barrow pushed past him and leaned towards the older man.
‘What’s happened, sir? Where are you hurt?’
For a moment the eyes looked at the policeman then swivelled back towards Holman.
‘Y-you did this to her,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘You m-made her do this.’
Holman was too stunned to say anything. Was he now to be blamed for this? He knelt beside the older man.
‘Where’s Casey – Christine?’ he asked.
‘Why, why did she do this?’ Simmons’ eyes looked down as though indicating at something near his stomach.
Barrow yanked back the bedclothes and both men gasped. The end of a pair of scissors protruded from Simmons’ stomach, and his pyjamas and the bedsheets were stained with blood.
‘Jesus, Jesus!’ breathed Barrow. He turned towards Holman. ‘I’m going to get Jennings to radio for an ambulance. There’s still a chance we can save him if we’re quick. Prop his head up with a pillow so he doesn’t choke on his own blood. And don’t touch those scissors. Don’t try and pull them out!’ He disappeared through the door and Holman heard him leaping down the stairs, recklessly, two or three at a time.
Holman pulled a bloodsoaked sheet over the wound, feeling sick, not at the sight of the injury, but at the thought that it had been Casey who had perpetrated it. He bent his head towards her father as he tried to speak, his words only a whisper, barely audible.
‘W-why did she do it. I loved her, she knew that.’
‘She wasn’t responsible,’ Holman told him, speaking in a soft voice, as though words could cause the man further injury. ‘She came in contact with a – a poisonous gas that affected her mind.’ Simmons’ eyes looked puzzled for a moment, his brain not understanding the words but then accepting them almost with relief. She had tried to kill him because she was ill – it hadn’t been an act of hate; that was enough for his weakened senses for the moment. He began to speak again. ‘I brought her home from the hospital. They told me what you’d done to her.’ His face became almost fierce, but the effort was too much and its lines fell back into an expression of pain.
‘No, I didn’t do anything to her,’ Holman assured him. ‘It was the gas, it made her unwell.’
‘I – I brought her home. She seemed dazed. She kept putting her hands to her head as though she were in pain. They didn’t want to let her go, but I knew she’d be better off with me. I put her to bed and sat there talking to her. She didn’t seem to hear me. I told her things I’ve never spoken to her about before, but she didn’t seem to hear me.’
He began to choke and Holman became worried that blood was rising in his throat. He slid his hand beneath the older man’s head in an effort to stop the blood reaching his mouth, not really knowing if it would prevent asphyxiation.
Simmons managed to stop coughing and lay there breathing heavily. ‘I loved her,’ he went on, ‘perhaps too much.’
Holman said nothing.
‘And – and I told her something I’d never told her before tonight.’
‘Don’t talk any more. Try to save your strength.’ Holman was hardly listening for he’d noticed fresh blood seeping through the sheets.
‘No, I must tell you, Holman. You’ve a right to know – you love her too.’ His hands tried to reach the scissors beneath the sheet, but fell back limply to his sides.