The Fog - James Herbert [60]
That could explain certain things about the man’s attitude towards Casey. He looked on her as his daughter, but because he knew she wasn’t, another element had crept into their relationship. An element that Casey hadn’t been aware of and Holman had only suspected. But it was still sickening even though there were no real blood ties. Even in his injured state, Holman felt a loathing towards the man.
‘I told her tonight – that’s why she did this to me,’ Simmons murmured, more to himself than Holman.
‘No, it wasn’t because of that. I told you, it was the gas.’
‘It was too much for her, I suppose, in her shocked state.’ He was too deep in his own remorse to listen to the younger man. ‘I woke up, I don’t know how long ago – a couple of hours, I suppose – and there she was, standing over me. I’d left on the lamp in case she needed me during the night, so I could see her plainly; she was just looking down at me, expressionless, her hands behind her back.’ A tear trickled from the corner of his eye. ‘I – I put out my arms for her to come to me.’ His eyes that had been staring at the ceiling now looked guiltily at Holman. ‘I misunderstood.’
Holman frowned. ‘Misunderstood?’
‘She came towards me, then,’ he began to tremble uncontrollably, ‘then she pulled back the bedclothes and I saw the scissors slashing down . . .’ His voice broke as he relived the experience.
The younger man’s thoughts were not clear. Simmons seemed to be blaming himself. He’d said he’d misunderstood; had he though? Oh, no, not that. Surely he couldn’t have thought Casey had come to him for that kind of love? How stupid, how blind could he be? Poor Casey, to go through that . . . A cry from downstairs interrupted his thoughts. It had sounded like a man’s cry, probably Barrow’s.
He left the dying man and rushed to the top of the stairs. The sounds seemed to be coming from the study below, sounds of crashing furniture and shouts of alarm. He flew down the stairs and pushed open the study door. And then he stopped.
Barrow was on his hands and knees on the floor, blood oozing from a wound in his scalp. Casey stood above him, a wicked-looking shard of glass in her hand. The remnants of the large antique mirror lay shattered around her feet. She raised her arm, ready to plunge the pointed glass down into the back of Barrow’s neck.
‘Casey!’ Holman cried.
She turned to look at him, for an instant a flicker of recognition showing on her face. Then she smiled and walked towards him. He stopped, still wary, and reached out a hand to her. ‘Casey,’ he said softly.
With a snarl that changed her smiling face into a grimace of pure hatred she threw herself at him, the weapon slashing for his face.
He ducked under her arm and slammed his elbow into her back knocking her into the wall. He knew from their previous struggle he would have to use force to subdue her. She sprang away from the wall, her clenched fist bleeding from the glass she held, and leapt at him again, the tip of the shard catching his cheek and drawing a thin line of blood. Catching her wrist, Holman smacked her face viciously, sending her to her knees, but still holding on to her. He increased the pressure on her wrist causing her to cry out in pain and to drop the glass. Swiftly pulling her to her feet again, he turned her back to him and pinned her arms behind her. She screamed and fought like the madwoman she was, but this time he showed no mercy and used all his strength to hold her there, bruising her arms with his tight grip.
Barrow had staggered to the door now and was watching them in amazement.
‘Christ,’ he gasped ‘And to think I didn’t believe you.