Chapter 1

The fog descending over London that winter's afternoon was no ordinary, everyday fog sixteen-year-old Beth Brixham decided. This fog had come down suddenly; a dirty, foul-smelling brown smog that trapped the city beneath a blanket of filth and fumes. One minute the sky had been an icy, pale blue with nothing more than wisps of white streaking the sky and just a faint hint of a greyish cloud looming up over the rooftops. But within moments, it seemed the cloud had fallen from the sky to coat everything in a sooty, damp mist that thickened quickly.

At first, the fog didn't bother her. She thought it no worse than any of the others they'd endured so far that winter. But now Beth wasn't so sure, as with each stride she took, it had became thicker, changing from a misty wet vapour into yellow-brown smog that quickly blotted out all the familiar landmarks. Soon the tower of Victorian pumping station by Kew Bridge, her landmark, was lost from sight in a fog so thick she couldn't even see to the other side of the road. It dulled all sounds, everything lost in a veil of murky unnaturalness as Brentford High Street took on a strange, unfamiliar perspective.

She mustn't be late, she must keep going, she told herself, groping along the wall of the gasworks. Through her gloved hand she could feel the cold, rough brickwork, glad she had worn both pairs of knitted gloves to keep out the winter chill, grateful for her grandmother's busy knitting needles forever clack-clacking away. Unable to see more than a few feet ahead, hardly able even to see one foot in front of the other, the high wall became her only guide.

Progress was slow; the pavement narrow. There was barely enough for two people to pass and she feared wandering out into the road. The roughness of the red bricks snagged the green wool of her glove, pulling at threads. Inside her Sunday-best coat, Beth shivered, unable to ignore the dampness from the cold December pavements seeping through the thin leather soles of her black boots.

"I need a new pair," she mumbled. "These ones won't see the winter out. I have to get this job."

In an effort to keep at bay the sulphurous stench filling her nostrils, she pulled her scarf up higher over her mouth and nose, pressing it closer. It did little to prevent the acrid odour filtering through. The air around the gasworks always stank of rotten eggs, but today it had a most peculiar smell. It made her eyes sting, and had a ghastly, foul taste about it. Tarry and carbolic.

The scarf's coarse, woollen fibres irritated her cheeks and tickled her nose, making her sneeze. When she inhaled again, Beth realised the smell came not from the towering gasometer behind the wall — it was the rapidly thickening smog itself that reeked.

Following her, she could hear the sound of heavy footfalls. These gave way to the sound of a hacking, persistent cough of a man obviously troubled by the unusual weather that smothered the city. Suddenly, the chimes from St Martin's church tolled out through the smog, catching her by surprise, stopping her in her tracks. She counted. One, two…

"Watch where you're going, kid," the man behind muttered angrily, bumping into her. With one hand he held on to a trilby pulled down low over his forehead. She couldn't see his face. He coughed again, spluttering into his handkerchief as he sidestepped out of her way.

"Sorry," she called out but he had already disappeared into the gloom, his dull footsteps fading swiftly.

She leaned against the damp wall, rubbing her hands together, peering into the strange, twilight dimness, thinking that only minutes ago the pavements were packed with people rushing to and fro, cars rushing past. And surely it wasn't more than five minutes since she'd waved across the street to the rag-and-bone man with his lumbering horse and cart clip-clopping slowly along on the other side of the road. Now there were no footsteps. No coughing. No voices. Even the cars had disappeared. She listened, expecting to hear the occasional car or lorry, the rumble of an engine, the crunch of a missed gear. There should have been drays going back and forth from the brewery yard, but she couldn't hear anything. Not even a sporadic trolleybus trundling along. Not even the sound of a pair of high-heels tapping on the pavement. She shuddered. She didn't like this atmosphere one bit. There was a feeling of foreboding about it.