The Fog - James Herbert [9]
Well, Colonel Meredith, you won’t get old Tom again, he repeated to himself. Too wily for the likes of you, with your fancy house and fancy cars and fancy friends. Nice little pheasant I’ve got here and I’ll get myself another before I leave. It’s still too early for you to be about, I’ve got a good hour before you’re up and around. Three months I’ve laid off, fooled you into thinking you’d frightened me off, but oh no, old Tom don’t give up that easy. Nice price l’ll get for this pheasant and no questions asked.
The poacher crept forward again, still cursing the landowner in his mind, peering into the bushes ahead. He froze. Yes, there was something there and not a man. He kept perfectly still, not wanting to frighten it away, to let it come out in its own time, whatever it was. Another pheasant, I’ll warrant, Tom told himself. Woods were full of them, all under the sanctuary of bloody Colonel Meredith. Well, Tom had patience. Tom would wait for it to show itself. Tom could wait for nearly an hour without so much as twitching a muscle. Come on, my beauty, take your time. Tom can wait.
He crouched there for a full ten minutes before he became aware of the yellowy tentacles of mist creeping around his legs. My Gawd, that’s all I need, he cursed silently. He looked behind him and was surprised to see a solid blanket of fog almost on top of him. Queer, he’d never experienced fog here before. Well, he’d wait a while longer in the hope that whatever was in the bushes would make a move and show itself before the fog grew too dense.
Soon, he was completely enveloped in it and began to curse, realizing if the bird or animal didn’t make a move soon he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. Still nothing happened and the heavy mist crept forward till eventually he couldn’t even see the bush. Only then did he hear a rustle and the sound of something scampering away. He cursed aloud this time and stood up, kicking at the ground in disgust.
Ah well, one was better than nothing at all. He turned back and walked deeper into the fog. It didn’t bother him, he knew the area so well he could find his way back blindfold.
The Reverend Martin Hurdle prepared himself for his Sunday morning service. As he donned his cassock he smiled at the thought of the panic he’d been in earlier when he’d got lost in the fog. Usually one of the joys of the week, his early morning walk had almost turned into a nightmare. He couldn’t explain the lift he’d felt when he’d emerged again into the sun, the sense of relief, the delight of being released from that sinister cloud. He had a slight headache now but otherwise he’d got over the unpleasant experience and no doubt would chuckle when he recounted the story to his friends.
The church was fairly full today, the pleasantness of the weather helping, but the tragedy of the neighbouring village accounting primarily for the large attendance. The vicar greeted his parishioners at the door of the church as they went in, chatting briefly with some, smiling and nodding at others. When it was time for the service to begin, he entered through a side door into the sacristy, hurried his altar boys along, and walked briskly with them into the church.
The service began as normal, pleasurable to some, boring to others, but today, because of the tragedy, meaningful for most. A few