The Fog - James Herbert [98]
He went to the front door to collect the milk, eager for his first deep lungful of fresh morning air. It was a habit he’d acquired over the years, telling his wife it was the only time one could get a decent breath of fresh air living in London. By 9.00 the streets would be filled with fumes so he always made the most of his 7.30 deep breathing routine, standing on his doorstep for a full five minutes, taking in great gasps of air, while the tea in the kitchen brewed.
As he opened the door he was already drawing in his breath and before he saw the fog, his lungs were half full of it.
Detective Inspector Barrow slept. He’d had a heavy week and this had been his first break. Playing nursemaid to Holman hadn’t suited him at all; there were better things for him to do in a crisis such as this, chances to prove himself, to make himself felt. Hadn’t it been he who had brought Holman in in the first place? The man irritated him. True, Barrow had been rough on him at first, but as soon as he’d realized his mistake, he had tried to make it up to him. He’d protected the man when he’d been assigned as his bodyguard, had worried about him, tried to start up a more friendly relationship with him. After all, as a man immune to the disease, he was quite important, and if anything had happened to him while under Barrow’s protection, it would have been Barrow who copped it in the neck. But Holman hadn’t wanted to be friendly; he’d kept a distance between them, unwilling to forgive him for his past treatment.
Well, it probably didn’t matter any more, the scare seemed to be over. It had done a lot of damage but at least now it was under control – or so they said.
The thoughts had buzzed around his head the night before, a sure sign of extreme weariness, and he had gratefully sunk into his bed, for once unaccompanied by a girl. He had been too tired even for that.
He had immediately gone into a deep sleep and still slept as the sombre grey light filtered through the fog into his bedroom.
Samson King made his way blindly through the fog. He’d lived in London since he was fifteen, but he’d never experienced fog like this before. It was a good thing he did not live too far from the bus depot or he would never have been able to find it. As it was, he wasn’t too sure he was going in the right direction. He did not miss the sun of Jamaica as much as his old folks did for he could hardly remember the warm beaches and the deep green sea they described. No, he was used to the watery sun of England and even found the few days of intense heat that the country sometimes had uncomfortable.
Surely they wouldn’t expect him to take the bus out in weather like this. Bernice hadn’t even wanted him to report for work but he was afraid it might look bad on his record. He did not want to lose this job as he had many others; it suited him being up there behind the wheel of the big red monster, totally in control, dwarfing and bullying the other traffic on the road.
Now, where was he? ‘Goddam’ fuckin’ weather!’ he cursed aloud, to hear the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t passed anyone in the fog and it gave him a peculiar feeling of not being flesh and bone, of being a wandering spirit in a murky void.
The depot should be across the road. The zebra-crossing in front of him ran out halfway across the road, but he knew the bus station would be about fifty yards to the right of it. The crossing often helped him to get his bus out into the busy street for the flow of traffic often had to stop to allow people to cross.
He started forward, keeping a wary eye out for any approaching traffic and using the black and white stripes as a guide to the other side. His head ached, from eye strain he thought, from squinting into the fog, trying to catch glimpses