scribble in pencil by some dirty slut, probably one of those motorbike guys' girls — 'do you masturbate?'
Thelma found herself blushing, swallowing, a direct question that seemed to leap off the peeling emulsion at her. Mind your own bloody business. She felt a forest of eyes on her as she made her way towards the exit. Everybody's watching you. So what? They're probably wondering why Andy isn't here, wondering if they can make some gossip out of it. Outside the sky was beginning to cloud over, the moon fast becoming buried but fighting hard to shine through the gathering formation. For a second or two it was clear and if you looked at it hard enough there was a face up there just like they used to tell you when you were a kid. Frowning. You shouldn't be walking home on your own tonight, Thelma Brown (sorry, Carol Embleton), But if you must, don't go by Droy Wood. Strange things happen to people who get caught up when the mists roll across.
I must.
The wind was getting up, scattering early fallen leaves, blowing them along the road as though some invisible giant was sweeping them with a broom. There was a hint of drizzle in the atmosphere and Thelma turned up her collar, began to walk quickly. It shouldn't take all that long, and anyway the Mini will pick you up soon. You're not supposed to know about the Mini. A row of cottages on either side of the road, again that feeling of being watched although most of them were in darkness. Faces pressed against window panes, fogging up the glass. See, there she goes. That's Carol Embleton on her last walk. She won't be seen again. Ever.
A sudden squall of cold autumn rain had Thelma wanting to break into a run. Don't go by Droy Wood. It's not too late, you can chuck it in now, tell that CID man that it was too much for you. They can't make you do it. I will do it, I'm not turning back, and I'm going along by Droy Wood, as far as the stile in the hedge and then I'll cut back across the fields. Half an hour and I'll be home.
The village was behind her now, just wet tarmac glinting in the struggling moonlight and hedges that bent over in the wind, tall wispy hawthorn that had not been trimmed for two or three seasons. Driving rain smacked the back of her legs as though whipping her forward. Hurry, it's too late to turn back now. You'll have to pass Droy Wood.
And then she heard the car coming. Walk in the road in case he doesn't see you and passes you by. If that happens you'll have to pass the wood on your own. The driver was taking his time, idling like he was kerb-crawling. His lights hadn't reached her yet. She experienced uneasiness bordering on fear. This was how it had been for Carol (me), just not knowing for sure who was driving that car. Suppose it wasn't the policeman; he hadn't left the village yet. Somebody else. Jump in, darling, it's nice and dry in here. Then the beams of the headlights hit her, overtook her, bounced back at her with dazzling brightness off the wall of low-lying mist which had rolled in across the road ahead of her. The car was going faster now, catching her up. Braking, a squeal of rubber on wet tarmac, the Mini level with her, the passenger door swinging open.
'Jump in, darling, out of the wet.'
She hesitated, the urge strong to run. No, I'm not getting in because that's what happened to Carol. Holding on to the door, trying to make out the shadowy figure inside. Just a silhouette, a cardboard outline, it could have been anybody.
'C'mon, you're getting soaked.' She detected a slight impatience in the other's voice. Don't keep me waiting because… It was the 'because' that worried her. Nevertheless she slid into the seat, pulled the door shut.
'And what brings you out on a night like this, darling?'
She thought she detected a faint whiff of peppermint. Chewing gum probably because policemen weren't allowed to smoke on duty.
'I. I'm walking home.' Well, that was bloody obvious enough. 'My boyfriend didn't go to the disco tonight so I went on my own. I didn't enjoy it, though.' True.
'Damn this fog.' Her companion swung the car hard over to the left, dipped his lights and focused the nearside beam on the verge. 'You have to be prepared for low-lying pockets of fog this time of the year, particularly alongside marshy places. I expect we'll run out of it in a minute or two.'
'Probably.' Once we're dear of Droy Wood. 'What's your name?' She sensed him glancing quickly at her. He knew, he had to; but it was an act, all the way through.
Thel. Carol Embleton.' In for a penny, in for a pound, act the whole thing through. This was getting eerie though, the fog thickening now, swirling around the slow-moving car as if it was trying to get to the occupants.
'You live round here?'
'Yes.' You know bloody well I do. 'You can drop me off a bit further up the road. past the wood. There's a stile in the hedge there. It'll only take me a few minutes to get home from there.'
But, of course, he wouldn't be dropping her off by the stile. They would be turning into that rutted lay-by alongside the wood. What then, did they turn round and go home? Surely they would, there wouldn't be much gained by sitting out there half the night, Thelma thought.
Silence as he attempted to negotiate the dense fog, down to 15 mph now. She stole a glance at him, saw his features reflected in the light from the facia. No more than thirty, handsome in a rugged kind of way. Tough. She couldn't make out exactly what he was wearing but in all probability they were the clothes belonging to that man James Foster.
Revulsion at the thought, how could he? Because he was a policeman and got paid for doing unpleasant things that other people didn't like doing. Thelma found herself edging away from him, pressing herself against the door. This was what it had been like for Carol, in the car with a sex-killer. But this man's a policeman. Are you sure? How do you know he's a policeman? He has to be. No, he doesn't.
And then he was swinging the car across the road, driving through a wafting sea of fog, all landmarks obscured, the vapour swirling across the windscreen. Thelma clutched at her seat, almost screamed. 'God, you can't possibly see where you're going. We'll go off the road, crash, overturn.'
But they didn't. The Mini bumped across ruts, slewed in thick mud, and came to a standstill on the lay-by adjacent to Droy Wood. A few seconds pause and then the headlights were switched off, the engine seeming to take an age to die, leaving just the faint eerie glow from the sidelights and the facia illuminations.
You could almost feel the fog seeping in through ill-fitting doors, touching you obscenely, mocking you. Threatening you. Thelma's relief was short-lived. They hadn't crashed, somehow the driver had found the place they were looking for. And now it was all over, she could go home.
'This is the place.' It was a statement not a question from the policeman.
'Yes.' Her voice sounded unfamiliar, far away. She was trembling, felt sick.
'That's it… isn't it?'
'We don't know.' His voice was flat, expressionless. 'It all depends on the fog.'
'What. whatever do you mean?' Icy fingers clutched at Thelma Brown's heart, almost stopped it then speeded it back up to full speed; thumping, pulse pounding.
The fog,' his tone didn't alter, 'we can't very well go anywhere, can we?'
His words spun in her brain, a record with a chipped groove, the stylus sticking. We can't very well go anywhere. We can't.
'We. you could reverse out on to the road., find the verge. follow it. Couldn't you?'
'This fog's getting thicker.' That was certainly true, you couldn't even see the reflection of the sidelights now. 'It would be stupid, dangerous. We'll just have to sit it out.'
Something about his tone frightened her, a kind of gloating, the elements doing just what he wanted them to. I'm sorry, Auntie Winnie, we can't come to tea today because of the weather. Thank God; a ready-made excuse.
'We can't stop here.' Thelma's voice was a whisper of hopelessness.
'Why not? It's not exactly cold, just damp and foggy, and if we do get cold I can always run the engine.'
Suddenly Thelma stiffened, felt an arm coming round her, strong fingers gripping her shoulders, pulling her gently but firmly towards the driver's seat; lips came in search of her own, found them in a kiss to which she did not respond, tasted peppermint again.
'Please. ' She tried to move away but he was holding her too tightly.
'You're a very attractive girl.' Smooth, frightening tones. 'And we can stop here all night. Just you and me, and nobody will ask any questions. They can't come looking for us in this, can they?'
Thelma's mouth was dry. He was holding her chin now, making sure she could not turn her head away from him, forcing her to look into his eyes. Eyes that glowed with a strange green hue. It was the reflection from the
