

Published by Writing In Starlight, Brampton, Cumbria, UK  
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in  
any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of  
brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.  
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,  
organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the  
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual  
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.  
All rights reserved.  
This book has been written in UK English. Spellings in other territories  
may vary.  
Mycophoria  
Copyright © 2018 by Tom G.H. Adams.  
For information contact : tom.adams@theshire.org.uk  
Website : http://tomghadams.com  
Cover design by Deranged Doctor  
Author photography by Helen M. Adams  
ISBN: 9781983204241

# Contents

  * Dedication
  *  1. Discovery
  *  2. Jim Alburton
  *  3. Strobe memory
  *  4. Jim Alburton
  *  5. Huskies
  *  6. Jim Alburton
  *  7. Living off the land
  *  8. Skinner
  *  9. Jim Alburton
  *  10. Pleasure and pain
  *  11. Jim Alburton
  *  12. Skinner
  *  13. Suffer the little children
  *  14. Jim Alburton
  *  15. Time, gentlemen
  *  16. Deep and dark are the woods
  *  17. Skinner
  *  18. Frying tonight
  *  19. Special pupil
  *  20. Jim Alburton
  *  21. Accumulation
  *  22. Storm clouds gather
  *  23. Berzerker
  *  24. Revelation
  *  25. A cabin in the woods
  *  26. Dust in the wind
  *  27. A closing curtain
  * Epilogue
  * Excursus 1
  * Excursus 2
  * Excursus 3
  * Excursus 4
  * About Tom Adams
  * Coffin Dodgers
  * Beasts, Brutes and Abominations
  * Going Down
  * Cradle of Darkness

### 1

# Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of Lorna Graves. Artist, sculptor, poet and creative.

1947 – 2006

### 1

## Discovery

The boundary line could not have been starker. Like the previous day, Jane Milner placed one booted foot on thick, spongy sphagnum moss and the other on dry, dead leaf litter. Unlike before however, the line was marked by another phenomenon. A large russet dome, about two feet across, stood defiantly above the sod. She wasn't an expert on fungi but was sure she hadn't seen its like anywhere in Cumbria, let alone in this secluded woodland. She turned and faced into the wind, her eyes shedding tears from a westerly that blew between the alder and ash boughs that swayed like sinister sentinels. A line of similar fruiting bodies extended into the glade, some of them at least a yard in diameter, before being swallowed by the gloom.

She had encountered fairy rings on the lower slopes of the fell many times and knew they represented the outer circumference of a fungus's radiating growth. If this was such a circle, then the hyphal system beneath the soil — the main body of the fungus — must be massive. In fact, she estimated it covered a circumference of about two-and-a-half miles.

She imagined walking round the resultant circle and marvelled at the apparent size. _God, this could be a superorganism._ She struck the side of the fungus to test its resilience. A yellowy-green cloud rose out of a vent in the surface only to be whipped away by the wind. She remembered the musty smell of the spores from yesterday and had wondered what the source was. Now she was in no doubt. What had begun as a few solitary outgrowths had become a fruiting phenomenon.

_Adieu_ to you, she thought. The spores carried the possibility of a new colony of puffballs if they landed on suitable ground. Measurements had revealed spores travelling high in the upper reaches of the atmosphere to places as far as Eastern Europe — although, how exactly such facts were researched was beyond even her scientific brain.

She made a decision at that moment, a fateful one, to take the specimen back with her to the field centre. It might be rare, but there appeared to be thousands of the things.

_Kev will be more than happy at the chance to identify it and analyse the spores,_ she thought.

The puffball came away easily in her hands as she tugged at it. She held it to her chest like a giant beach ball noticing that further spore wisps accompanied the operation. She needed to watch her step now as the yellow clouds of spores obscured her vision. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stumble knee-deep into a hidden rut or slip on one of the sinuous roots that extended from the gnarled, alga-powdered trees surrounding her.

_Quickest way to a broken ankle or worse._

She placed the puffball on the floor and shouldered a pack of instruments onto her back. Her morning survey of small rodent traps was done, and she was looking forward to holing up in the warmth of the field lab for the rest of the day. An afternoon analysing the project's data was precisely the kind of work she could cope with on this cold Autumn day.

A faint itching in her ear caused her to reach up and place a finger in the canal. Her rubbing did nothing to relieve the irritation but dislodged something like runny wax. When she withdrew it she let out a gasp. Smeared over her fingers was an orange, lumpy fluid. She wiped the gunge off on her waxed jacket and reached up to the ear again, hoping she had cleared away what seemed to be an unpleasant discharge. The presence of another orange clot sent her heart into a flutter.

_Christ, this looks serious. Some sort of infection. Better get it checked out._

She snatched up the puffball in both hands and made off at a rapid jog. Her shock gave urgency to her legs as she sped down the wooded slope, determined to ring the local surgery as soon as possible. She had travelled only a few hundred yards when a hot flush rose to her cheeks accompanied by a wave of nausea. She leaned against the lichen-covered bark of an oak to catch her breath. The onset of these symptoms was beginning to cause a panic. She even wondered if the Landrover was reachable in her current state.

_Get a grip, Jane. You can do this._

She swallowed, shook her head and was immediately invigorated. In fact, she experienced a wash of perverse pleasure. Eyes closed, she allowed herself to drink in the unexpected, even lascivious thoughts that now entered her mind. Visions of naked, alluring forms appeared in ghostly fashion, rubbing their oiled skin against hers.

_What a time to get caught up in such a fantasy._

Within seconds, these imaginations turned to something much more depraved. She saw herself inflicting all kinds of cruel acts upon the people who had just shared intimacy with her. Here she was committing the act of dismembering a body. Not a corpse, but a live person, strapped down, innocent, writhing and begging for mercy as she lowered a surgical saw to remove their fingers and toes one by one.

She shook her head again as if trying to remove the thoughts by physical force, but the images kept assaulting her mind in a barrage. Why these bizarre hallucinations, for that was what she understood them to be, should attack with such ferocity and suddenness was beyond her comprehension.

She cried out in frustration, holding her hands to her head, but they continued. A different group of retreating victims were cut down in a swathe of gunfire delivered by her own hand. Others were tortured with knives and skewers thrust deep into their flesh. The final tableau was the one that sent her careening through the undergrowth, screaming until her throat was ragged. She was poised over a helpless man, bound with cable-ties, looking into his terrified face. Without hesitation she bit into his neck, twisting her head back and forward like an animal, tearing off pieces of skin and other tissue in a bloodthirsty frenzy. Blood smeared her teeth, its iron tang infusing her senses, increasing her euphoria still further. The screams of the victim only enhanced her pleasure, goading her on in bestial acts of savagery.

Her tumbling flight did little to dispel the onslaught, simply obscured her perception of the immediate environment. It was therefore inevitable she should find herself sprawled across the forest floor, victim of a thick briar extending across the sheep trail down which she ran. The hard dirt accomplished what her own efforts had failed to do. Upon raising her head, the mass of foxgloves and rose-bay willow herb came into focus. No more gory images, no screaming victims, no more the intense rush of orgiastic pleasure she had just experienced.

There followed a period of several minutes during which she panted lungfuls of air, not daring to hope that the episode had passed. After some time the nausea subsided, and she managed to rise to her knees, the only sign anything had happened being a dull thump in her head and a trail of orange discharge down her arm.

She hitched herself up against a bank of earth and breathed deeply. _Oh God. Oh God. What's wrong with me?_

She considered for a moment if she had dreamt it all. Perhaps she had blacked out, the illness that overwhelmed her having plunged her into delirium. She was desperate now to get home as quickly as possible.

Staggering to her feet, she looked down. The puffball had broken into a thousand fragments, much of it mashed into the front of her jacket. She almost laughed at the ridiculous prospect of holding on to the specimen at all and picked three or four pieces off her coat, dropping them into her pocket. It would be enough for Kev to make a start on identification, but he'd need a complete specimen eventually. She dismissed the thought from her mind. It wasn't a priority for the moment. Getting back to the lab was.

Once she was on the move again, she began to feel remarkably better, the cool wind clearing her head. In fact the only sign of having suffered any affliction was the continued pouring of the russet gunge from her ear. The sight of the green Landrover emerging at the bottom of the hill filled her with relief, and it wasn't long before she was hurtling down a forest track that led to the tumbledown dwelling she called both home and workplace.

The clouds gathered overhead in dense banks, casting a gloom over the afternoon. Rain would follow soon. Kev was in, thank God. She could see light coming from the basement that acted as their laboratory. He'd be writing his report for the Natural Environment Research Council, a task that was already a week overdue. A positive response to it was needed as they depended on the national body to ensure continued funding for their research. He wouldn't take kindly to the news of her emergency, but it's not like she had engineered it.

She entered through the back door and was greeted by their chocolate labrador, Smiffy. He took one sniff of her however and retreated to his basket with a whimper, his head turning away as if shunning a leper.

"That bad is it?" she said, "Guess I'm in more trouble than I thought."

She made her way to the lower level and announced her presence. Kev was unusually sympathetic when she told him the story and dropped his work to attend to her.

"This is serious, Mudge, we ought to get you to A and E straight away. Don't bother taking your coat off. Get in the car and we'll be there in half an hour."

"I'd rather not," she said, "I'm a bit embarrassed with this discharge thing and I'd rather see the GP than wait in Drumcastle Infirmary for three hours or more. Besides, I don't feel so bad at the moment." She'd omitted to mention the abhorrent imaginings she'd suffered. It was enough to recount the other symptoms without freaking Kev out with additional sordid details. "I'll clean up in the shower and see if I can stem the flow of this gunk. I think it's slowing up anyway. It'll only need a course of antibiotics to clear up. Tell you what, I know you're busy with the NERC report, but can you have a look at these fragments?"

She fished the remains of the puffball specimen from her pocket, nothing more than two pieces of the fruiting body with grey gills squashed flat on the undersides. "I found a ton of them up in Netherwood. Never seen anything like it before. I think it could be significant. Interested?"

She'd adopted her usual rapid-fire speech pattern. It irritated Kev, she knew, but it would reassure him she perhaps wasn't quite as ill as he thought.

"Sure thing," he said, "but I still think — "

"Kev, I'm fine." This statement would irk him as well, but she was desperate to experience the stinging spray of the shower on her skin. The infection left a tangible filthiness extending from inside her body outwards.

After twenty minutes under the shower she still hadn't shaken off the sense of contagion, and a swell of nausea was starting again. She breathed deeply, hoping the sensation would pass but bile rose in her throat like a flow of lava.

When it struck this time, its suddenness shocked her to the core. Despite the morning's precursor, nothing could have prepared her for this onslaught. It was like her brain was afire; only it wasn't agonising — more a conflagration of desire. The irresistible compulsion to kill, to murder, to mutilate. A diminishing part of her mind recoiled in horror at the onset of these urges. Accompanying them was a heightened libido. Not the warm, loving intimacy she'd shared with Kev, but a raging plume of depraved pleasure — self-gratifying and ultimately rapacious.

She staggered from the shower cubicle, oblivious to the torrents of water dripping to the floor. She needed release from her urgings and as she seized upon this truth, realised it would only be accomplished in one way. Glimpsing her face in the bathroom mirror convinced her there was a harpy leering back.

_Oh God,_ the whimpering voice of reason croaked in her mind. _I don't want this._

_YES YOU DO!_ A new, strident, alien voice drowned out the other. _IT'S YOUR RIGHT. LET NOTHING STAND IN YOUR WAY._

This new entity inhabiting her thoughts was compelling beyond measure. She was forced to obey, as much a slave as a willing participant, and it was this conflict that tore her apart. In complete abandon she stumbled across the landing, half fell down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen.

"Are you OK?" came Kev's voice from below.

She looked around as if seeking someone to appeal to, someone to restrain her from what she was about to do. But it was no use. The one inhabiting her mind had complete control now.

Her eyes came to rest on the knife block on the counter.

THAT'LL DO, said the voice, FOR NOW.

She withdrew the largest carving knife, holding it in an overhand grip. It felt good in her hand, transforming her into an instrument of pain, of suffering. The knife was an extension of her desire.

At that moment, all reason fled her possessed mind as she surrendered to her compunctions. Tittering like a mad woman, even the orange discharge flowing over her breasts and abdomen like a lava flow of rottenness seemed an object of mirth. The titter rose in volume to a cackle as she heard Kev rushing up the stairs.

"What's happening, I — " Kev halted at the top.

Jane tried to form words, but all that fell from her mouth was a guttural, snarling noise.

Kev saw the knife and backed one step away, almost falling back down into the basement. "Why are you ... what?" He found it difficult to make sense of the situation. Jane watched as he narrowed his eyes and nodded, a gesture of condescension once bothersome, now inflated out of all proportion.

"I've always hated it when you do that," she said, her speech slurred and unrecognisable even to herself let alone Kevin.

"You ... you're definitely not well, Mudge. Now put down the knife and we'll get you to the hospital."

She couldn't bear it any longer. The drive to sate her thirst for blood was too great. Without warning she sprang forward, her momentum carrying both her and Kev down the stairs. The battering and bruising of the descent was nothing to her. All other sensations were subsumed to the lust, to the hunger that now ate her up. Kev ended up underneath as they struck the cold stone floor of the lab. His eyes were closed, pooling blood evidence of a serious head wound. The sight of his blood threw her into a new frenzy. She clawed at his face, scratching deep furrows into his skin. When this wasn't enough she opened one eyelid, poked a finger into the soft orb and gouged it out with a strength born of fury. She let out a bellow of maniacal laughter and repeated her action on the other eye, the only disappointment being he wasn't still conscious to utter cries of horror and torment.

It wasn't until his face resembled the meat on a butcher's block that she noticed the knife sticking out of her belly. A dull ache was spreading from the site of the wound, blood pumping from a severed artery within. This too was a source of amusement.

She laughed one final time as her vision clouded over and her body slumped forward.

### 2

## Jim Alburton

"Damn!" Jim Alburton cursed as the mobile number he'd been ringing cut to voicemail. It had been several hours since his first call and he'd stopped leaving messages for Jane Milner. There wasn't any viable reason for his frustration, simply that it offended his sense of order and regimentation. This wasn't _like_ her.

He looked at the painting on the kitchen wall and adjusted the angle so it sat square to the line of the ceiling. It portrayed a view of the Pennines painted by a local artist recently deceased. He passed her memorial stone every day on his morning walk along the _Spine_ — a glacial ridge on the Eastern side of town. Yet another facet of his ordered world.

He looked at the phone again. The time had just gone 6:10 pm. The meeting with his colleague was scheduled for ten o'clock the following morning, only they hadn't agreed a location. He'd assumed the local coffee shop would suffice. The meeting promised to be informal and _Hadrian's Walk_ , though small in size, wasn't often crowded and had tables upon which you could spread maps and documents. She, however, had intimated there might be specimens they needed to view, and possibly some microscope sections. This made her lab more appropriate. But rather than argue about it, (he'd had to pull off the road to take the call) they'd agreed to finalise the meet-up the following morning.

"It's not like her," he said again and determined to take the drive to her lab. Apart from a growing sense of concern for her well-being, he wanted to establish the parameters of his brief. Jane had brought him in as a consultant on her and Kev's project. They needed his expertise as an entomologist and geneticist to complete their survey of woodland fauna under threat in Cumbrian woodlands, and he was keen to begin work. This delay, albeit only a few hours, upset his schedule.

He took the keys from the line of hooks over the kitchen counter, reached for his coat in the hall and stepped towards the front door. Then, he remembered something. He trotted back through the house, up the stairs and into the main bedroom. The window was firmly shut, a fact he'd been ninety percent sure of. But he liked to work within ninety-five percent confidence limits, so this final check seemed justified.

Having satisfied himself, he exited the terraced cottage, locking the door and testing it with a sharp tug. Crime rates were exceptionally low in Valley, the odd incident of local affray and garden shed burglaries being the rare exception. _But you couldn't be too careful_ , he always told himself.

As he drove his VW Passat down a steep cobbled side-road leading from the house, the drizzling rain turned to heavier drops and he switched the wipers on at low speed. The automatic headlights of his vehicle had already kicked in, and with the clocks having gone back he knew his drive to Jane's house would be more ordeal than pleasure. Traffic drove almost nose to tail on Main Street, and he cursed again at the delay to his journey as he waited for a delivery lorry to negotiate the parked cars pulled half-on to the pavement.

_You're getting overwrought again,_ he thought, _don't sweat the small stuff._

Easy to say. He felt his teeth grind again — an involuntary and helpless response. Once out of town the traffic became more sporadic, and the weather grew worse. By the time he pulled up outside Jane's cottage the rain was sleeting down in sheets.

_So? You'll get wet. Your body's over seventy percent water anyway._

Alburton may have been a scientist but although he wouldn't admit it, he paid a lot of attention to his feelings. No, not feelings, more _vibes_. A bit of a hippy word, but it had served him well through the years, balanced by his appreciation of empirical truth. If something felt good, it often _was_ good. But the atmosphere around Jane's house did not fill him with warmth.

First of all the outside light was switched off, and only one light burned in the laboratory basement. Secondly, he could hear Smiffy whining and barking as if in panic — most unlike him. He was an affable hound, not given easily to perturbation. He'd be more likely to lick the hand of a stranger than tear it off.

Alburton pressed the doorbell, then knocked hard on the door itself for good measure. He didn't want to wait out in the rain longer than necessary. After a couple of minutes of repeated knocking he tried the handle. It was unlocked.

He hesitated before entering, conscious he hadn't been invited. Then another squall of rain convinced him to risk accusation of intrusion over the inclement weather.

Smiffy stepped over to him cautiously, his claws clacking on the cheap lino. He sniffed Alburton's outstretched hand then licked it with affection. The hound appeared as a dull shape in the darkened kitchen, the sole light coming from the lab downstairs.

"Hey Smiffy," he said, "Good boy. Are the owners home?"

Smiffy whimpered, wagged his tail harder and looked over his shoulder.

Alburton noticed the open door at the top of the basement staircase. Something was wrong _._

"Hello, anyone home?" No answer — and further calls didn't elicit a response. Maybe they were in the garden? Fetching a scuttle of coal or some other evening chore, perhaps.

He stepped towards the staircase, calling as he went. Smiffy stayed put. Peeking down the stairs, he decided to proceed. He wasn't a stranger after all. However he did sense his awkwardness increasing. Moreover, the disturbance in his mind created a crescendoing turmoil. As he approached the bend in the stairs, he glimpsed a bare foot, obviously attached to a recumbent body as it wasn't moving.

_Oh fuck,_ he thought. _Someone's had an accident._ He took the last few steps two at a time, steeling himself for what was to come.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him.

As he took in the scene, he leaned against the wall for support. He was stood over the prostrate body of Kevin Humbleton. His partner, Jane, naked as the day she was born covered his unconscious form. A congealing lake of blood had spread across the sandstone-flagged floor and, most horrifically of all, Humbleton had no eyes.

### 3

## Strobe memory

I remember ... I remember picking blackberries with mother under a sweltering summer sun. The crimson juice running between my fingers from the over-ripe fruit.

I remember being buffeted in the MTB on my first posting and waiting for the lull between the waves as I snatched three letters of morse code before the next swell hit us.

I also remember 'Gaffer'. We'd gather round the brazier for lunch and he would swear he could identify a piece of wood just by licking it. We even tested him on his claim by lifting random blocks from the wood-turning pile.

What I don't remember is the name of the place where I live, or the identity of the girl bringing my meds and watching over me as I swallow the seven pills. She looks familiar, but try as I might her name escapes me.

"Are you Rosie?" I say. I know the name's wrong but I'm only trying to start a conversation.

"No one by the name of Rosie works for our company," she says and puts a cup of tea down next to me. She's a young 'un, maybe turned thirty. Her face tells a story though. Grey already at the temples, and creases forming down her cheeks. No laughter lines.

I notice her name tag as she leans over to make my bed. It says 'Moira.' She's large-bosomed. Not in a sexy kind of way. More in a 'these-help-me-keep-you-at-arms-length' way. Just as well. Things stopped working in that department a long time ago.

"Ah — it's Moira," I say, "did you come round yesterday?"

"Nope. That would've been Julie." Her sentences are abrupt, like short bursts of machine-gun fire. She carries on fluffing up my pillows and pulls down the duvet.

"Aw shit," she exclaims, "couldn't you make it to the bedpan, Arthur? Look, it's right there on the bedside table. All you had to do was reach for it." She puts her hands on her hips as if weighing up something. "Shit," she says again. "This under sheet and duvet-cover will have to go in the wash. I've only got fifteen minutes left an' all. I'll change the linen and put your breakfast out, then I must be off."

"Do I usually get dressed?" I ask. She looks at me with cold eyes and I notice a small trickle of fluid like a pear drop hanging from her ear lobe. It stays suspended there for a moment, then falls like syrup onto her shoulder. I ignore it. Pointing out such a thing wouldn't do if she's in a mood already.

"When I've the time to do it, yes," she says. "but you'll have to manage yourself today. I can take your pissed-up pyjamas and give you a quick wipe-down, but even that'll put me back. The agency want me to do four more calls before mid-day, otherwise they dock my pay."

My mother would have scolded Moira for such language. Me, I quietly absorb it.

She leaves the room to put the linen in a laundry bag and get fresh from the airing cupboard. I'm left staring at the pattern on the wallpaper, aware I've done this a lot lately. The swirling, paisley pattern, with its different shades of brown are strangely comforting. There's a connection between the pattern and a memory of my grandmother's house; when we used to stay over as children, packed off early to bed and laid down feet to feet like sardines. I always wanted to stay up, take part in the adult's conversations, even if I didn't know what they talked about, or who. Just not being alone was enough. Of course _that_ wallpaper wasn't paisley, it was willow pattern; and it wasn't brown but blue. I'd still stare at it though, and imagine the old story playing out in my mind, wondering if the lovers were happy transformed into two doves, thinking how the Mandarin was so heartless to his own flesh and blood.

The paisley tells a different story, not with words, but with the pattern itself. An old house containing hidden rooms, an ancient power neither malevolent nor benign inhabiting the walls. The brown curls whisper the history of this entity and, after a few moments, I realise I'm mouthing the words like poetry. They are nonsense words, but at the same time they make sense; giving me feelings of loyalties broken, desires crushed and love not returned. Very much like my life, only repeated over and over again.

"What are you mumbling about, you old git!" Moira's voice shatters my reverie with a brutal bark. It sounds like her, but not like her at the same time.

"The wallpaper ... it speaks ..." The words sound rambling, futile. As I gaze up I see eyes that have moved beyond cold to frozen. Orange stuff stains her smock, like paste running down the white cotton. More of it drips from her ears. The image of her swaying in front of me, her head cocked on one side and that leer on her face still wakes me up in the middle of the night.

"Shut the fuck up," she says, her mouth curling up in a sneer.

A fist of fear crushes my heart to bursting point. My dreams have never been this horrible before, although it's sometimes hard to tell between dreams and reality. "I thought you were going," I say in a voice growing more feeble.

"I was," she replies, looking over her shoulder, "but I skidded on some water left on the utility floor. Must have been another of your 'accidents.' Keeled over and banged my head. Must have blacked out for a while." She shakes her head and turns back to me. I see in her eyes a momentary flicker and she winces, either from pain or some internal struggle.

I've seen the look before. Back in the big one when we ran from the enemy on De Panne beach. Only three krauts chased us and Briggsy had got the drop on them. God knows how or why he did it. He just stood his ground, facing them, then charged into their midst. I had no choice but to turn round and join the knock-up. It was too close quarters to use firearms and I remember a bayonet coming out. In seconds, two of them were on the sand and a third was staggering backwards. I hadn't even had time to land a blow. Briggsy had taken care of them all. He was like a whirlwind in a skirmish, all brute force and ignorance. The two on the sand were already dead and the third badly wounded.

_"C'mon Briggsy, the Vosper's approaching to pick us up."_

I remember him turning his face to me with that conflict in his eyes, like good and evil sparring in a mind that wasn't able to act as an arena for such battle. Then, he turned back to the last jerry, lifted the bayonet and slit his throat — easy as that.

I see that look in _her_ eyes now. A look that shouldn't be there. Not in one who hasn't seen the sights I've seen. Something deep down tells me she's dangerous enough to kill — like Briggsy was. I look at her hand, see the Stilson wrench clasped tightly, and now I think I know what's happened. The bang on the head. That must be it. Sent her loopy. _Loopier than me!_

She takes a shuffling step forward and shakes her head again. The orange gunk splatters over the floor. _What is that stuff?_

She's trying to say something, but it comes out like a grunt, along with gobs of spittle. She raises the wrench, and it's not to adjust any of my nuts and bolts, that's for sure. They're too rusted up with age.

Perhaps this is my time to die. I realised a long time ago that most men aren't given a decent reason why their time must come. There's no reaper to announce I must go, simply this poor deranged soul's eyes. I think I should just accept the situation. I've had enough of the lost hours, waking up and trying to remember where I am and which day it is. Bugger me if I can't even remember who the Prime Minister is these days.

The weird thing is, the last few minutes have probably been the clearest in a long time. She's grinning now, her face twisted with a weird sense of pleasure, and it's her expression that tells me I don't have to die this way, not if it's solely to satisfy the cravings of her sick mind. I reach for the teacup, fumbling with arthritic fingers, praying I don't spill it. The wrench rises to full height and I make my move. My fingers, brittle as dry sticks, grab the cup and I sweep it across in an arc. The brown liquid isn't hot enough to cause damage, but it sure throws her off balance. She drops the wrench and tries to clear her vision and I take my chance. I don't move fast these days but I thank the Lord I've got enough about me to tumble forward and take her down in a rugby tackle of sorts.

"Little shit," Moira says and lunges for me, grabbing my pyjama top by the neck. I feel it rip and my neck burn as the material chafes it. She's on top now and rains blows down on my head with a fist hard as a club. If I black out now, that's me done for, and I make a last attempt to shake off the helplessness and weakness that's afflicted me for decades. I reach out and my hand comes into contact with the heavy steel of the wrench. I don't make the mistake of looking at it. That would give my intentions away. What I'm about to do could be fatal — can I do that to this girl? She's not in control of herself. A spell in the funny farm might do the trick, then she'd have her whole life ahead of her. Me, I'm just sawdust in a shell.

These thoughts flash through my mind in an instant. I see her gunk-covered face, catch that look in her eye. I made a mistake before. It's not evil, more an unhinging. _She'll go on to kill others._

My vision is misting over. The old bonce isn't equipped to take this kind of punishment. The realisation I won't be her last victim goads me into action. With whatever strength I have left, I bring the wrench round and strike her in the temple. There's a sound like a boot coming unstuck from mud and her eyes roll up, showing the whites. She falls over sideways onto the threadbare carpet and lies still.

I take a moment for my head to clear and my breathing to wheeze slower before I try to get up. She's a chunky lass and her weight prevents me from doing more than lifting my head and shoulders. Even this effort sends my head reeling. I lie back down and laugh. Wouldn't it be typical if I escape death from the hand of a madwoman only to die of dehydration and concussion in this undignified tangle?

I grab hold of her leg and push it backwards. It's enough to shift her position and roll her far enough off me to scramble out from underneath. She doesn't make a sound and I know she's dead. I got used to working that out in the big one. I say _got used,_ what I mean is I had the ability thrust on me. You don't get used to seeing death, just manufacture ways to cope with it.

There's a smell to death, but her stink is something more — like a corruption; mildewy and bitter. Reminds me of the pall coming from the mushroom farm over at Killock.

As I move toward the red emergency cord in the corner of the room, I wonder how Mrs Tebbitt will react when she turns up. I hesitate for a moment and think that forgetting has its benefits. Remembering what's happened here fills me with dread. There's no understanding it, but the sense of responsibility that pulled me through the battlefields of France kicks in and I crawl forwards, determined to do my duty.

### 4

## Jim Alburton

Alburton felt like a spare part. People were moving all around him while he looked on, bemused. He'd seated himself in a cheap armchair ensconced in the corner of Jane and Kev's lounge with Smiffy on his lap. The mutt kept licking his hand, his otter-like tail beating every time Alburton's hand stopped stroking his head. The police arrived twenty minutes after he'd placed the call. His description of events over the phone was concise, providing the maximum detail with the minimum of words — just like the reports he wrote on a daily basis. This exterior front covered a turmoil of emotion inside.

The detectives first on the scene introduced themselves as Inspectors Wesley Skinner and Brian Fawcett. A second car contained two more police officers; a man and woman who weren't introduced. Alburton had taken them straight downstairs, stopping at the foot to indicate where the bodies were — as if that wasn't obvious. He understood enough about crime scenes from his connections with the pathology department to know that the less he encroached on the scene of the crime, the better.

Skinner was a skinhead. The irony of his name wasn't lost on Alburton yet the detective didn't come across as a tattooed, swastika-bearing thug, more a shaved rat of a man. He asked Alburton his relationship to the two victims without offering any condolences. Alburton had guessed he'd nominally be on a suspect list, but this off-handedness irked him nonetheless.

"You discovered the bodies when?" Skinner asked him, stepping over the bizarre knot of bodies.

"Er, about eight twenty two," Alburton replied.

Skinner looked round at him. "That seems very precise."

Alburton shrugged. "I have an acute sense of time. It goes with my job."

Skinner looked to the side, then continued his questioning. "You didn't touch the bodies, did you?"

"Well of course I did. I tried to revive them both. I couldn't be sure they were dead."

"Right," he replied. Then, to Fawcett, "You carry out the preliminaries and I'll talk to Dr Alburton." He motioned for them to step away from Kev and Jane's corpses and pulled out a notebook. Fawcett put on a pair of latex gloves and called up to the other officers for assistance.

Skinner started by taking down Alburton's details then proceeded to trawl through what must have been standard questions for an incident such as this. To Alburton, nothing was 'standard' about this situation and it wasn't until he'd sat down in the lounge half an hour later that the shock kicked in. As he stroked Smiffy he noticed his hand tremble, his left eyelid twitch and a forlorn sigh escape every few breaths.

He played Skinner's questions back in his mind, as much an exercise to ensure he hadn't left out any important points as a pattern of obsession he couldn't shake off: How long had he known the couple? Had Jane shown any signs of instability or mental illness recently? What had brought him to their cottage this time of night?

The fact was, he didn't know Jane that well socially and he hardly associated with Kev at all. His professional relationship on the other hand had grown over the last few months as they'd collaborated on two major research projects. His expertise was ecological genetics, while her's was plant pathology. She was bright but not brilliant. However, her methodical approach and tenacity brought results, and her papers cataloguing habitat destruction and decline of biodiversity in deciduous woodlands attracted enough attention to secure funding for the foreseeable future. That future was dashed to pieces now.

Alburton had questions of his own, but none of the police staff seemed willing to engage with him. At the moment he was too numb to make any demands. That would change if the police didn't talk to him soon.

He looked at his watch. The police had been here an hour, and the coroner was already conducting an initial examination. Alburton had offered to ring Jane's relations, but Skinner thought it best a woman police constable carry out the task, seeing as Alburton wasn't a close relative. This left him floating on the periphery. He determined to ask questions in exactly eight minutes time if no one ventured anything helpful. In the meantime he tried to think.

From what he'd seen, it seemed clear Jane had suffered some sort of breakdown. The scene he'd discovered couldn't have been an accident. She'd literally gouged Kev's eyeballs out. That wasn't a defensive reaction, it was the act of a lunatic. The detective's opinion was that Kev died instantly because of the blow to his head after falling down the stairs. Whether it was he who stabbed Jane or that the knife wound was simply the result of an unfortunate accident seemed far from clear. But the fact she was naked and covered in orange fluid were facets that took the incident to a whole new level of weirdness.

The arrival of a PC Woodhead negated the need to intrude on the investigation. She'd brought a cup of coffee and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he said and took a sip of the steaming brew, making sure Smiffy didn't knock it out of his hand.

"Thought you could use it," she said and drank a mouthful from her own cup. Her hi-vis jacket and uniform gave her a bulkiness that, judging from her slender hands, housed a diminutive frame. Every so often, the walkie-talkie on her shoulder squawked with bulletins in a coded language of numbers and call signs.

"Anything come to light?" he asked.

She looked uncomfortably towards the open door and lowered her cup. "Not much as yet. As you saw, the coroner's arrived so we'll have a more accurate picture shortly."

She wasn't giving too much away. "Is it usual that the coroner come to the crime scene? I thought it'd be a medical examiner," he said. He'd rather hoped his friend, Tosh Hackett might be given the call. He'd have no qualms about sharing information with Alburton.

"Where foul play is suspected, the coroner likes to involve himself closely," she said. "Anyway, I better get on. I've a few more phone calls to make." Before Alburton could interject with another question, she exited the room and left him nursing his coffee and several degrees more annoyed.

After a further ten minutes waiting he'd had enough and turfed Smiffy from his lap. He was about to descend to the basement when Skinner met him at the top of the stairs.

"Ah, I was just coming to see you," he said.

Alburton dispensed with any pleasantries. "What have you found out?" he demanded.

"Take a seat," Skinner said and motioned towards a kitchen chair. The detective obviously believed Alburton was annoyed and seemed keen to defuse the situation. Alburton scraped the high-backed chair back and plonked himself down in it. Skinner followed suit and placed his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together.

"OK, this is what we know. The coroner's confirmed that Kevin Humbleton died as a result of his head striking the floor after falling all the way down the steps. He sustained the other injuries after this happened."

"What could make her commit such an act?"

Skinner scratched behind his ear. "Now that's far from clear. She died because of the knife wound. It seems likely it was self-inflicted or accidental but we can't be sure until the fingerprint analysis comes back."

"You don't suspect any third party involvement then?"

"Well, we can't rule it out, but it seems unlikely."

"What about the orange liquid found on their bodies — that's not usual either is it? Was it a chemical of some sort?"

"Again, we don't know precisely. But it was a discharge from Dr Milner's ears. There'll be a full autopsy tomorrow."

Alburton rubbed his fingers and thumbs together. "Look Inspector, I'm a scientist myself and I can probably help by — "

"Thanks for the offer," Skinner interrupted, "but we've got everything covered. Best thing you can do is get yourself home and hit the sack. We'd like to talk to you further though. Can you come down to Valley Police Station tomorrow?"

Skinner's abrupt reply offset Alburton but he quelled the desire to give a curt response. "Of course. But I only wanted to help. This has all come as quite a shock and it's frustrating not knowing what happened."

"I'm sure it is," said Skinner, revealing no emotion. "Oh, and there's a favour you can do for us." He looked over at Smiffy who'd sat himself down at Alburton's feet. "He'll only end up in the pound. Can you give him a home — at least for now?"

Alburton looked at the mutt. It would be a disruption to his carefully ordered lifestyle but he could hardly say no. "Yeah, I suppose so," he replied.

He determined to contact Tosh in the morning and find out what he knew. If he couldn't get information through official channels, then he'd get it in any way he could. His code didn't stretch to accommodate human pomposity and protectionism. He set about looking for Smiffy's things and uncovered dog food and bowls from a kitchen cupboard. He also found a lead and walking coat hung up on a hook.

After arranging an appointment with Skinner for the following day, he loaded Smiffy into the car and made his dreary way back to Valley. The rain had eased off a little, but this did nothing to alleviate his sense of profound loss. It was curious how you could attach emotions to previous encounters — even if they were with people you hadn't known for long. He recalled bouts in the field with Jane and sessions they'd spent in her home lab. Isolated conversations linked to form themes in his mind, pastiches that formed a picture of the woman he thought he knew.

_"Science isn't just about data and analysis,"_ she had said on one occasion, _"it's also about finding the core of an enquiry, realising its value and then constructing the study around that."_

_"But doesn't that open a proposal to bias from the outset?"_ he had said.

_"That's where the empirical process comes in. The hard science if you like. It constrains and shapes the project. Throws out the chaff."_

_"You make it sound like a work of art."_

_"I don't see it as binary as that,"_ she'd replied.

The conversation then moved on to more pressing matters, but this aspect to Jane's philosophy would surface again and again. On one of their field surveys, they'd been climbing the lower slopes of Hellbeck Fell and come across a phenomenon known as an _Air Tree._ Looking back now, it was almost like she'd engineered their path to encounter it, but then she wasn't one for subterfuge and manipulation.

_"They're like epiphytes,"_ she'd said, " _a plant growing in the body of another. Look at how this birch grows out horizontally from the host alder then takes a perpendicular up to the sky. It's as if it's reaching for it."_

The image had struck Alburton deeply, framed as it was by the angle of the afternoon sun acting like a spotlight on the tree. She found it hard to separate her analytical mind from the creative one. He mused that maybe Leonardo da Vinci experienced the same problem.

A sodden rabbit crossed the road in front of him and he tickled the brakes enough to avoid a collision. Once he'd accelerated again, he was conscious of dampness on his cheek. _Crying?_ That wasn't like him. Then again, a friend once told him he could do with indulging himself more in this area. Given the day's events he'd forgive himself.

He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Smiffy's silhouette. The dog was sitting upright, his face in shadow. A passing vehicle illuminated him for a brief second and Alburton caught the expression; doleful eyes, brows tilted upright. If only he could ask the dog what happened. The mutt had witnessed something that disturbed him in the extreme.

In analysing his feelings, a state of affairs that was most unusual, Alburton made one firm conclusion; he would not rest until he understood why Jane and Kev died in such cruel and bizarre circumstances.

### 5

## Huskies

"No, you're not listening, mother!"

Lisa Pennington was standing in the hallway, five Siberian huskies milling about her legs in an exuberant mass of fur and expectancy. She was sweating in the puffer jacket she wore, a physical manifestation of her exasperation.

"I told you yesterday, I'm not going to Emma's out of misplaced loyalty. It's because I have a genuine friendship with her. Something I know you find hard to relate to, having alienated yourself from every person who's tried to get on with you over the course of your lifetime."

She'd regret the words later, but for now she needed to vent her fury. As if this interruption to her daily schedule wasn't enough, Jack was now catching her attention. The latest addition to her 'family' was snapping at the hind legs of the others causing them to yelp in pain.

"Stop that," she scolded, "no, not you, mother. I'm just talking to the dogs. And yes, I did mean what I said about you pushing people away. When will you realise that not everyone views life through the same 1950s, straight-jacketed, Daily Express-reading prism that you hold."

Jack was snarling now, and Mitsy wasn't taking kindly to it. She lunged at him, biting his ear in a swift reaction. It was more than a playful nip, her teeth had drawn blood and it dripped down in a red contrast to Jack's black and grey fur.

"Mitsy, that's enough." She caught hold of the dog's collar and pulled her away from Jack who remained cowed for a moment. "Mum, look. I'll have to go. Let me give you a call tonight and we'll talk about this further. Yes, I am _definitely_ going to Emma's, she's going through a hard time at the moment ... oh, what's the use, I don't have to justify it. Yes, you know I love you and yes, I meant what I said."

She clicked the cancel button on the cordless phone and reached for the multi-lead lying on the hall table. Then she changed her mind. Jack's ear was still bleeding, and she'd have to clean it up first before the planned walk. She unzipped her jacket and shooed the dogs away, all except Jack, who she led by the collar to the kitchen. He didn't like it and twisted his head, trying to pull himself away from her motherly but firm handling technique.

"What's got into you Jack? You never act like this." She couldn't help thinking the fractiousness she'd exhibited toward her mother had transferred to the animals, so she was prepared to cut Jack some slack. Then again, the viciousness of his biting behaviour and Mitsy's response were completely out of character.

"Here, let's get that wound sorted," she said, reaching for the first aid kit in a kitchen drawer. She pushed his rear end down so he was in a sitting position and looked closely at the ear. He allowed her attentions, a placid nature substituting for his previous aggression.

_Crazy hound,_ she thought to herself. Not as crazy as her ex, perhaps, but definitely showing signs of the same alpha-male tendency she'd suffered from during ten years of living with the prick. She observed Jack's ear in more detail and, for the first time, noticed a pasty orange liquid seeping from the canal.

_What the hell?_

She was now much more concerned than before. Studying the wound Mitsy had inflicted, she deliberated whether she might take Jack to the vet's for stitches later that day. She glanced out the kitchen window. It overlooked _The_ _Moren,_ the main reason she'd chosen this house in the first place. Geologically, the hill represented the last dying gasps of an ancient glacier, depositing its load of rocks and soil at the end of a three million year journey. The sun shone brilliantly through the copper-leaved canopy of the beech trees that covered the hill, giving the day an autumnal hue that seemed to permeate the whole atmosphere. She was damned if her dog's anti-social behaviour would stop her from enjoying her daily dose of 'soul-food', as she liked to call it. The previous evening had seen her take the dogs up into the Pennines, and a little known path through the woods there. This morning's jaunt would be briefer but nonetheless enjoyable.

She held a pad of cotton wool to Jack's ear and waited. The temptation was to dab at the wound, but she knew this only extended the period of bleeding. Instead, her nurse training took over, and she patiently held the pad in place for a few minutes. The dog whimpered a tad at the initial pressure but then lay down as if exhausted.

"There you go, boy. That's more like it. We'll have this cleared up soon."

Her mother told her time and again that her dogs were a husband substitute and, to be fair, there might be some truth in this observation. But her animals didn't spend interminable nights away from home for unknown reasons, or offer her excuses for emotionally abusive tirades. Nor did they withhold information about their finances, ultimately revealing they were bankrupt and on the verge of destitution. Most importantly, they didn't screw her best friend.

These were fatuous comparisons, she knew, but they served as a bolster against the spoken invectives her mother inflicted and the unspoken criticisms from her social circle. She eventually lifted the pad from Jack's ear and noted, with relief, that she had stemmed the bleeding. She reached for a tube of antiseptic and smeared a pea-sized glob of the stuff over the gash. No point in applying a dressing. She wasn't a vet, but knew any one of his brothers and sisters would have the thing off in no time.

The morning and fresh air beckoned. She encouraged Jack to follow her into the hallway where she placed the first harness of the five-way system over him. She then whistled for Bono, Mitsy, Faugh and Brisket who took no time to appear from the four corners of the house and jostle for her attention. The whole operation of fixing them in their harnesses took the best part of five whole minutes, but once done she was ready for the morning trek.

The dogs led _her_ rather than she them. This was a source of amusement to the local dog-walkers accompanying their hounds along the three routes she regularly traversed, but it wasn't something to get bothered about. They were her family, and although it was a dysfunctional one, she protected her relationship with them vehemently. She'd chosen to take them up the _Frith_ , a flat route following the line of an old narrow-gauge railway from Valley to Skipley Junction. She'd not get that far as there was a path leading up into the managed woodland that would lead her in a loop back home. Linear walks were to be shunned wherever possible as she liked experiencing something new round every corner. A human predilection — it might be a furtive denizen of the woods crossing her way, a change in foliage on familiar trees or simply the smell of fresh-cut logs stacked by a woodsman at the side of the path.

In minutes she'd passed a couple of dog-walkers, who gave her a cursory nod before steering their lone hounds well out of the way of the Siberian juggernaut. Thankfully, she reached the Frith pathway without any altercation between the hounds and she felt the tension released from her neck and shoulders once she was on the old track. It wasn't an opportunity to let the dogs off the lead; that would be a recipe for disaster. For a husky breed, they were quite obedient, the result of regular trips to training classes as puppies. But the prospect of keeping tabs on five of them was not to be entertained. They'd lose themselves in the woods chasing rabbits within seconds. She'd tried it once when she'd only owned three. Never again.

Up ahead she could see a bank of mist lying in the culvert just before an underpass which crossed beneath the Valley circular road. It muted the sound of traffic and she had a moment to savour the view, reminiscent of life's journey into the unknown.

_The road goes ever on,_ she thought to herself, although for her, this particular path would form an unheralded terminus.

Jack was jumping on the back of Faugh, clawing at his back. The tugging on the harness threatened to pull the whole system out of her hands but she held on.

"Jack, stop that," she shouted to no avail. She glimpsed orange fluid again, this time forming a congealed mat over his ruff. There was no time to react to the shock of observing this as Mitsy was committing a more ferocious act. Without warning, the dog turned and lunged at Faugh, the remaining two dogs backing off as far as they could within the limits of the harness system. She too had the orange stuff covering her fur. _Rubbed off from Jack?_ she thought. But no, the source of fluid was in both ears. _Had she caught whatever Jack had?_

A pull on the train was no use, failing to prevent Mitsy and Jack tearing into Faugh who was now on his back, howling in pain. There was too much play on the individual leads to have any effect.

"Mitsy, Jack, for God's sake leave him alone!"

She might as well have been shouting at a butchery machine for the response it brought.

_God, they're killing him._ This rapidly dawning realisation caused her to throw all caution away, and she lunged at Jack, grabbing his collar. With a huge jerk, she tugged him backwards. He parted from Faugh but held a piece of fur and muscle in his jaws. He twisted his head round and gave her his full attention now. The orange gunge poured down his front in torrents, giving him the appearance of a long-snouted lion. Tangerine-framed eyes viewed her with the stony gaze of an unfeeling predator.

"Jack?" she had time to say before he leaped from his crouched position, tumbling her over backwards with the force of his assault. She fell to the hard earth, the wind knocked out of her. The attack was immediate and relentless. Jack closed his jaws round her throat, and she felt them clamp on the sinews of her neck, closing off the air supply. She tried to cry out but the sound could not escape her closed windpipe. In desperation she clasped her hands around his throat, feeling the sticky orange stuff coating her hands.

Fear gave her a strength she wouldn't have known she possessed and slowly, despite Jack's thrashing, she began to prise his head away.

Perhaps she might have been able to break free at this point, make a run for it, raise the alarm, but a second pair of jaws closed on her face out of nowhere. She felt teeth sink into the flesh of her cheeks, smelt Mitsy's dog-breath and the stench of something else; something that reminded her of mouldy bread.

As the whines and howls of the rest of her family receded into the background, she accepted that she was seconds away from death. Blood filled her throat now and Jack had resumed his savagery as she lost all strength in her arms.

Her last thought was how even her beloved family had betrayed her in the end. Life was so unfair.

### 6

## Jim Alburton

Alburton woke to a wet, sandpaper-like lapping against his cheek.

"Uuurgh," he grunted and sat up, pushing Smiffy away gently. He reached for his glasses and looked at the alarm clock next to his bed. It read half past seven. He groaned again as events from the previous night fell like blocks into his consciousness.

Looking back at Smiffy he saw his melancholy reflected in the dog's dark brown eyes. Jane had chosen a hound adopted via the local animal rescue charity. So like her.

"Let's get you some food," he said. The act gave him unprecedented impetus for a Saturday morning — he certainly needed to get moving given what he wanted to accomplish. He staggered downstairs and let Smiffy out to relieve himself, then turned his attention to filling the mutt's bowl with a mixture of biscuit and canned meat. Smiffy cocked his leg up against a trough of winter pansies Alburton had planted only the previous weekend, urine falling on the plants in a steaming spray. Alburton winced at the desecration. He sighed, resigned himself to the cost and mixed the dog's breakfast.

The sound of the bowl hitting the kitchen floor brought the hound in and he devoured the contents with a slapping, hungry sound that only dogs can make.

After relieving himself in the downstairs WC, Alburton reached for the phone, then hesitated. It was early, but Tosh Hackett would definitely be at work. He memorised other people's schedules as if they were his own, after all. He keyed in the speed dial and waited. The other end rang five times before someone answered it.

"Pathology," came the voice, husky with a West Cumbrian inflection.

"Tosh, it's me, Jim."

"Oh," came the reply, "Early isn't it?"

"Yeah, I know," Alburton replied, "but this couldn't wait."

"You're ringing about Jane and Kev, aren't you?"

Hackett was pretty perceptive; that's why Alburton respected him. "That's right. Are you involved in the autopsy?"

"Yep, it's slated for nine this morning. Bellingham's taking the lead. Look, I'm sorry and everything — I knew her from a distance but I expect you were a lot closer than most."

Charles Bellingham was the coroner and, as expected, had taken charge of this unusual case. Alburton thanked Hackett for his concern then moved the conversation on in a business-like manner. "Have you seen the body yet?"

"I just laid it out before. I felt like I was preparing for one of those operations they performed in Area 51."

"You mean the supposed secret facility in New Mexico? How come?" Alburton was familiar with the origin of Hackett's observation but he wanted to hear the pathologist's perceptions before giving his own view.

"You found the bodies, so you can guess what I'm talking about."

"Maybe. But tell me what you think."

"Well, it's clear how each of them died. The thing that's stumped me is what's behind Jane's obvious mental rail crash. As for this infection, God knows what that's about."

"So that's what you think the orange fluid is?"

"Not the infection itself, but a symptom, yeah."

"What d'you reckon?"

"I've done a few tests and viewed a sample under the microscope. It's hard to say yet — bacterial or viral are the likely contenders. At the outside it could be a protist, or even a fungus."

"Fungus? That's not a common pathogen. Do you think it affected her brain somehow?"

"The autopsy will give us more info, until then I'm only speculating. I'm not an epidemiologist. But one thing I _can_ say for sure — the cytology of the thing is really weird."

Alburton stroked his beard, building up the courage to make an unorthodox request. "What I wouldn't give to be in on the autopsy. Obviously as an observer, I — "

"I'll stop you there Jim, it's out of the question. There are rules of conduct about these things, not to mention actual laws. I've already told you more than I should, but I figured you're a friend and deserved to know something."

"OK, I understand. I just feel I should be helping out, in an official capacity, I mean."

"Jim, your field is ecological genetics. It's not like anything is expected of you. But I understand what you're going through, it's part of the grief process. I'm sure you can help in other ways."

As if on cue, Smiffy rubbed his snout against Alburton's knee. "Yeah, I guess you're right. But you'll fill me in on any findings won't you? I don't want to be left with the barest of details gleaned from the Cumberland News obits."

"Sure, I can do that. Just keep it to yourself when I do though."

"You can trust me on that."

"OK, I've got to go now. I'll be in touch."

Alburton thanked him and finished the call. He didn't feel very hungry but placed two slices of bread in the toaster anyway and switched on the kettle. He needed something to occupy his mind and ventured to contact NERC. There was a chance the institute would have a skeleton staff running at the weekend and they'd need to hear about the shocking news. If anything else, he needed to know where it left the study he and Jane were carrying out.

He resolved to take the dog for a walk, then make his calls. By the time he'd done this he'd be due at the police station.

Taking the dog out gave him the chance to clear his head. He was only a few minutes into his stride when he started to wonder why he didn't get out in the local vicinity more often. He chose a route leading off from Main Street, taking him up a steep hill and on to a maintained bridleway through beechwood, affording him breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside. He met one or two other dog-walkers along the way, all of them dutifully carrying their biodegradable black plastic bags in hand. Some might have seen this as pitiful but to Jim, an ardent environmentalist, it sat well with his world view. He greeted a young man with a Rottweiler on a muzzle and leash, followed by an elderly couple with three labradors. Each of them recognised an unspoken bond, tied together by their mutual morning duty and a sharing with animal consciousness. It was like owning an exotic car and recognising your kindred by flashing the headlights if you encountered them on the roads.

It was a long time since Alburton had enjoyed his temporary 'fling' with sports cars. He'd once owned an original Fiat X-19. Hardly a top-dollar prestige car but it enjoyed its own particular niche. He missed its road-holding finesse and sticky five-speed gearbox but didn't regret passing it on to an enthusiastic collector when he realised it conflicted with his professed environmental credentials. His current hybrid electric was moving in the right direction, but he was considering seriously ditching it in favour of a reliance on cycling and public transport. Not that the infrequent bus service would be compatible with his work needs, taking him as it did through a preponderance of rural locations. Life was full of compromises. Sometimes that could be a good thing. But at others?

He could have been more compromising in spending more time with his former wife. His work was his passion, often involving late nights in the lab or travelling to conferences both home and abroad. A regular time with Pennie sharing their interests in art and alternative music, together with more intimate pursuits might have saved their marriage. Then again, he couldn't help thinking they were doomed from the outset. They'd been unaware of each other's shortcomings, like two blind people besotted with the sound of the other's voice in the heat of spring love. It wasn't until years later they had their eyes opened to the complexities of an inferiority syndrome in her case and OCD in his.

Alburton imagined the speech he'd make at a hypothetical retirement event. _Regrets? I've had more than a few._ More like too many to mention. Jane didn't get the chance to make a leaving speech. She'd been dragged from this world by a cruel set of events. The fact that her death was accompanied by a display of unnerving behaviour and the evidence of an exotic disease only accentuated how short life was, and how utterly random one's mode of departure could be.

The appearance of two grey squirrels bouncing amongst the beech nuts ahead broke him from his thoughts. When they saw him they popped their heads up momentarily, then curled their way up separate boles of aged beeches, gaining the heights in seconds and disappearing into the canopy. It had been many years since Jim had seen a red; ousted by the so-called grey vermin. It wasn't their fault they carried the parapox virus, or outcompeted their native cousins. After all it was humans that introduced them in the 1870s. Yet another example that spurred Alburton on in his work. Conservation was top of his agenda, some would say the _only_ item on his agenda. There were many ways the habitats of Northern England were being eroded. Was Jane's infestation, if that was the right word, yet another example of man's intrusion into the natural world? It was unlikely, yet not beyond the bounds of possibility.

The mist was starting to lift now and, apart from the sound of sirens in the distance there was nothing to disturb the plaintive songs of woodland bird life. Smiffy let out a short bark and strained at the leash as he spied a young girl in a black gilet approach. She was not accompanied by a dog, simply enjoying the mist-laden morning air. He wouldn't have given her a second glance, but her hair caught his eye; bleach-blonde with streaks of black cut into a wedge at the back. She strolled along with her gaze fixed on the Scottish hills in the distance. In profile she had an almost elvish appearance and her matchstick frame looked like it was feeling the cold. He nodded a brief hello, acknowledging her smile and pulled on Smiffy's lead to stop him making a nuisance of himself.

The brisk walk took him the best part of forty minutes and he was eager to get down to business upon his return to the house. He was fortunate enough to catch a young scientist at the NERC offices, whereupon he related the tragic circumstances that had brought the project in question to a premature close. Although he'd spoken to this man before, he wasn't well enough acquainted with Alburton's work to give any indication of how matters would be taken care of. However, he offered his condolences and assured Alburton he'd relay the news to the projects co-ordinator first thing on Monday morning.

A quick look at his watch revealed he'd got another hour before his appointment at the police station. He had no desire to kill time at the house and set out early into town. Smiffy didn't want to see him go, and whimpered pathetically. "Sorry, boy, my babysitting hours are strictly between the hours of nineteen hundred and nine in the morning."

He wondered how long he'd be expected to look after the dog. He didn't know any of Jane's relatives or where they lived, but he couldn't commit long term to the animal, his lifestyle wouldn't permit it. Besides, he took what he thought was a principled stand against keeping domestic pets, bred as they were to satisfy humans misplaced need for companionship with another species. _If only people channelled their emotions into wild animals, the world would be a better place,_ he thought.

After picking up a few items from the local farmer's market he stopped by at _Hadrian's Tea Room_ and ordered a green tea.

"How do you put up with drinking that stuff?" the waitress said in a broad local accent, making the word 'stuff' sound like 'stoof.'

Alburton knew her well enough to exchange pleasantries and found their brief exchanges agreeable if mundane. "You advertise it as 'an exotic taste of the far East,'" he said, nodding towards the chalkboard on the wall next to her.

"If by 'exotic' you mean 'tastes like papyrus soaked in hot water,' then it's accurate.

"I'll take a lemon muffin as well," he said, smiling.

"Sure thing," she said, picking up a pair of tongs. "Say, did you hear the news?"

"What news?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

"You mean you didn't hear the police cars and ambulances screaming up the road earlier on?"

"Yeah, I did as a matter of fact. Another RTC on the A697?"

"No. It was a fatality up in Bilton Woods. Quite strange actually. Lizzie Dunaway was in a few minutes ago and told us all about it. She'd been walking her spaniel up the Frith but was turned back by officers in high-vis jackets. That wasn't before she caught sight of a woman laid out on the path covered in blood, though. She said her face was a right mess. In fact, we had to calm poor Lizzie down and give her a glass of sherry to calm her nerves."

"Really?" Alburton said, taken aback. "Had she been attacked or something?"

"Lizzie didn't know, but three of the officers were restraining some of those husky-type dogs. She said one of the hounds was growling and bearing its teeth like it was a wolf. She saw another dog lying still on the ground like it was dead."

A man with a nose like a swollen beet was standing next to Alburton nursing a steaming cup of coffee. "Huskies, you say? There's a girl lives up on Ash Park owns huskies. Could have been her."

Alburton whistled. "Sounds shocking. Well, no doubt we'll hear more about it soon. Word travels fast around here." The man and the girl nodded, then broke off their conversation as the queue built up behind.

Alburton sat on a sofa in the corner of the cafe and took his muffin out of its case. _A strange incident,_ he thought. But he had enough of his own bizarre occurrences to deal with without giving this one any head space. Still, three fatalities within the space of twelve hours was newsworthy to say the least. The Evening Standard wouldn't have trouble filling the front page tonight.

### 7

## Living off the land

Brian Hudspith cleaned the Remington shotgun with a dirty t-shirt lifted from his workshop bench. He'd just cleaned out the barrel with a rag, poked down using a cleaning rod. He only needed to apply oil to the bolt and its rails before he finished up. It had just gone twelve and Janice would be calling him in for lunch soon. A pity he'd not be joining her, either today or ever again for that matter. It was a pity about many things. But he'd put up with life's shitty deal for long enough.

It wasn't fair either on Janice, either. What he planned was selfish, he knew that — at least part of his mind did. But the last week's series of events had overwhelmed him like hammer blows. The monthly accounts showed he was in the red. Nothing new there. Trying to run a small dairy farm in the current climate was a total loser. Price fixing at unprofitably low levels by the supermarkets ensured that. Funny to think they'd got through the foot and mouth outbreak in 2005 only to be brought to their knees by human insensitivity and shareholder's greed. Local custom amounted to little more than a sympathy vote and wouldn't pay the bills.

This month had seen a massive dip in fortunes though. The farm's debt leapt from £70k to £90k in just two months. The repayment terms in themselves wiped out any measly profit he could make on the dairy side. Then there were the repairs to the milking equipment, the recent rise in fuel costs and interest rates. He was six weeks away from bankruptcy at most, and he didn't dare tell Janice. Neither could he tell his son, Willy, who depended on the farmhand employment he received for his livelihood.

Again, depressing as it all was, these circumstances weren't enough to tip him over into the abyss he contemplated. There was something else.

"Brian, your dinner's on the table," he heard Janice shout from across the farm yard. He put the shotgun down and stepped outside his workshop. The sky was a clear blue, devoid of any cloud except for a grey disc hovering like a UFO above Barwick Fell in the distance. He scanned further west and saw Saddleback's twin peaks forming a purple silhouette against the skyline like two mammaries pointing to the sky. He chuckled to himself. His business relied on cow's mammaries, but sometimes tits didn't cut it. That's why he'd taken on lime spreading as a sideline, just to make ends meet. But work had been scarce this year. Other farmers and landowners were having a lean year too and adjusting the pH of your soil was often the first thing to go under such circumstances. He'd got loans out on the two eight-wheelers he'd bought to carry out the new work. He'd over-invested, thinking there'd be enough work with delivering lime, together with tarmac for the incessant roadworks that took place on the Cumbrian highways. But competition was fierce, with too many undercutting his price by working through the night. He was tied to milking hours and couldn't balance the time budget, let alone the financial one.

_Life's a bitch and then you die,_ he thought.

"Brian. Are you coming? It's getting cold."

Maybe time for one last meal. He trudged across the concrete towards the farmhouse, dragging his gumbooted feet as he went. He was tired, so tired. An itching in his ear caused him to reach up and scratch it. Usually the start of a sore throat, he thought. Yet another thing he wouldn't worry about after today. His scratching did little to ease the irritation, but it did dislodge a soft, waxy lump of orangy-red stuff.

"Christ," he said out loud. As if he hadn't been dumped on enough, now he'd got some dreaded lurgi. Again, he wouldn't mind but his head had buzzed intermittently over the last day, accompanied by what he could only describe as 'brain-itch'. It had started on the drive home from Bill Turner's farm on Netherwood Fell. Later the previous night his internal irritation crescendoed to an insufferable level. What was worse, he found thoughts intruding on his mind. Evil thoughts. He'd locked the front door before retiring and seen Molly, one of their nine cats curled up in her basket. For some reason he felt an irresistible urge to kick it, lay his boot in repeatedly until its lifeless body was nothing but a broken heap on the floor. He'd run upstairs in complete abandon, just to stop himself from committing the act.

That wasn't the end of it. Janice was sitting at her dressing table removing her makeup. He'd grunted with the effort required to suppress his urge to place hands round her throat and squeeze until she breathed no more. In his mind he heard the choking sounds, felt her useless struggles as she flailed her arms, trying to remove his grip. Brian was a big, burly man with hands like spades, and there was no way she could resist his assault. He normally possessed a gentle nature belied by his physical bulk, but a new presence in his mind had squashed it. The new occupant had a voice. It spoke to him.

_Kill her. Squeeze the life out of the bitch. She deserves it, along with the rest who have made your life a misery._

He'd taken a couple of steps toward her, ignoring the usual bed-time conversation she'd just started up. He'd even raised his hands. Then, as suddenly as the madness arose, it subsided again.

Until now. Removing the clot of orange gunk seemed to release a flood of the stuff. It leaked from his ear onto the padded gamekeeper's jacket he wore and ran down the front like a sickly orange stream. But instead of panic a strange abandonment overwhelmed him; as if the removal of the physical blockage in his ear lifted any remaining restraint on his behaviour. The buzzing rose in his head again, accompanied by an itch inside his skull. A leer spread across his face and he chuckled as if at some private joke.

What was he thinking? End his own life? Why should he do himself in when there were others more deserving to die — and such pleasure to experience doling out his own peculiar justice. The old Brian was gone forever, and the new one had much to accomplish.

"Brian?" Janice said as she met him at the door, her angry demeanour evaporating at the sight of him. "My God, what's happened to you. Are you all right?"

A broad smile spread across his face. "Never been better, Dear," he replied, and walked towards her with purposeful intent.

### 8

## Skinner

Inspector Wesley Skinner ushered Dr Alburton into his office and bid him sit on a chair in front of his desk. This wasn't to be an interrogation, so he followed his training and tried to set the man at ease. Best way to get full cooperation from the public.

_Training?_ he thought. Funny he should feel bound by protocols again, but his superiors in the Met had told him unless he realigned himself completely, he'd be out on his ear. They could salvage his career by reassigning him to a different force, but he was on his last chance. Skinner had a chequered past, as some would describe it. More like a chessboard with only two white squares, he'd admitted to himself in a moment of honesty.

He slid the thoughts sideways in much the same way he swept his papers aside on the desk as he sat down.

"Busy twenty four hours for you," Alburton said.

"Come again?" Skinner said.

_Watch the manner, Skinner,_ his trainer had said. _You're the public face of the police at all times. You'd do well to remember that._

_Patronising bastard._

"Well, there's been a couple of unexplained deaths and now a savaging on the outskirts of town," Alburton continued.

"I've just arrived at the station," Skinner said. "What's this about a savaging?"

Alburton filled him in on what he'd heard at Hadrian's Tea Room, information that both surprised and annoyed Skinner. He didn't like being out of the loop, especially if Joe Public was more aware than he was. The desk sergeant had said a team of officers were out on a call but hadn't given the matter his attention. Now, he was all ears.

"That's disturbing," Skinner said and pumped Alburton for more details. When little more was forthcoming, he resolved to collar the sergeant after the interview and get the info out of him. "Anyway," he continued, "we've got other matters on our mind, haven't we? How are you by the way?"

_Exhibit a calm but authoritative manner,_ came the voice of his trainer. _It's something you need to cultivate — in fact, you'll have to work on it more than most._

"It's hit me pretty hard," Alburton said, "I don't think I've taken it all in yet."

"That's only natural. I'm aware I didn't say it last night, but my sincerest condolences. I gather you were close to the deceased."

_Sincerity?_ Skinner had many qualities but sincerity wasn't one of them. He had learned to lie better than most.

"Thanks," Alburton said, "now how can I help?"

Skinner leaned forward on the desk, interlocking his fingers in a manner that suggested a man with purpose. "Well, as you can guess, this case raises a lot of questions. The autopsies are continuing as we speak, so there's no more information yet, particularly about Jane Milner's apparent infection or her state of mind. So I need to hear everything you can tell me about your conversations and dealings with her during the last few months. I'll get more detail from her immediate family later. They're travelling up from Devon. We need a complete picture of what's happening for the report we'll be compiling. It may sound like a tedious operation, but the family deserve to know whatever facts we can glean."

"I understand," Alburton said.

Skinner studied the man for a moment. He looked like a typical scientist with dark-framed glasses, jet black hair and an abundant beard forming a bush that covered the whole of his lower face. "Anyway," Skinner said, "at least we don't need to worry about any ongoing investigation. This is a rare occurrence and, although it's bizarre, there's not likely to be a repeat. They weren't murdered by an intruder after all."

"Well, you see that's where you're wrong," Alburton said.

"I'm sorry?" Skinner said, bristling.

"You're treating Jane's possible infection as a side issue. But it's central to understanding what's going on here."

"I hardly think that's probable."

"What if the disease she had was contagious? And what if it was a factor in her behaviour?"

"Look, Dr Alburton, we don't even understand the nature of the disease, or even if it is an infection."

"Sure we do. In all likelihood, it's fungal in origin."

"Why would you assume that? Wait a minute, you've been talking to someone at the hospital, haven't you?" Skinner felt his ire rising. Alburton was obviously one of those types you might call a busybody. A busybody with connections. "Look, I don't know who you've been in contact with, but you've definitely crossed a line. Any findings from the autopsy are confidential. You shouldn't be making enquiries beyond your remit — a remit which is absolutely nothing, may I remind you."

_Training, Skinner, training._

He exhaled loudly. "What else have you been privy to?"

Alburton was flustered, shuffling about on his seat. "Nothing else really. The man I spoke to was very professional and wouldn't say much."

"Clearly too much."

"Be that as it may, it'll pay you to give the possibility of contagion some attention. My main background is genetics, but I have a working knowledge of epidemiology too. Need I remind you how quickly bird flu and Ebola spread in recent times?"

"This is all getting a bit far-fetched, Alburton."

_Dr Alburton. Keep it respectful._

Skinner could see that Alburton was getting annoyed himself. _Busybody with an anger management problem._ Just what he needed.

"Is it? You wanted to hear about my observations of Jane's behaviour leading up to the incident. Well I can tell you there was nothing — nada. Whatever took hold of her acted quickly. That's why you need to get on top of this. Every hour wasted might make a difference."

Skinner twisted his mouth. "Your concerns might carry some weight if there were other cases. But there aren't any."

"You've checked have you?"

Skinner felt a bead of sweat drip from an armpit beneath his shirt. "Police procedure isn't your concern Dr Alburton. Trust me, this enquiry is under control. There are two suspicious deaths, the coroner's verbal report will be available by the end of the day and we'll have interviewed the relatives too. Now, if there's nothing you can add further, then I would suggest this interview is finished."

"You haven't even written anything down," Alburton said.

"I. Don't. Need. To." Skinner was gritting his teeth. He needed to get this man out of the room before he blew his top. "Now, I think you should leave."

Alburton rose to his feet. "Don't worry, I'm going. But if I were you, I'd at least contact Public Health and Disease Control, just as a precaution. Like I say, if this is a communicable disease then time is of the essence."

"You said you were leaving."

"Don't worry, I'm gone."

Alburton swept out of the office, leaving the door open.

_Twat_ , Skinner thought. He stood up and walked over to the sash window. He undid the latch and pulled up the lower half, breathing in the cool air.

_That's right,_ came his trainer's voice. _Deep breaths. Hold the hostile thoughts at bay. Allow them to be there but don't react to them. Like watching the traffic go by._ Skinner looked down at the police yard below and saw a response car pull in. It was followed by a dog pound vehicle. As the engines shut off, he could hear a manic barking issue from the back.

_What the fuck now?_

Moments later, Sergeant Waugh shouted through from the front room. "Boss, you need to be in on this."

### 9

## Jim Alburton

Alburton was fuming. He was as angry with himself as he was with that prick, Skinner. _Officious bastard._ He knew the type well; professional on the surface but unwilling to take in all the parameters and consider the full ramifications of a situation. It wasn't until he'd vocalised his suspicions about a contagious disease that he realised he'd been harbouring the thoughts. Looking back on what he'd just said, he understood on one level why Skinner had rejected his suppositions outright. It _was_ pure conjecture on his part — and he had a habit of formulating premature hypotheses. Jane had seen that in him and commented more than once. He also knew he had a problem with his temper — a trait rising from his position on the autistic spectrum. He might have got further with Skinner if he'd adopted a more placid approach, but he doubted it.

As he opened his car door, a police cruiser and a dog-handling vehicle pulled in to the park. Two officers in over-padded jackets bundled out of the dog vehicle and approached the rear cautiously. A baying cacophony, the like of which Alburton hadn't heard since watching The Hound of the Baskervilles issued from the car. He could see the vehicle was visibly rocking on its suspension.

Two more officers emerged from the other car but hung back. "Shouldn't we drive nearer the pound?" one dog handler said to the other, "they're out of control and the less distance we have to drag them, the better."

"Nah," said the other, "I can't stand another moment in there. Apart from the noise there's that god-awful smell. Besides, we've got more room to manoeuvre them out in the open." They were oblivious to Alburton, who stood watching with increasing fascination.

"We should have tranquillised them before leaving the wood," the first said.

"But they weren't behaving like the other two," replied the other, "they only got this bad in the last ten minutes."

"Never seen anything like it," said the first, "it's like the devil's got into them."

"We'll tranquillise them before transferral to the pound. Haul the kit out while I get a pole."

Alburton watched as one removed a long pole from the rear seat. The other pulled out a heavy duty case and removed two vials. It only took a minute to fill the requisite hypodermics, and he placed one in the lid of the case, keeping the other needle upwards in his hand. "I'm ready," he said.

"Let's do this then," his partner said.

"Can we do anything?" one officer from the other car said.

"Better just keep out of the way," said the first dog handler, "we're wearing protection. Their teeth would sink through your jackets like tissue paper."

The officer appeared relieved. The dog handlers looked at each other, nodded and approached the boot. One depressed the release catch and lifted the tailgate slowly. Both hounds immediately lunged forward but were brought up short by leashes restraining them to the dividing grille. Both animals were muzzled. The man with the pole extended it forwards and tried to attach the clip on the end to the nearest animal's collar.

"Bastard's thrashing about too much. I can't get it attached," he said.

"Keep trying," said the other, "I don't want to have to use the gun."

"Easy for you to say," replied the first. After a couple more unsuccessful attempts he got lucky and Alburton heard the satisfying click as the attachment engaged. Once secured, the first handler was able to pull the writhing animal forward in the boot and push its neck down, albeit with considerable effort.

"Hurry up and stick the needle in," he said. The second handler approached on the side furthest away from the second dog and expertly held the animal's head, plunging the hypodermic into its neck. Within moments the dog had gone limp. After a further five minutes they subdued the second animal and Alburton got a good view. His breath caught in his mouth as he saw the state of the dogs. Not only were they sporting open wounds but a familiar residue covered their fur; a dirty orange-coloured discharge. The similarity to the paste that covered Jane Milner's body was too coincidental to dismiss.

"Sir!" One of the police officers had noticed him. "I think you better keep out of the way. We have a situation here."

Alburton started to say something, then stopped himself. "Sure thing," he said and climbed into his Toyota. He sat in the driver's seat, deliberating. He could go back into the station and report what he'd seen to Skinner, but given their exchange he doubted he'd be welcome. The detective might be a prick but he wasn't stupid. Surely he'd see the evidence and draw his own conclusions. Alburton had to believe so. However, this didn't mean he had to wait around passively.

He took out his mobile and called Tosh Hackett's number. He hoped Bellingham might have finished the autopsy and passed on some info to Tosh. The machine cut straight to answerphone indicating that Tosh had rejected the call. _Refusal to engage with him or necessity arising from professional duties?_ Either way, he wasn't going to give or receive any information in the immediate future.

His frustration at not getting through to Tosh was tempered with guilty feelings about landing him in it. Alburton knew he'd been an idiot. Why had he opened his cavernous mouth and given away what he knew to Skinner? Had he actually thought Skinner would be impressed with his knowledge, that he would meekly accept his demands for swift action? He'd been idiotic and presumptuous — not for the first time in his life.

He was bursting with nervous energy and nothing short of medication would settle him down. Nothing except action that is. He turned his thoughts to the situation. Bizarre, violent behaviour exhibited in animals and humans, accompanied by a discharge from the ear canal. A possible fungal source resulting in extreme modifications to the behaviour of the infected individual. Rapid escalation of symptoms and an equally rapid rate of contagion.

_My God,_ he thought, _how many cases might be unfolding at this very moment?_

~ ~ ~

Once back home, Alburton gave Smiffy a token pat and bustled through to his study, closing the doors on the poor animal. Smiffy was a distraction he didn't need, although a pang of guilt needled him at ignoring the animal's needs — which seemed to be many at the moment. The Mac booted up and he clicked on the browser, quickly accessing the news feed. His first port of call was local news. He viewed an expected newsflash about Jane and Kev's deaths, although they didn't name anyone and scant detail was forthcoming. Apart from this there was nothing. Next, he looked at national news sites and on multiple news-feeds from across the globe. Yet again, nothing caught his attention.

He thought for a moment, then clicked in the browser's search bar. Modern, big-name search engines were often far quicker at picking out items of interest than the limited capabilities of specific websites themselves. He typed out a few keywords: _murder, fungal infection, mental illness, outbreak, orange discharge._ They were crude terms but he could always refine them later. Once again, the results were disappointing. The only link that caught his eye was a picture of a class of fungus called _Myxomycota_. Its appearance bore an uncanny resemblance to the discharge he'd seen, but after clicking on the site there was no reference to infection of animal systems at all. Moreover, these organisms weren't classed as fungi anymore but belonged to a different phylum altogether — _Protista._ Still, Tosh could have been wrong about his original supposition. Further substitution of keywords led up similar cul-de-sacs.

He leaned back in the chair and tapped his fingers on the desk. It was late morning. He deduced that not enough time had elapsed for the coroner to have wound the autopsy up, and ringing Tosh now would simply annoy him. He might already have been given a dressing down about his earlier disclosure if Skinner had been riled enough to ring through. He needed information faster than he was getting it. Compromise time. He pulled out his mobile and left a brief text message for Tosh: _Any news yet? Give me a call ASAP when you do. I've got some more info to share._ He waited a few minutes but nothing came back. Tosh was no doubt arm- deep in blood and guts.

He heard a scraping and whining at his study door. Smiffy was making his presence known again. He got up reluctantly and opened the door. One look at the dog's face damped any annoyance he felt towards the animal. "Bit of an attention seeker aren't you?" He crouched down and rubbed the animal's head on both sides causing the ears to waggle and the skin of his muzzle to bunch up in wrinkles. Smiffy appreciated the indulgence and raised his paw to rest on Alburton's wrist. The dog's neediness sparked off a notion in his mind. "How do you fancy a visit back home?" he said. It occurred to him there might be clues at Jane's house that pointed in the right direction of his unofficial inquiries. Gaining access to the property might be a problem but he'd worry about that when he got there.

Five minutes later, Smiffy was on the back seat of the car and Alburton was accelerating up the steep gradients towards Jane's house. The sun had won its battle with the morning mists and lit up the Pennine fells resplendent in their coat of greens and purples. Alburton never grew weary of the vistas afforded him by his travels through this landscape.

Jane and Kev's cottage bordered a copse of conifers at the bottom of a short but rough lonning, and Alburton could see a yellow and blue patrol car parked outside. He hesitated before turning off from the main road, momentarily put off by the police presence. After some thought, he considered this might be to his advantage.

Smiffy whimpered at being left again but Alburton closed the door on him, careful not to trap his paws as he attempted to nose his way out. "Stay there, boy, I'll take you on a walk shortly."

He approached the open front door and knocked on it before stepping inside. Announcing his presence with a 'hello' he ventured through the sitting room into the kitchen and was met by PC Woodhead, the woman constable he'd shared a tea with the previous evening.

"Oh, Dr Alburton," she said, "I didn't expect to see you here. Can we help?"

Alburton heard the movements of another person in the basement lab below and guessed they were both conducting a more thorough search of Jane's personal effects and the property in general. "Er, possibly," he said, scratching his head. _Here goes._ "As you know, Jane and I were working on an important project and I've been in touch with our supervisor this morning to tell him the tragic news. He's obviously shocked at what's happened but doesn't want our work to lose its momentum. So he asked if I could retrieve Jane's field notes and data files — to pass on to another colleague."

The constable tightened her mouth. "I don't know. We usually sequester anything pertinent to an investigation."

"I understand," Alburton said. He looked at her name badge and saw that it read Amelia Woodhead. _Time to apply the personal touch,_ he thought. "Look ... it's Amelia, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, looking bemused.

"You see, Jane and I were preparing a paper for presentation at an international symposium to be held at the end of the month. Its findings are likely to be pivotal in securing more funding for a major conservation project here in Cumbria. If we can't present the finished paper, it may derail the whole thing."

"I hear what you're saying," she said, "but it isn't usual to release effects until an investigation is over."

Alburton could see she was young, probably new to the force and likely to play things completely by the book. "Forgive me for asking," he said, "but I thought this wasn't an investigation as such. Given there's no question of what happened here."

"That may be so, but we can't officially close things down until all procedures have been followed."

Alburton placed his hands on his hips. "OK, OK, I get it. Say, what if I simply take pictures of her journal and make copies of the relevant files? You could log the fact so everything is above board and you'd still have all the documents in your possession."

"I don't know," she said, "I'd have to clear it with Inspector Skinner."

Alburton could see the situation slipping away from him, and he was just about to give up when impulse and uncharacteristic transgressiveness took over. He was to reflect later that what he said next marked a turning point in not only his professional career but his whole philosophy of life. Sometimes great shifts in thinking turn on the edge of an eyelash. "I already asked him for authorisation before I set out. He'd just concluded his interview with me and had to leave to attend a crime scene, so I don't know if he's had time to get in touch with you."

"No, he hasn't," Woodhead replied, "are you sure he gave you the go ahead?"

"Absolutely," Alburton lied, "he said he didn't want to impede scientific progress." Alburton gave her his best smile and waited for a response.

A shout came up from below. "Amelia, are you going to be long? I could do with a hand cataloguing these samples."

Woodhead looked down the stairs then back at Alburton, a look of resignation on her face. "All right, we've got a rush on and I don't want to take any more time out. If you put on some latex gloves, you can come downstairs and copy what you need, but you'll have twenty minutes, tops. Then we're shutting this place up."

"That's all I'll need," Alburton said, "and thanks, I appreciate it."

He followed her down and steeled himself as he entered the scene of the grisly events he'd witnessed only twelve short hours ago. Woodhead's colleague was clearly a member of the forensics team judging by his overalls and paper shoes. She explained the situation to him. He nodded and grunted, then resumed his work.

"I'll not get in your way," Alburton said and walked over to the bench at the side of the lab, avoiding the area where Kev and Jane's bodies had lain. There were dark patches marking their positions but apart from this there was nothing to suggest that anything untoward had occurred. An image of Jane's naked body sprawled across that of Kev flashed into his mind and he felt a churning in his stomach. He put a hand on the bench to steady himself, caught his breath, then proceeded towards the computer in the corner of the room. Neither of the other two had noticed his little episode, which he was thankful for.

It didn't take long to find Jane's data files, and he went through the pretence of making copies to a USB memory stick. In actuality he already possessed all data for the project as they synced files on the fly via a secure, cloud-based service. What he really wanted was to read Jane's journal. Many field scientists used digital means or dictaphones to record their observations. But Jane was old school, employing leather-bound notebooks and writing with an HB pencil. There was no sign of it on the bench and he was venturing to check in the drawers beneath when he noticed fragments of something in a specimen tray next to a binocular microscope. He examined them more closely. They looked like broken pieces of mushroom, having a carpeted smoothness on the upper surface and radiating gills on the lower. Most striking of all was the almost iridescent brown-range colour of the pieces. He looked round at the two constables, noticed they were pre-occupied and made his second unethical decision of the morning. Removing a plastic tube from a drawer, he tipped the fungal fragments into it and dropped them into his jacket pocket. Another furtive look over his shoulder confirmed his movements remained undetected. He'd now crossed three official lines; two here and one with his phone call to Tosh. _Had he actually broken any laws?_ Maybe not, but he'd done enough to earn a severe reprimand from someone if they got to hear of his behaviour.

After checking the remaining drawers, he found Jane's journal in the bottom one. He opened it and found entries from the previous two months. He looked at his watch, realised he didn't have time to read the pages now and proceeded to take pictures of the double-page spreads with his smartphone. The light from the overheads was good, and he managed to snap all of the pages just as the forensics officer and Woodhead were finishing.

"We'll have to wind things up now," Woodhead said to him, "did you find what you needed?"

"Yes," he replied, holding up the journal, "I'll put this back in the drawer where I found it. Thanks again for accommodating me. I'll make my own way out."

She nodded a goodbye and resumed helping her partner put away their kit in a plastic case.

Alburton left the house, wondering if it was the last time he'd set foot in it. Memories of times he'd spent there flooded his mind. Jane was one of the few people he'd met who could operate on many social levels. She could be deadly serious, passionate about issues dear to her heart; the environment, women's status in the workplace, inequality in society. But she could also engage in the lighter hearted side of laboratory conversation and what one might call 'laddish banter.' Kev and he would often exchange friendly jibes about tastes in music, Alburton's loathing of football and Kev's equally scathing views on fine art. Yet this didn't exclude Jane. She'd dive in at the deep end showing a remarkable knowledge and awareness of the often colliding cultures. Her sense of humour shone through in a way that was genuinely funny. He'd find himself chuckling over some remark she'd made long after he'd turned in for the night. There was no sense of laughing politely in her presence, she never failed to leave both him and Kev in stitches. Kev was one lucky guy — up to the end that is.

Despite only a few months of knowing this remarkable couple, he'd developed an attachment that extended beyond the purely professional. It was the closest he'd come to a pure friendship, one he'd hoped would continue. Now there was a gaping hole in his life. That's why he owed it to them to get to the bottom of her uncharacteristic behaviour. The whole thing was worse than an affront to her memory. It was a desecration. Skinner's obstructive attitude hadn't helped and, although Alburton had blamed his boundary-crossing actions on that alone, in truth he was driven to finding an answer fast. He'd count the moral cost later.

He climbed into the seat of his Toyota and took another look at Smiffy in the mirror. Once again, the mutt stared at him with doleful eyes. He seemed to be encouraging Alburton in his enquiries.

_Do it for me too,_ he seemed to say, _I want answers as much as you do._

Alburton wished he could speak in dog-tongue. What that animal could reveal of yesterday's events would streamline his enquiries no end.

He started up the car and crawled his way back up the rough track. The time for reflection was over. He had Jane's journal, the possibility of an update from Tosh. Enough to goad him in a constructive direction. He wasn't to know that even his astute actions, expeditious as they were in hindsight, could not outpace the deluge of calamities that were now occurring in the backwoods communities of this most countrified of counties.

### 10

## Pleasure and pain

Karen Brockhurst took in the view from a large window fronting the barn conversion she'd rented for the week. It perched on the side of a small mountain, as her partner Cliff referred to it; a peak called _The Crest._ They'd paid a lot for the place, but knew it had been the right choice once they saw how the house over-looked a local stretch of water called Black Tarn. Beyond the disc of water which glistened in the winter sun with an inkiness exemplifying its name, stretched a magnificent panorama finishing in a hazy, magenta line of peaks. These formed the southern extremity of the Cheviots.

"Perfect morning for a walk," she said in a loud voice to Cliff, who was unpacking in the bedroom opposite. Like many such conversions, the main living rooms comprised a kitchen, gallery lounge and dining area occupying the upper floor. The lower tier of the house contained two bedrooms, a main bathroom and the conservatory extension she was now standing in.

"That may be so," Cliff said, "but we've got other pleasures awaiting before we sample the local scenery." Karen looked away from the window, disconcerted by the tone in Cliff's voice. It wasn't anything she could describe, just something _off_ in the way he finished the sentence. She tried to dismiss the thought, putting it down to his rather peculiar sense of humour. He was always imitating celebrities and producing affectations in his every day conversation, just for effect. This might be a new character and wasn't unusual in itself. Still, the tone was harsh, like something out of a horror movie she'd seen recently. One of the new ones. She'd forgotten the name of it (didn't they all sound the same?) She hoped it wasn't a character he introduced on a regular basis.

The pleasures Cliff was referring to were their particular brand of _spices._ A term she'd coined herself to encompass the idea that there were vices to be enjoyed with your spouse. They'd experimented a lot over the past year, initially to revive a flagging sex life that had languished in the doldrums for too long. Cliff was surprised at her suggestions initially when she'd introduced a small whip into one of their rare weekend forays into the sex arena.

Her mind drifted back to the scene. "What makes you think I'll _like_ that?" he'd said, staring up at her naked form, lit by the deep red glow of the strawberry candles she'd lit.

"I have this inkling," she'd replied with a cheeky smile.

This inkling turned out to be a doorway to a cavern of sado-masochistic delights they'd never imagined existed. It started with mild flagellation — always him on the receiving end — then went on to include a range of fetishes, bondage scenarios and fantasy costumes. Sexual trysts, once confined to quick, unsatisfying weekend rolls in the duvet became daily quests of delight stretching often into the early hours. Despite both pursuing demanding jobs and a long commute to Newcastle during the day, they seemed to tap into reserves of energy on their return home. This allowed them to cross borders of taboo and explore avenues she'd have once thought reserved for the depraved. Such was the increasing depth to their voracious appetites they soon discovered a mutual yearning for an extended period in which they might explore their new found appetites much further.

The countryside surrounding their retreat was a visual delight, but the prospect of coupling was more intoxicating. There was no contest. She wanted nothing to get in the way. Especially not the dull ache that had insinuated itself behind her eyes earlier that morning. She'd see that off with painkillers, take a shower and then she'd be ready. She had another surprise for Cliff. This one would see them traversing the boundary of normal acceptability by several kilometres. She wondered if it might take Cliff into territory too dense and emotionally complicated for him to deal with. But what was life if not an adventure where dares should be grasped to enriched experience, making it an elixir rather than flat, warm ale?

She was about to go to the bedroom when she noticed a splash of orange on her white blouse. She looked up to see if there was a leak in the ceiling, but when no more russet drops appeared she wiped it away with her finger leaving a dirty streak that annoyed her sense of hygiene.

"Ugh," she said aloud and strode across the hallway, already unbuttoning the blouse. She felt the next drop before she saw it. The sensation began on her ear lobe and reappeared as a warm pitted sensation on her clavicle. Reaching to her ear, the fingers became greasy, almost waxy to touch and when she looked at what she'd produced, the breath hitched in her throat.

"Cliff?" She said as she entered the room, "can you have a look at this?"

"What is it dearest?" He stood with his back to her, looking in the full-length mirror door at his reflection. _Stark bollock naked_ wasn't a term used to engender feelings of intimacy or sexiness, but the phrase popped into Karen's mind unbidden. One leg was hitched up on the double bed such that his testicles dangled like a bolas between his legs. He seemed to be admiring his anatomy like they were family jewels, a sight which distracted Karen from her own concerns.

Cliff wasn't one for narcissism but there was no doubt he was casting more than an admiring eye over his exposed flesh. Seeing him standing there reminded Karen of the Fleetwood Mac album cover of Rumours. Mick Fleetwood stared down at two fluffy bobbles hung between stockinged legs while Stevie Nicks posed like a nightingale in flight, oblivious to his self-admiring pose. It would have been comical, except for Cliff's tone of voice, and the fact that he didn't give her any attention despite her obvious panic.

"Cliff, what are you doing?"

A leering smile passed across his face like an invisible sculptor had moulded it in place, only to vanish as he turned to her. "What ... what's wrong?"

Karen decided to ignore his behaviour. "Look, I think I may have an ear infection."

He looked down at his body for a second as if only just discovering himself in a compromising position. He shook his head in confusion then stepped over to her. "Let me see." He gently tilted her head sideways and asked her to step into the light coming through the window. "Mmm," he said, sounding like a doctor, "yeah, there's fluid coming out of the inside. How are you feeling?"

"A bit of a headache, but nothing else really."

"Strange, you usually have a temperature and pain with an ear infection. When did it start?"

"Just a minute ago."

"Well, I wouldn't worry. If you haven't got any other symptoms, it's probably only something mild. Here." He pulled a tissue from a box on the bedside table and dabbed at her ear. "It's not going to spoil what we have planned is it?" he whispered in her ear.

His reminder sent a glow of excitement through her that dispelled any previous fear. It raised the hairs on her skin as if an animal burrowed underneath, puckering it up like a harbinger of ecstasy. Her nipples rose in response underneath her bra and moistness oiled the inside of her thighs. "Of course not," she said, her voice coming over breathy. "Let me get some pain relief and a shower, then I'll be ready."

"Pain relief?" he said, his eyes widening, "I'm looking forward to a certain lack of relief in that department."

Automatically, she slapped him on his buttock, feeling the sting in her palm, knowing the sensation was mirrored in his tennis ball-taut glute. His pupils dilated further, and she knew he'd be impatient. "Give it ten minutes. Oh, and I've got something special you might like."

"Can't wait," he replied, holding on to her hand until the last second as she pulled away.

Karen swallowed the painkillers with a small glass of water and stripped off in the bathroom, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor. She set the temperature of the shower to one click cooler than tepid and let the forceful spray shoot over her body, enjoying the sudden changes in sensation. Although the spray wasn't ice cold, it was enough to raise goose bumps on her skin again and push any remaining doubts about embarrassing symptoms to the back of her mind. She took the mesh sponge, poured on a generous amount of shower gel and rubbed herself slowly, appreciating the tingling it evoked.

It was a blissful two minutes only to be violently interrupted by an avalanche of abhorrent images thrust into her mind as if from an alien source. Such was their force, she was physically thrown back in the cubicle, her shoulder blades bruised by the impact. She placed her hands to her head, shaking it vigorously, eyes wide in astonishment. Try as she might, she couldn't dispel the images playing in front of her eyes like a disjointed film trailer, pasting violent sequences back to back, each of them featuring Cliff. In one flash her naked husband was strung up with leather straps from eyehooks screwed into the ceiling of a pristine, white-tiled room. His mouth was wide as he uttered a scream of torment, his entrails ripped from his body and emptied onto the floor. In the next scene he was tied down to what looked like a butcher's block as a drill was slowly inserted into his temple and forced inward. Incredibly, her revulsion turned to pleasure as she perceived the bit pierce the bone and move further through soft tissue. For it was she who held the tool, she who's maniacal laughter could be heard over Cliff's agonised shrieks.

A small part of her recoiled at the barbarity she was inflicting on another human being, but this small vestige was soon subsumed in a tidal wave of thundering ecstasy. The sequences increased in speed as she observed her partner of eight years subjected to torture unimagined in even her darker moments of sadistic inventiveness. Up to this point, her designs had been created to give pleasure to both, but this was pure self-gratification — more wonderful than anything they'd ever shared in the bedroom. It was as if her thoughts had released a cornucopia of rapture, never to be contained again.

She reached between her legs and massaged the sweet spot of her sex as further picture-frames of sordidness swept through her mind. She reached climax within seconds, her legs growing weak with the shudders of excitement that juddered through her like three thousand amps of electricity. Yet it did not stop. Here was a cine-play of her shoving a glowing red iron bar into a place hitherto only occupied by butt plugs or suppositories. This was replaced by another scene in which she used a scalpel to remove Cliff's testicles on an operating table. The shrillness of his voice at the touch of her knife left her in no doubt she had not administered any anaesthetic. Another wave of orgasmic delight rippled through her body, only subsiding when the images abruptly shut down and she slumped to the floor of the shower.

After many minutes spent staring at the glass door of the cubicle absorbing what had occurred, she shook her head and ventured to rise. She noticed the water had turned orange as it circled down the plug hole and wasn't surprised when she reached to her ear and discovered the discharge had erupted anew.

She stepped out of the shower and held a towel to her ear, all the while puzzling out how she might tell Cliff what had just occurred. The closest she could come to describing it was a conscious nightmare. Yet, until now, fear hadn't been the predominant emotion, there'd simply existed an unstoppable urge to inflict pain, coupled with extreme orgiastic pleasure at its infliction. Maybe the last three months' forays into the realms of BDSM had released this floodgate. As long as it remained within her mind then what harm was there? She resolved not to tell Cliff straight away. This was something she wanted to explore on her own first, a secret too sensitive to share with anyone, an exquisite piece of jewellery to remove from its locked box — to observe and caress within the solitude of a private moment.

Despite a vague nausea in the pit of her stomach she was as horny as hell. She wanted to go to Cliff now, throw him down on the bed and whip him until he was red raw. Then she'd take him on a journey with the new prop she'd brought along, something she was sure he'd eventually embrace once he got over the initial shock.

She rushed through to the bedroom, leaving a trail of water on the tiled floor, expecting to find Cliff there waiting. When she found the room empty, she called out but received no reply. _No matter_ , she thought, _must be fixing coffee_. She heard a kettle boiling in the kitchen upstairs. He wouldn't be able to hear her over the steaming appliance. She'd prepare herself and her gear, then invite him down. There'd be time for refreshment later.

As she unzipped a sports bag, images from the episode in the shower drifted back to her. They seemed distant to her now, part of something experienced as another self, a person who had no right to think such things, let alone act them out. Of course, there was no question of them becoming a reality. Yet how had such a cavalcade inflicted itself upon her in the first place? There were no answers, and it wasn't something she wanted to mull over at the moment. For despite her repulsion, the residue of arousal was very much alive within.

She wiped more of the discharge away from her face and removed a handful of straps and metal links from the bag. The apparatus felt heavy in her hands, a satisfying weightiness to elicit heights of sensual pleasure in both of them. It was called a hog-tie — for obvious reasons. Up to now, they'd been content using ribbons, cable-ties and handcuffs. But this was the next level. It wasn't so much the straps and locks that might perturb Cliff, more the fact she intended to gag him as well. The thought that he would have his breathing restricted, changing his cries to muffled whimpers held a special attraction for her. She'd read that a restricted air supply heightened arousal for the participant, and it was upon this premise she hoped to sell the thing to Cliff.

She was impatient now, couldn't wait any longer. "Cliff, darling," she shouted again, "leave the drinks, I'm ready now. Come and see what I've got for you." She heard his steps on the floorboards above moving towards the staircase and turned with a smile to arrange the hog-tie on the bed. She had enough time to dab her infernal ear again and spray herself with copious amounts of musk. It was important that all the senses were engaged for their devilry.

She sensed rather than heard his presence at the door, but what greeted her on facing him drained her of all colour. He was standing, dressed in a rubber suit that encased his whole body. A mask covered his head in one piece, open only through mouth, nose and eyeholes. On its own this might only have been a mild shock, ultimately exciting as it marked another turn in their exotic journey. But any sense of adventure turned to horror as she saw what he held in his hand. She tried to think where he might have bought such an implement, as she'd seen nothing like it on bondage sites they'd frequented. It was a rod; chains and spiked spheres attached to it in medeival construction.

"Cliff, I don't think I should use that on you. I don't think even you would like it. I might inflict real damage.

No sound issued from the mask — which raised the fear another notch. It was then she noticed the marmalade-coloured fluid oozing between the line of rubber separating the headpiece from the neck. It seeped from the mouth and nose holes too.

"Cliff, are you OK?" she said.

_"Grrrnff,"_ came the sound from beneath the mask. The afternoon beams of sunlight reflected off the suit making him appear as a dark comic book character. The sound left her in no doubt this wasn't some DC magazine hero intent on saving her from the clutches of an evil super-villain. No, the imposing figure was bringing danger rather than rescue.

In a movement that took her by surprise, he grabbed her, span her round and flung her onto the bed so her face was pressed against the satin sheet. She gasped in shock, struggling to right herself. "Cliff, what are you trying to do? This isn't how you normally — "

Her words were cut off as he pushed her head down into the bedclothes, preventing her from breathing, let alone speaking. Rough hands grasped her limbs and bound them together using the straps she'd intended to use on him. She twisted her head to take in desperate mouthfuls of air and realised how much a willing participant Cliff had been in previous sessions, allowing her to tie him, flog him and inflict exquisite pinpricks of pain as a prelude to their coupling. But this wasn't pleasurable; this wasn't any fun at all. His strength was far too great for her pathetic attempts to break free.

"Cliff you're hurting me!"

He gurgled again under the mask as he pulled on a joining strap that connected the arm and leg restraints. As he wrenched her legs up her back to meet the already over-stretched arms, something sinewy ripped in one shoulder and she shrieked in pain. But it was nothing compared to the bludgeoning doled out on her back as the spiked balls ripped into her flesh. Her senses were trying to respond when she felt herself pulled on to her side. Her arm and leg positions prevented her from being flipped onto her back, but it was clear she was in a position for Cliff to give the rest of her body some attention.

Panic rose to unbearable proportions in her mind until it was met by a boiling lava of something else, something more alien. The lust of depravity descended like hot rain, matching the warmth of discharge now issuing from both ears. Pain wracked her ribs as they cracked under the onslaught of two fresh blows to her chest. She saw blood dripping from the three morning stars and absorbed the information with a mixture of disdain and euphoria. So this is what Cliff experienced when he received her attentions. Still, if he landed too many more blows with that weapon, she wouldn't be feeling anything soon.

A suggestion materialised in her mind, vocalised in a tone resembling that of a gibbering inmate from an asylum. "You know, I can give you a greater thrill than this if you give me the chance."

The exertion of speaking sent waves of pain and nausea radiating out from her chest and solar plexus, but she continued. "By all means, carry on, but let me give Mr Cucumber some attention while you do it."

Cliff hesitated, the miniature morning-star held aloft in suspended animation, his eyes following hers to the swelling in the rubber between his legs. A sound not unlike a hyena issued from the mask and he dropped his weapon to the floor, reaching to lift the torso piece and pull down the leggings.

"You know I'd help you if I could," she said, "but I'm rather tied up at the moment." Her joke sent a ripple of mirth through her as she imagined what she was about to do to him.

Cliff's cock tumbled out over the top of his leggings, its vegetable-like name earned more by its shape than anything else. The glans pointed downwards even at full erection, always a point of mutual mirth in sex bouts undertaken in another lifetime. He shoved the member roughly into her open mouth and it slammed hard against the back of her throat. This cut off her air supply, heightening her arousal despite the discomfort. No matter, she had him where she wanted him and after two brutal thrusts clamped her jaws down with all her strength. The tang of warm blood in her mouth and the sound of Cliff's agonised scream was enough to set off the most exquisite orgasm she had ever experienced. Her bite was enough to sever the organ. She chewed its spongy deliciousness with rapture as he curled on the floor, moaning in what appeared to be pain but could have been ecstasy.

She knew she would pay for this affront, but as Cliff rose to his feet, the stump of his cock spraying crimson over her, she thought to herself — _definitely worth it ..._

### 11

## Jim Alburton

Alburton didn't have time to even glance at the snaps of Jane Milner's journal. His mobile sounded from the passenger seat of the car as he drove up the steep incline of the street leading to his terraced cottage. Looking at the display he could see it was Tosh.

He killed the engine and took the call.

Tosh got in the first word. "Jim, are you at home?"

"Yeah, just. Tell me you've got something for me."

"I certainly have, you turnip. A piece of my mind. I've had some dickcheese called Skinner call my gaffer with a complaint about you. He's given me a right earful — and a written warning."

"Hey, I'm truly sorry. I let that one slip in the interview this morning. What can I say? He got my back up."

Tosh exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. "Yeah, well, it hasn't done my career progression a lot of good."

"You're right to be angry," Alburton said, "once again, I'm sorry. And it's not the only thing you're right about."

"What's that?"

"Skinner _is_ a dickcheese."

Tosh laughed. "We're talking Gorgonzola. According to the gaffer he demanded my resignation."

"That man's got issues."

"I reckon so. I've heard things y'know. Anyway, that can wait. I ... hang on a minute."

There was a pause then Tosh came back on the line. "Listen, there's a lot come out of the autopsy, and I know you've got things to tell me, but I'm in the office and I can't really talk. I knock off in five minutes. Can you meet me in town? It's better if I get off the premises given the trouble I'm in. The gaffer's watching me like a hawk."

"OK. Where and when?"

Alburton was pleased that Tosh wanted to meet as soon as possible; equally pleased their liaison should take place at a newly opened bar he'd wanted to try out in Drumcastle City Centre. He finished the call, dropped Smiffy off inside the house and was back on the road in less than five minutes. He was dying to sift through the journal photos, but meeting Tosh was a higher priority. There might be an opportunity to take a quick glance if Tosh was late for the appointment.

Drumcastle was the main city in the North-West and one would find it hard to avoid if travelling to or from Scotland. It formed a focus for traffic both commercial and domestic. From a distance, the castle itself could be seen on the skyline dominating the landscape, the flagpole standing like a sentry guarding the gates of the north.

Traffic was typically heavy for a Saturday afternoon, not as congested as a weekday but enough to raise Alburton's levels of frustration several notches. After negotiating three sets of traffic lights he took advantage of a rare street parking space, shoved up the parking disc and briskly walked the five hundred yards to his rendezvous with Tosh.

The _Tiger's stripes_ had been open for six months and rapidly built up the reputation of a swanky but friendly wine bar. The frontage consisted mainly of glass giving the clientele an unhindered view of passers-by, should they be so inclined. Once inside, Alburton came to the conclusion there was plenty to occupy the eyes as the interior decor had been tastefully applied to combine rustic elements characteristic of the city itself, together with fittings that spoke of some non-specific time in the past when life was easier, less rushed and, yes, more stylish. Just the sort of place Tosh would normally have abhorred. He would have been happy to quaff a pint pulled at the King's Arms up the road, so Alburton saw his agreement to meet here as something of an olive branch towards him after their contre-temps on the phone.

Alburton found Tosh seated at a tall-legged stool, one of many lining the narrow, high bar opposite the main serving area. A light fitting that resembled something part-way between steam-punk and thirties style hung from the ceiling overhead. He was already supping at a pint of bitter. "How-do," he said in his casual, sharp tone. "What's your poison?" Tosh's weather-beaten face sported two day's growth of grey-black stubble; a visage that spoke of many year's mild alcohol abuse and failed ambitions.

"No," Alburton objected. "The drinks are on me. Can I get you another?"

Tosh looked at his pint, tilted it as if surprised at how little was left and nodded. "Don't mind if I do. Another of the Badger's, if you please." He accentuated the last three words in an upper class tone. He dropped these turns of phrase into the conservation as a tacit brickbat to Alburton's well-spoken manner. Alburton himself, increasingly more adept at banter, would often riposte with references to Tosh's less than salubrious origins in the depths of West Cumbria. _Looking for a house in Acremont?_ he'd once asked a new friend in Tosh's hearing, _then watch out for the natives, they still practice cannibalism. What's more, they eat you raw as they haven't discovered fire yet._

It was an easy relationship going back several years, and one that Alburton had jeopardised with his ill-thought outburst to Skinner that morning. He'd got some ground to recover. The bar service was swift, and he returned to Tosh bearing a pint of his favourite real ale of the moment and a lager for himself.

Tosh had finished his first and laid into the new drink after raising the glass in thanks. After draining a quarter, he placed it on the bar and leaned towards Alburton. "Right, here's the gen. Jane Milburn was definitely infected with something. We carried out a full examination of her brain. Now, are you ready to hear this? It gets gruesome."

"Sure, lay it on the line." Alburton might have been close to Jane, but he was a scientist, and not unused to the more grisly aspects of laboratory work — including dissection and examination of tissue samples.

"Her brain was riddled with it. Took Bellingham and I completely aback. Once we'd sawed the skull open, that orange fluid spilt out of the cavity right onto the floor. The photographer puked on the spot. And the stench — never smelt anything like it."

Alburton recalled the faint but nauseating odour that permeated Jane's lab the previous evening. Caustic chemicals had largely dispelled it on his most recent visit, but he could still detect its pungent, mould-like presence in his nostrils. "That's incredible. She'd not mentioned any symptoms leading up to this and, as far as I'm aware, not had any tests done. Even the most aggressive cancer doesn't take hold that quickly."

"Those were our thoughts exactly. We've sent samples off to a specialist lab in Manchester to identify the nature of the infection."

"Then you'll have the results tonight?"

"You've got to be joking. They'll pick them up Monday morning and we'll be lucky if to get any results back before Wednesday at the earliest."

"Fuck it, that's way too late."

"Bellingham figured it didn't warrant a rapid turnaround. After all, this is an isolated case."

Alburton shook his head. "Not so. Did Bellingham not get word about the dogs this morning?"

"Dogs?"

Alburton gave a rapid-fire account of his encounter with the dog handlers and watched Tosh's expression change from slight concern to outright alarm.

"This puts a whole new slant on things," Tosh said, "I can't think why Skinner wouldn't have mentioned it."

"He might have put the call through to your office after you knocked off. What else did you find in the autopsy?"

"In Jane's case? Nothing really. It took us twice as long just to clear up afterwards. After that, Kev's body was straight forward to deal with. As we suspected, he died instantly after cracking his skull on the lab floor following the fall downstairs. Curiously, the mutilation of his face occurred after he'd died."

"So that means ..."

"Yes, your good friend carried out a frenzied attack, either through pure rage or even, dare I suggest it, the pleasure of the act. The only thing that stopped her inflicting more damage was the kitchen knife embedded in her abdomen."

"Christ, then it could have been a lot worse."

"Much." Tosh paused for a moment, then raised a spectre that had circled at the back of Alburton's mind for some hours now. "If this thing _is_ a disease, and if it's contagious — as suggested by the incident with the dogs — then we could be dealing with the start of a massive outbreak. Some of the early victims might include ourselves."

Alburton licked his lips as his suspicions were reinforced by Tosh's statement. "I suppose we've both been exposed, as have the personnel who attended the crime scene. Are you feeling OK? I mean you look all right — apart from the usual signs of advanced cirrhosis and terminal cynicism, I mean."

Tosh smiled. "Yeah. I keep checking my ears though."

As if by auto-suggestion, Alburton reached to his own ear and inspected his fingers upon removal. A frisson of relief passed over him, yet he knew this would be a perpetual activity from now on. They were both lost for words as they contemplated the ramifications, supping their respective drinks for a minute or so.

"Right," Alburton finally said, "I guess we've got to move fast. Are you going to contact Bellingham?"

"Sure thing," Tosh said and removed the mobile from his pocket.

"I'm going to check something out while you do that." He left Tosh to make his call, pleased to hear the pathologist make contact with his superior almost straight away. He pulled out his own mobile to study the pictures he'd taken of Jane's journal. In the background Tosh delivered his concerns to Bellingham in a staccatto-like fashion.

Alburton was a fast-reader. He'd learned to scan prose, data and images at an impressive rate then focus on the essential detail. It helped that Jane had very legible handwriting. The script was like that of a schoolgirl's exercise book; exaggerated loops on the vowels, the lines of text all occupying the same height like identical soft toys on a shop shelf. Reading it through, he heard her voice in his mind and tried not to think of the utterances she must have made during the last few minutes of her life. Minutes when her true self was subsumed to the alien presence in her brain.

He started with the latest entry. Jane had given a brief account of her visit to Netherwood, although it didn't give an exact location. She'd been checking mark-release-recapture traps as part of a small mammal survey of the woodland habitat. She'd noted the presence of three field mice and seven shrews, all still alive. All animals would have had a small amount of fur shaved away at the base of the tail, then released. A subsequent visit the next day would collect further animals and Jane, or more likely, Kev, would assess the proportion of marked individuals in the new catch, thus giving an estimate of the population as a whole. The results in eight other locations had revealed a dramatic fall in numbers, the cause of which was likely to be many-fold, but would include intensive farming practices and habitat destruction, no doubt. These factors were hard to prove conclusively, but became increasingly impossible to ignore.

He passed through this information quickly. What caught his eye was the last paragraph of the final entry: _Peculiar lack of vegetation in one grove of ash trees. Moss and bracken seems to die off abruptly leaving just lifeless, dried leaf-litter extending into the undergrowth. Merits further investigation on a later visit. Could the local farmers be dumping agrochemical waste, or something worse?_

Tosh had finished his call. "Well that's got him rattled. Skinner hadn't mentioned anything in his phone call, just slagged off the department and ranted about you. But Bellingham's going to get in touch with Skinner and contact the veterinary lab. They'll need to liaise closely to compare common threads between these deaths and the canine infection."

"I hope he'll do more than that," Alburton said. "This thing could spread like wild-fire. Public Health and the local hospitals should be informed."

"I'm sure those will be next on his list. Wheels will be in motion."

"But will they move fast enough? I'm not sure anything like this has happened before — either on these shores or anywhere else for that matter. It's like something out of a science fiction movie."

"Hang on, Jim. You're jumping the gun. We've got scant information and there'll be people much more knowledgeable than us to gather it. It'll be a multi-agency approach."

Alburton finished his pint and thought for a moment. "So where does this leave us?"

"Well, we need to report straight back to the hospital, Bellingham says. We'll all need a thorough medical examination to see if we've contracted anything."

"That'll include all the others too?"

"No doubt. Look, Jim it's like I said before, the thing's out of our hands. We've played our part, and now we've got to let the big boys take care of things."

"Big boys like Skinner?"

"Hopefully not," Tosh replied. "Can you give me a lift back to the infirmary? The sooner we're given the once over, the sooner I'll feel better."

"We can hope," Alburton added.

Tosh finished his drink and they drove to the Infirmary through traffic moving at the pace of a sloth. For reasons that escaped Alburton he decided not to mention Jane's journal to Tosh for the moment, they had more pressing matters to attend to. But he was certain he would not be a willing bystander to events. He knew how organisations worked in these circumstances, particularly in this part of the country. He started to formulate a sequence of actions to add to his increasingly freelance agenda.

### 12

## Skinner

Skinner craved a cigarette. He'd last drawn smoke at four fifteen that afternoon, and it was now eight o'clock. His left hand shook and his right eye twitched. It was only that morning he was thinking he was in for a purposeful yet reasonably paced day. The Milner case although bizarre, seemed open and shut — woman suffering from a rare brain disease goes berserk and tops her partner. Tragic, but hardly requiring a major input of detective work on his part. Deal with the grief-stricken relatives, give the clear up tasks to plod and job done. Weekend rates of pay for doing next to fuck all.

But Alburton and his conspiracy theories had only been the first fly in the ointment. Following this had been the arrival of two rabid dogs, then a series of irate phone calls and panicked reports of crimes reported from two more separate sources. Each of these incidents alone represented an unprecedented increase in violent crime, but together? Suffice it to say, things were getting out of hand. So much for a quiet life.

What annoyed Skinner most was that Alburton had been right. There _was_ a major problem. Something bigger than him, bigger than Valley's police force and even bigger than Drumcastle's emergency response team. This was why he now sat at a large table in Drumcastle's Infirmary, along with eighteen other professionals from the Health Service, Coroner's office and County Council; not to mention his own immediate superiors and even the county's Police Commissioner. This was the population of the emergency Incident Management Team, or IMT, and was likely to increase as further experts joined them from the scientific community.

"So, that's all you can tell us?" Chris Wilkinson, chair of the meeting said. Skinner wondered who had decided this doofus should head up the operation. He'd had it made clear to him that his role was purely investigative, and he would not be responsible for any decisions from an operational point of view. There were procedures and policies in place for this sort of emergency, and they would be followed to the letter. Besides, Skinner was already trying to cover his tracks. He'd been slow on the uptake, not notified the relevant authorities quickly enough. No one had given him a dressing down yet, but he knew it was coming.

"That's about the size of it," Bellingham replied, "until we get an analysis from the labs on this thing then we're operating in the dark."

"When does the expert from Manchester get here?" Wilkinson asked.

"The train gets in just after ten. We'll take her to our lab and let her look at the tissues we've extracted from the victims so far. I've also had a request from Dr Alburton that she look at a fungus specimen."

"Do we think a fungus could really be the source of this ... outbreak?" Wilkinson looked over at Alburton as he asked the question.

Skinner half-wished Alburton had succumbed to whatever disease had struck down the victims. Would have served the wanker right. Instead, once the medics had given him the all-clear they'd actually granted him a place on the team; _given his insights and abilities_ as Wilkinson had said. The doctor was still under observation, however. Just because he and the coroner's staff hadn't shown any symptoms yet didn't mean they might not spout orange gunge at a moment's notice. Skinner was also annoyed that Alburton had possession of the mushroom puffball thing in the first place. He said it was something Jane Milner had given him earlier in the week. But Skinner had a nose for a liar, and Alburton had flames coming from his arse seat.

"Right," said Wilkinson, looking at his watch. "I'll make some decisions soon, but without much background and specialist knowledge it's hard to know which measures to invoke."

"What's your thinking?" said a woman further along the table. Her name tag said Veronica Lee — a well-spoken, blonde-haired professional. She'd been introduced as Drumcastle Infirmary's Health Chief. Skinner determined quickly she was a force to be reckoned with and, unlike many administrators he'd come across, could be trusted to think sharply and bring her expertise to bear appropriately. _Probably frigid too,_ he thought — an unprofessional observation to stack alongside the thousand or so he'd made since taking up his position here in the North-West six months ago.

"Well," Wilkinson said, after taking a sip of water from a plastic cup, "we've got a new, highly infectious disease on our hands with a range of symptoms we know, but possibly many we don't. For example, do the sufferers, if that's what we call them, die from the disease — I mean from the infection itself? Obviously the infected victims coming to light so far have all died from the effects of their behaviour, but what's the long-term prognosis? What proportion of the population are susceptible to the disease? Of those that contract it, how many succumb to extreme symptoms? Are there carriers? How exactly does the disease transmit itself? There are so many questions we can't answer. Worst case scenario? We're dealing with something beyond the scale of Ebola or SARS. This thing _could_ spread through Cumbria and beyond in a matter of days. In which case we should employ top-level quarantine measures, restrictions on movement enforced by emergency services and possibly the army."

"That's surely a bit extreme," Skinner piped up. He couldn't help himself. "We've only identified four cases."

"So far," Lee interjected.

"And," Bellingham said, "it crosses species. It's not restricted to humans."

"So, what? You order a county-wide lock-down, put out news bulletins and within an hour you've got a panicked population haemorrhaging from every road in Cumbria. Such action might even increase the rate of contagion."

"Don't you think I know that, Skinner?" Wilkinson snapped, "I'm not saying that's what I'm going to do. But if this thing turns out to be every bit as serious as the reports suggest, then I can't rule it out."

"Speaking of which," another man said, "what are the precise details from those incidents, Inspector Skinner?"

"Yes," Wilkinson put in, "we need to know the scale and severity of what the afflicted can commit if we're to produce a proportionate response."

Skinner winced inwardly at Wilkinson's pomposity and opened an A4 cardboard wallet withdrawing a sheaf of papers. He started by giving a summary of Kev Humbleton and Jane Milner's deaths. Alburton listened carefully as Skinner moved on to describe how Lisa Pennington had met her end that morning.

"Ms. Pennington," Skinner continued in his formal tone, "was turned upon by three of her hounds. The fourth didn't show symptoms but was killed by the others. One more dog died in the skirmish over the dead body. We contained the two that survived at Drumcastle's quarantine centre."

"Have they run tests on the animals?" Alburton interrupted.

"They've extracted blood and saliva samples, but the animals had to be sedated again. In fact, it's been recommended they be kept permanently tranquillised. We're waiting for the initial analysis." Skinner looked at Alburton, raised his eyebrows as if to say, _are you done?_ and continued. "All officers and animal centre staff received a thorough medical and so far there aren't any untoward signs, but they're taking no chances. All staff from now on will wear full air-fed Hazmat suits whether it be pathologists, vets or health professionals."

"You see what we're up against?" Wilkinson said. "Without knowing the mode of transmission we've got to cover every angle."

"But if it's airborne, then there's nothing any of us can do is there?" said the man who had spoken before. Skinner remembered his name was Hammond, but apart from being a member of a non-government organisation, he couldn't remember Hammond's precise role. "We might be breathing spores in right now — making us ticking psychopathic time bombs."

"I think more incidents would have emerged by now if that was the case," said a woman from disease control.

"Can we let Inspector Skinner finish his report?" Wilkinson said. "Save your questions until after. Like I said, we need to get as full a picture as possible first."

"Thank you," Skinner said. "The next case is that of Brian and Janice Hudspith. They're the couple that live on the dairy farm just off Bramsby road. From what we can surmise, Brian Hudspith contracted the disease and killed both his wife and himself. Their son, Alan Hudspith, found their bodies — or what was left of them." Skinner paused for a moment. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest of this?" He looked around the table at every face. Each was painted with the grim aspect of professionals used to trauma and the morbid aspects of human tragedy.

"Give it all to us, chapter and verse," Wilkinson said. He seemed to speak for everyone although Hammond looked more apprehensive than most.

"OK, they were found in amongst the moving parts of a threshing machine. It was an old contraption. Young Nesbitt said it hadn't been used for ten years or more but the old man had started it up, flung his wife in and then followed her."

Several of the team pulled disgusted faces. Hammond turned green. Skinner allowed his statement to hang in the air for effect. The reason for this desire eluded both him and his 'trainer' when it was raised in their one-on-one sessions.

_Do you know what a narcissist is, Wesley?_

_He's that bald guy with a flower sticking out of his head, isn't he?_

_That's the Dali painting, based on Greek myth. But it formed the basis of a condition that's gradually been understood more over the last fifty years._

_Don't tell me — Sigmund Freud?_

_Well ... yes._

_So — you're just casually dropping this into the conversation, or is there some relevance?_

_Do_ you _think there is?_

His trainer had been a prick. Skinner had made the right noises to pass the psychological tests — a necessity if he'd wanted to keep his job, but that didn't mean he'd internalised the lessons.

"Skinner?" Wilkinson said, looking impatient.

"Sorry," he said, "it's been a long day." He consulted his notes then resumed. "The psychotic behaviour is totally out of character. None of the victims so far have any record of physical violence or tendency towards aggression."

"And I understand we don't know anything about the progression of symptoms," the Police Commissioner — a man called Blunt — said.

"Not really," Skinner replied. "According to young Naisbitt his father was his usual morose self when they carried out the morning milking. He wasn't displaying any of the discharge that eventually covered his head and shoulders either."

"That's an incredible escalation of symptoms," said one of the doctors.

"Derek, please — no interruptions," Wilkinson said.

Skinner couldn't blame them for their questions. There were a lot of them, and not many answers. "Again, the son and his dairy herd were tested and given the all-clear. But it could well be that whatever bug is in the system isn't detectable by initial testing methods. I've been informed that until cultures are grown, we won't have any means of identifying new strains."

Skinner licked the tip of his finger and thumb and turned the page of the document in his hands. "The last case that's come to our attention is that of a care assistant named Connie Francis. The alarm was raised at the Armfield Homes at eleven thirty this morning. One of the pensioners was attacked by Ms. Francis."

_That's good,_ Skinner heard the trainer's voice in his mind, _correct respectful language towards women and all minority groups._

"She tried to stove the guy's head in with a Stilson wrench," Skinner continued. "Once again, orange discharge from the ears and a murderous, psychotic episode of violence. We didn't get much information from the victim as he has dementia, but he did recollect how Francis launched the assault in an unprovoked manner."

"He obviously survived the assault," Wilkinson said, breaking his own rule.

Skinner chuckled. "Yeah, bit of a miracle really. He managed to turn the wrench on her and give her a whack to the head. Fatal wound too. So, it's a case of lucky for him, but unlucky for us. As yet, apart from the dogs, there aren't any living sufferers from the disease."

Skinner put his report down and looked round the table. "In conclusion then, we don't have a lot to go on. We're monitoring all calls we get in from across the county and if anything ticks the boxes we'll be onto it straight away."

"Right," Wilkinson said. "Thank you Inspector Skinner. I have a couple of questions myself and then I'll open it up to the table."

"Sure thing. Shoot," Skinner replied.

"So, all cases reported so far are localised to Valley and the surrounding area?"

"All within a ten-mile radius, yes," Skinner replied.

"And there's no other commonality between the victims other than geographical location?"

"That's about the size of it. My team interviewed all those directly involved in these incidents and there's no convergence of travel patterns or individuals they've been in contact with."

Wilkinson nodded slowly, pondered for a moment, then invited questions from the rest of the table. Hammond was the first to speak up. He seemed to have regained some of his composure after hearing the graphic detail in Skinner's report.

"As representative of the Environment Agency I'm interested in why we've jumped to the conclusion that this is a disease."

"What are you driving at?" Skinner asked in a voice controlled by professionalism rather than any sense of warmth towards the dickhead.

"Well so far, there's a list of symptoms but no evidence of a pathogen at work. I've looked at Dr Bellingham's report and if I've understood it correctly, there are no recognised cellular forms in any of the victims."

"That would be correct," Bellingham confirmed, "but I emphasise no _recognised_ forms _._ However, the tissue change was like nothing I've ever seen."

"So, this could be the result of a contaminant?"

"It's possible," Bellingham said, "but unlikely. We've run tests for all known chemical toxins — both organic and inorganic. They've yielded nothing."

"That's what I thought," Hammond said. "So, given that we don't know, and these symptoms are unprecedented, should we be ruling out the possibility?"

"Mr Hammond has a point," Wilkinson said, making a note in his pad using an expensive looking ink pen. Skinner had many faults and one or two exceptional talents. One was building a picture of people's characters and motivations given just a few salient details. Wilkinson, he judged, wasn't a typical pen-pusher. He had a few traits peculiar to administrators but his sharp eyes revealed he had an astute grasp of information and an ability to filter out the important from the unimportant. Skinner's assessment of the man raised itself a couple of notches in his mental scorecard of personalities.

"My point is," Hammond continued, looking pleased that his observation had been given some level of importance. "We ought to direct resources towards locating the source of this outbreak. I know we've got disease control onto it, but what about environmental pollutants or effluent spillages? My department haven't been given the green light to proceed in this area yet."

"We _have_ asked if your current monitoring activities contain anything abnormal," Wilkinson said.

Hammond looked deflated for a moment, then added, "We're operating with limited resources. The small size of our team restricts our monitoring capabilities. Now, if we had a cash injection of some magnitude, we could carry out a focused review of likely sources."

_So that's what this bugger is about,_ Skinner thought. _He's looking to use this incident as a vehicle to secure extra funds for his department._ Skinner marvelled at the audacity of the man and, judging from the expressions round the table, his feelings were shared by others.

Wilkinson coughed. "Assuming I authorised such a release of resources _,_ what would you suggest as a starting point given we don't know what's causing these symptoms?"

"Well, I guess we'd start with chemical plants and water supply. Something like this could be transmitted through local rivers and the water table."

"And your evidence for this is ..?"

"As yet, nothing as such — "

"I hear what you're saying," Wilkinson said, "and, whereas we can't rule out the contaminant theory, I think it would be premature to divert any major finances in that direction yet. Let's face it, the type of survey you've suggested might take weeks. However, I think there's a case for you liaising with Inspector Skinner and the other representatives here. Anything that comes out of his investigations as well as the autopsies and lab tests, should be relayed directly so you can home in on possible origins of such a theoretical pollutant."

There were more questions, but after another ten minutes it seemed clear there were no more actionable insights or revelations. Wilkinson cleared his throat and made an announcement. "I'm minded to proceed along the following lines," he said, "First, there is to be no public announcement at this stage. I think the risks of a premature statement to the media far outweigh the possibility this outbreak could be the start of an epidemic. Obviously, this position might change in the light of new reports. We'll rely on you for that Inspector Skinner." Wilkinson looked at the detective and Skinner nodded back.

"Second," Wilkinson continued, "I'm directing all personnel who came into contact with either the victims or the scenes of crime to be quarantined until further notice."

This statement drew murmurs and more than one gasp from the team.

"But we need mobility to carry out our duties," Bellingham said. "Quarantine isn't necessary. We're all professionals here. We can report directly if we notice any onset of symptoms."

"Dr Bellingham," Wilkinson said, focusing his steel-grey eyes on the coroner. "As we've seen already, the symptoms develop with a rapidity beyond anything encountered before. Can we really rely on anyone's judgement to self-assess in this situation?"

"You're proposing something that's unworkable," Alburton spoke up. "Following your logic, every member at this table should be quarantined. After all, Dr Bellingham, Inspector Skinner and myself were all exposed to a possible agent of this outbreak. If it's a disease, then every one of you is now a potential victim or carrier. Are you proposing we all hole ourselves up?"

"He's got a point," Skinner said, conscious of the irony of agreeing with the doctor for once. "Limiting our movements will hamper our effectiveness considerably."

Wilkinson twisted his mouth thoughtfully. "Very well, but I insist that you report to disease control on the hour every hour."

"You're ruling out sleep then?" Skinner said, unable to repress a cynical smile.

"Look," interjected Bellingham. "This is getting intractable. Might I suggest a compromise?" When Wilkinson opened his hand as an invitation to continue, Bellingham added, "Prompt and rapid communication is vital, particularly in the next few hours. I propose we 'buddy-up'. If we operate in pairs, then there's at least a watchman with each individual. We can arrange a shift system that allows us to get a few hours' sleep, continue our purview of the situation and report regularly."

To Wilkinson's credit, he accepted the suggestion without too much deliberation and a list of contact numbers was circulated. After a further fifteen minutes the meeting closed with a further one scheduled at seven a.m. the next morning — unless there was an urgent development. Skinner had agreed to link up with the two officers from the pound while Alburton was teamed with Bellingham. The coroner and the inspector arranged for their staff to follow a similar regime and Skinner left the infirmary building half an hour later.

He paused at a passageway several metres from the main entrance and joined two nurses and an orderly smoking cigarettes; fellow refugees from a building-wide no smoking policy. As he lit up, he reflected on the dramatic events of the day, taking a deep draught, waiting for the nicotine hit. He'd been shipped up north to prove his worth in a place where he couldn't cause much damage if things went tits-up as a result of his maverick attitude. But the way things were going, he might just have found himself in the middle of one of the biggest operations the country had yet seen.

He burned down the last of his roll-up, extinguished the butt under his foot and walked off the premises.

_Strange days indeed,_ he thought to himself.

### 13

## Suffer the little children

It was another cloudless morning with nothing visible save two contrails streamed like sheep's wool strands across the azure dome of the sky. A glad morning as Olivia would say to her mother, and one she was happy to watch for minutes then hours despite the crisp coldness that pinched her exposed nose. She was seated in her favourite camping chair on the pavement outside the mid-terraced house her parents and then her sister and husband had owned. That she was positioned on the busy main road held no fear for her, nor did it detract from her joy at being simply out in the open and watching the world go by.

It being Sunday, the traffic was limited to saloons taking the devoted to denominational churches scattered throughout the local community. Alternatively, four by fours carried families on hastily planned trips to the Lake District (in the case of the active) or in estate cars to Drumcastle for the latest film or a trip to _Strikes_ (for the more leisurely inclined.) Nevertheless, Izzy, Olivia's sister, had insisted she wear her luminous yellow jacket, just to be on the safe side. Olivia wasn't in the habit of wandering off, but Izzy told her you could never be too careful. "Remember how you got lost in the Co-op last week? I was only in the next aisle but you caused a right rumpus. I wouldn't like to think what'd happen if you lost your bearings out on that street."

"You don't have to worry," Olivia said in her mind, although she was conscious that the words came out sounding much different. During her thirty-eight years of existence on this planet she'd not formulated a proper sentence once, and she knew how it made her sound. Having profound hearing impairment in both ears didn't help. Made her sound like a _retard_. Of course, no one used that word in her presence now — although they had when she'd attended the local secondary school — Valley High. "I won't go anywhere," she'd said to Izzy, "I just like to watch."

And it was true — she did. Watching, smelling, hearing (what little she discerned.)

"Morning, Olivia." The voice came from her right. She turned her head and shielded her eyes against the sun that shot beams out like lasers on Star Wars (her favourite film.) As the man came into view she recognised Mr Moore, the man with the coal-dust, wrinkled face. Olivia didn't know if Mr Moore had ever been a coal man or a miner but she wasn't able to offer any other explanation for his violet-stained complexion.

He stopped next to her and looked across the road in the direction where she'd been staring. Turning back and mouthing the words in an exaggerated fashion he said, "What do you see in the sky today, then?"

"Birds. Planes," Olivia said, "The blueness too." She lifted the thick-rimmed spectacles from her nose and rubbed her eye, letting them drop back when she'd finished. "Sometimes the sky looks like the sea," she said, "and it makes me think the world is upside down."

"Oh, you're right about that," Mr Moore said, laughing then finishing with a cough that rattled deep down in his lungs. Olivia thought the sound wasn't healthy, reminded her of her Dad's cough in the months before he'd taken the long trip. "Yep," he continued, once he'd cleared his airway, "completely topsy turvy, that's for sure."

Olivia was glad Mr Moore agreed with her. She imagined it was only her who saw these things. Others _said_ they did, but she could tell from their voices they didn't really appreciate what she was trying to say. Something about the tone that said _I'm listening to what you're saying, but don't ask me to understand your cock-a-hoop ramblings._

"Well, must be getting along," he said. "That Sunday lunch won't cook itself."

Olivia chuckled as she imagined a raw chicken climbing out of the fridge and hopping over towards the oven. The imaginary fowl then opened the door, climbed in and reached out to turn the dial, switching it on.

"Sounds like you're holding on to a good joke there, Livvy. Care to tell an old codger?"

Olivia shook her head. Only she understood her thoughts properly, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to explain why she found Mr Moore's statement so funny.

"Have a nice day," she said in a Californian accent she'd picked up from a film she'd watched the previous night. It had starred Cameron Diaz, and she loved the way the US farewell warmed her heart. She concluded that if she warmed someone else's heart using those words, then the world would definitely be a better place.

"Missing you already," Mr Moore replied, pointing his finger at her and shuffling off into the distance.

A clamorous ringing from across the road startled her as the bells of St. Cuthbert's started up. "Eleven o'clock," she said looking at the large clock face recessed into the red brick tower opposite. Soon the bells were singing their usual Sunday morning melody. Olivia hummed the tune out loud, sometimes getting ahead of the bell-ringers but pulling it back when she realised she'd been too speedy for them. The people would appear from the front door of the church soon and she anticipated identifying a few new faces amongst them. Reverend Taylor would be at the door, wearing his black and white vestments and shaking their hands and sharing the peace of the Lord. Olivia wondered which piece of the Lord he was imparting. She remembered from what her mother had told her that they actually ate his body inside the church and drank his blood. So how there would be anything left of him to share she didn't know; and she'd never plucked up the courage to ask. Some questions can only be asked as a child and, if held back, are condemned to the chests of ignorance for a lifetime. Olivia appreciated this on a subliminal level and no one had ever indicated this was anything other than the truth.

The bells clanged to a halt after an unusually short period and Olivia noted it was an uncharacteristically ugly manner in which they did so.

"That's wrong," she said to herself. "There's another verse to go yet."

The arched oak door to the church was still closed too. Another thing that wasn't right.

The whole town seemed to have fallen under a pall of quietude. No cars swept by and no pedestrians were visible. It wasn't a nice silence to Olivia's mind, more akin to the stillness before an unhappy event. Like the silence falling over her sister when Dad had breathed his last.

Olivia rose from the camp chair and stepped towards the kerb. She worried that Izzy would scold her, but somehow she had to find out what was wrong. For she was sure now, in a way that only those whose senses have been deprived are sure, that something was amiss. She remembered her green cross code from youth and looked both ways up and down Drumcastle Road, straining her inadequate sense of hearing all the time for approaching traffic. When she was certain it was clear, she scuttled across the tarmac in a semi-skipping sort of way she'd adopted ever since she could put one foot in front of the other.

Once she'd reached the cobbles on the other side of the road, she breathed in deeply for a few seconds, not so much from exertion, more the after-effects of knowing she'd taken a major step into the unknown.

Now she would take several more.

She climbed the stone steps of the church one at a time, thinking at any moment the door would creak open and there would stand Reverend Taylor welcoming people out from the ecclesiastical gloom. But no one came. As she approached the door, she thought she heard a low moan followed by a shriek, cut off short before it reached the zenith of its crescendo. Perhaps it had been a phantom voice. Olivia had talked about these many a time when she'd told her sister about conversations she conducted with friends in the ancient house. Olivia often detected whisperings in the bathroom or murmurings in her bedroom, sometimes emanating from behind the wood panelling or from beneath the sitting room floorboards. When she told Izzy about these occurrences, she'd look at Bill, her husband in a knowing way. She obviously thought Olivia didn't notice this, but girls like Olivia always knew. They just didn't question it. She was enough trouble for normal folks as it was.

She drew closer to the door and placed her ear to the wood. Despite her severe impairment she picked up faint sounds beyond. They weren't happy sounds at all. Not that church sounds were ever _that_ happy, consisting as they were of mournful hymns and solemn chants. But these were cries of human misery and pain, interspersed with something that sounded like _whump._

She put her hand on the wrought iron handle and hesitated. She shouldn't be here. She was being silly. And Izzy wouldn't be pleased. She was about to turn round and head back when another whump issued from the church followed by a loud scream.

"That was a child's scream," she said to herself, and this made her mind up. She turned the handle and pushed the door inward a touch, just enough for her to peer through the crack created. Beyond the door were two thick curtains; draught excluders to protect the congregation from the icy fingers of winter. What she saw caused her breath to stop in her throat. A woman was crawling along the central aisle towards her, the face looking upwards as if it was gazing towards the finishing line of a race. Olivia couldn't make out the woman's features because rivulets of blood obscured them, running from a point on her head where the hair was matted together around a cleft in the skull.

This wasn't the only atrocity to confront Olivia. Over in the pews to her right she saw bodies slumped over. Some of them possessed movement, the twitch of an arm or the shifting of a head. Most did not.

She scanned to the left and observed a group of children cowering in the corner. One of their number was laid across the knees of two others, face turned upwards, eyes staring blankly. None of them could have been above six years old. All were crying and hugging each other, glancing round as if searching for whatever monster had inflicted such carnage. Olivia wondered herself where the source of these assaults could be. Was this one of those terrorist massacres she'd seen examples of on TV over the last six months? If so, why no gunfire or explosions?

She looked forward again and noticed most people in the small congregation had occupied the front two pews. Just like the others, they were sprawled across the benches or stretched out on the brown twist carpet. Hymn and prayer books were scattered about the floor, some lying open with blood on their pages. Just in front of the altar was the prone body of another member of the clergy Olivia recognised as Deacon Gregory. Next to him was a broken decanter that had once contained the blood of his Lord, a Lord that may have died for him but was powerless to resist the evil unleashed in this hallowed building.

Fear paralysed Olivia. She found it difficult to make decisions at the best of times, but in stressful circumstances her senses tended to shut down and produced a kind of tunnel-vision that usually took hours to recover from. Incidents she filed under 'stressful' included going to a different place, or meeting new people. So what confronted her here could reasonably be summarised as 'off the scale.' Her breaths, like those of a small mammal, wheezed through her windpipe, her heart pulsing in her ears like a galloping horse. She was caught between wanting to run away and helping these poor unfortunates littered around.

A sound from up in the belfry drew her attention. A man's laughter. Not joyful. The sound of a man taking delight in something horrible. The man shouted defiantly. The voice sounded elderly, but the words were garbled. The whumping sounded again, followed by more laughter.

"Ake...own ..." came a voice from the aisle. It was the woman with the caved in skull. She'd seen Olivia and was holding something out to her. Olivia recognised it as a smart phone. Izzy owned one and sometimes lent it to her so she could play games like _Angry birds_ or _Farm Heroes._ But Izzy hadn't mastered the skill of texting or using the phone function. She had difficulty colouring in, never mind forming letters or operating complex sequences of numbers.

As she watched, the woman's eyes glazed over and her head fell to the floor with a dull sound. _That'll be a nasty bruise,_ Olivia thought, then understood that maybe this was the least of the woman's problems. The phone was still in her hand, the front panel glowing white. Olivia looked towards the belfry but couldn't detect anything. She tried to weigh the options, but the task was too difficult and, in the end, allowed the prospect and pleasure of holding a smartphone to be the determining factor influencing her next action.

Pushing the door further inward, she stooped low and entered, making sure to carefully close it behind her — an action most astute for one considered so backward. She took the phone from the woman's hand and retreated between the back two rows of pews, smelling the odour of old books and musty prayer cushions as she crouched in the shadows. On the phone's screen a name appeared, followed by a number. She didn't recognise either piece of information but guessed it must be someone trying to contact the dead woman in the aisle.

The realisation struck Olivia that she'd just pronounced the woman dead. _How did she know?_ The same way she'd known her Dad was gone that late November. Not the lack of breath from the nostrils or the fact that his chest didn't rise or fall anymore. It was to do with the absence of something. Like the essence of the person had departed. She'd seen this in the way the woman's hand was splayed open, the phone laid in the centre of her palm.

Although Olivia had never called anyone on a mobile before, she remembered what an old-fashioned phone and receiver looked like. She saw a picture of one at the bottom right of the screen. _What would happen if I pressed that?_ she thought. _No harm in trying._

She pressed the icon, and the screen changed to the picture of a phone with waves emanating from it. The device purred softly for a few seconds and then someone answered. It was set to speakerphone, and the volume was loud — too loud for Olivia to feel comfortable.

The monster might hear but she didn't know how to turn it down.

"Hi Chloe, are you out of church yet?" came a male voice.

Olivia froze. To speak to a stranger wasn't an activity that lay in her comfort zone. In fact you could safely say it was well within the hazardous category of her experience. But something told her she had to be brave, that this was a time to _push the boat out_ (as Izzy would sometimes urge her.)

"Help," Olivia said in a faltering voice. She knew it would sound nasal, like a caricature of a disabled person, like a David Walliams or Matt Lucas creation, but she swallowed her shyness and spoke up again. "Help us — please."

"Who is this?" asked the voice.

"Olivia," she said.

"Olivia who?"

"Olivia Hardwick."

There was a pause. Then, "Are you a friend of Chloe's?"

Olivia thought for a moment. Was she the woman's friend? She supposed she was. "Yes," she replied.

"So ... is Chloe there?"

"Not any more," she said with confidence.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"No — she's not. She's dead," Olivia said.

"She's what?"

"Chloe's lying in the church. Dead. There are other dead people too." Again, these were the words in Olivia's head, but her tongue had a habit of treacherously retranslating the meaning.

"Hey, is this a sick joke?"

Olivia was getting beyond flustered. She couldn't cope when people got angry, and this man was _furious_. Or maybe he was just afraid. Like her.

"I can't tell very good jokes," she said, "and I don't think I should be telling one, anyway."

Something about Olivia's way of speaking must have struck home with the man because he said, "I'm going to call the police."

"Yes," Olivia said. "The police will help."

"Listen, Olivia. I don't understand what's happened but as I said, I'm going to ring off now and call the police. Once I've done that, I will call you back. It's important — "

"No. Don't do that," Olivia said, " _he_ might hear."

"He?"

"The monster."

"Right, OK. You just hang in there. Help is on its way." The man's voice was getting shaky and Olivia could tell he was stressed too.

"Right," she said, "I'll wait here."

"You do that Olivia," he said and rang off.

Olivia looked at the phone as if it had betrayed her and lowered it to the floor. A sound from the front of the church drew her attention and she froze. Muffled footsteps could be heard. One slow footfall followed by a dragging sound. Over this was an intermittent snuffling. If she was hearing the sounds in this muted manner through her hearing aids, then whatever made the noises was likely to be a lot closer than her impairment indicated.

What to do? Should she risk a peek over the pew?

Her choice was taken away when a mewling sound was followed by a pause in the footsteps.

_The children. The monster has seen the children!_

"Ah ... _sniff ..._ the little ones. I'd forgotten about you," said a gurgling voice. The creature took another couple of shuffling steps and then broke out into uncontrolled giggling. Olivia would remember that laughter for the rest of her days. It would mingle with the voices from behind the walls in her home, calling her name in that whispering tone.

"You thought you'd escaped, didn't you?" said the voice, more quietly this time, and Olivia realised the monster had turned its back on her.

_I'll risk a look._

Before she could argue against herself she raised her head slowly, watching the polished wood of the pew sink in her field of vision and the wider view of the church appear. She winced as her head cleared the top and breathed out in stages when she saw the back of a man wearing a blood-stained cassock. Beyond this, three children hunched together on the floor while a further two ran away, screaming at the tops of their voices. One girl, who must have been only four years old at most, had the good sense to head towards the door. Why the others hadn't moved, Olivia couldn't comprehend, but they'd chosen badly because the monster who she now recognised as Reverend Taylor loomed before them. In one hand he held a large, ornate candlestick. Blood dripped from it and she shuddered as she recognised bits of grey tissue and hair glued to the end. A posset of bile threatened to rise in her gorge, but she swallowed hard and closed her eyes, wishing the sudden sick feeling away.

There are feats of human endurance universally admired, but also actions that constitute acts of heroism despite being simple and straightforward, simply because they are undertaken by those we think incapable of performing them. Olivia Hardwick made a decision of destiny in that second. It was recorded in national newspapers for weeks to follow and would serve as a bulwark against the ghost-whispers that would haunt her in the future. She stood up and shouted at the monster: "Don't you touch them!"

Reverend Taylor's head whipped round and Olivia saw that indeed he was a monster. The image she'd hoped for was based on her views from a distance every Sunday morning from across the street. A kindly man, looking much like Professor Calculus from the Tintin adventures only, in reality, his moustache wasn't as long as the cartoon version. Other than this, he could have been a perfect facsimile, even down to the Harry Potter spectacles. The version that confronted her now was a perversion of that image. Eyes no longer containing the warmth of human kindness glinted with cruelty; the mouth curled up at one side in an expression that was neither smile nor grimace but conveyed murderous intent. Wisps of hair floated above the sweaty, bald crown like crimped wire, while the rest of his face was almost completely obscured by mandarin sludge that dropped like a viscous waterfall onto his cassock, mixing with blood to form a parody of a spilled trifle.

"Another little bird in the bush," he said and shuffled towards her. "I'll get the others later. You're a much bigger prize." His last sentence spluttered out between lips coated with the gunk.

Olivia looked around and took two careful steps back. They had called her slow-witted in the past but she was anything but slow on her feet. She reckoned she could out-run the sludge-monster as long as she didn't cave in to fear. _But where to go?_ If she ran out of the door, she'd be leaving the children open to attack. She could try to evade him within the building, but would the police get here in time? If only there was a weapon; something she might throw or poke him with. She was pretty sure she wouldn't fare well against the Reverend's bulk and strength at close quarters. She was only a five foot two, one hundred and fifty pound waif. No — she would not outdo him in hand to hand combat.

The sludge-monster had stopped talking and scuffled towards her, lifting the bloody candlestick high. He'd be upon her in moments, so she did what anyone in her position would do — she ran. There wasn't any choice in the direction she took, just a scurrying escape from a man she still couldn't believe had inflicted such carnage.

She found herself in the main aisle, just in front of the altar, observed an elderly man lying on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling, head stoved in like a hard-boiled egg containing a grey and red yolk. Her stomach took another churning tumble, and she looked away. Her eyes came to rest on the altar itself. It was covered in a purple, velvet coverlet. Upon it were arranged a golden cross, an offering plate and a single candlestick at the far side. The one that had occupied her end of the hallowed table was now in the Reverend's hand as he continued his relentless pursuit. None of these objects would serve as a means of defence, all unwieldy and therefore useless. Then, behind the altar she spied a wooden pole, some eight feet in length, crowned by a brass hook. It leaned in one corner next to an arched, stained-glass window. Olivia had seen these in the village hall when she'd attended firstly as a Brownie and then a Girl Guide back in her childhood days. She knew they were used to open and close inaccessibly high windows.

She never got a chance to retrieve the pole. Taking a glance at the sludge-monster, she saw with dismay that he had closed the gap. No time to weigh up the pros and cons, she retreated backwards, felt her heels strike the man with the egg-shell skull and with a cry of dismay fell over backwards. With a speed she wouldn't have credited the Reverend with, he lunged forward and brought the candlestick down in an arc. Without thinking, Olivia rolled to the side, not quickly enough to prevent the candlestick striking her leg, but with a speed that probably saved her life.

Her leg went numb as she rolled down the altar steps and came to rest at the bottom. She lifted her head and witnessed Reverend Taylor stumbling over eggshell man and stepping towards her. She scooted backwards, wincing at the pain in her calf muscle. It wasn't clear whether it was broken or not but it hurt like buggery — a phrase used by her Dad in the days when he'd been fit enough to land a hammer blow on his thumb while constructing a dolls' house. The move only gained her a couple of seconds and she realised she'd have to gain her feet again to stand any chance of survival. She shuffled back further to put distance between herself and the attacker, but came to a halt when her back struck the front pew. Reverend Taylor loomed over her, candlestick held high, ready to deliver a killing blow. As she looked at his leering features, she had time to conclude that maybe she had bought the children some time. In the distance sirens wailed. Help would be here soon. She closed her eyes and waited for the bludgeoning impact that must surely come.

"For what you are about to receive," the sludge-monster cried, "may the Lord make you truly grateful!"

The blow never landed. Instead, the assailant was shoved to one side as if nudged by something. As Olivia's eyes focused, she saw him moved repeatedly to the side in jerking increments, the result of the pole she had seen behind the altar. A five-year-old boy wielded the make-shift weapon — the one who had held the body of a younger child as he crouched at the back of the church.

"Take that, you nasty man!" the boy said. The blows weren't forceful enough to do the Reverend any harm, but they served as a distraction and put him on the defensive. Olivia thought the boy's words were funny, given what she would have called him, but she had no time to reflect.

The Reverend caught hold of the pole and pulled it from the boy's grasp. "Phnurr!" he said, looking at the make-shift spear. No longer capable of intelligible speech, he cast the candlestick aside, turned the pole round and pointed it at the boy. The expression on the boy's face was one of abject terror. He'd frozen, incapable of forcing his little legs to movement.

_No,_ Olivia thought, _this wasn't how it should end. The monster should be killed or captured._ Children didn't die in the stories she'd been read. This just wasn't fair!

"Armed Police. Stop where you are!" came a shout from the back of the church. Olivia didn't see who uttered the command but heard at least half a dozen heavy footsteps and further barked instructions given in muted voices.

She looked back at the Reverend. He seemed not to take any notice of the man and stepped menacingly towards the boy, pulling the hooked pole back, ready to strike.

"Don't do it, Reverend," came the voice again. "You try to hit that boy and we shoot."

The sludge-monster didn't even give the instruction a second's acknowledgement. He tensed for the strike, then jerked backwards as a single shot rang out in the house of the holy.

### 14

## Jim Alburton

When Jim Alburton opened his eyes, he experienced a lengthy period of disorientation while he pieced together the information he needed to determine his whereabouts, the time and what had happened. The room he now slept in was black as black can be, and he remembered Bellingham's explanation about his home being fitted with blackout blinds. He valued sleep, he said, and his well-apportioned if modest home reflected a similar attention to detail. Efficient underfloor heating, solar panels fitted to the roof, grey-water drainage system. Alburton appreciated Bellingham's approach to life and figured there was more than a slim possibility he might strike up a semi-professional relationship with him once this saga was over. Still, Alburton had gone to sleep with a night-light on — a necessity given the observational status.

"I'll take the first shift," Alburton had offered, meaning he was willing to stay awake and observe his fellow doctor for any indication he was becoming something other than his usual disarming and polite self. Bellingham thanked him and insisted Alburton wake him at 3 a.m. sharp so he could discharge his part of the arrangement.

"Sure thing," Alburton had assured him, but despite a warm impression of the man, he had lifted a poker from beside a wood-burning stove and kept it beside the chair once Bellingham had nodded off. Alburton carefully replaced it once the time came to rouse him — wouldn't pay to make the situation too awkward. While Bellingham slept, Alburton took the time to cast his eye over Jane's journal entries on his phone. It was interesting for the most part but basically standard field observations. However, there had been an entry on the day before she'd died that caught his attention, and he would act on the information that morning.

Bellingham and Alburton had exchanged places almost wordlessly and Alburton had fallen asleep as soon as he'd hit the pillow. One thing they'd allowed to let ride was the possibility the observer might develop symptoms while the other was asleep. But, in the final analysis, it seemed the best balance of logistics to assume that two hours would be short enough for a cognisant observer, aware of the disease's potential, to wake the other if they sensed any possible onset.

Now, in the morning light, and as the previous night's events came back to him, Alburton sensed he was alone in the room and disquiet crept into his heart. _Where was Bellingham?_ He swung his legs out of bed and held his hands before him as he got up to inch towards the light switch. Bellingham should have been sitting in a chair at the end of the bed, but Alburton was pretty sure he wasn't there now.

"Charles?" he whispered. "Are you awake?"

There was no answer and Alburton's outstretched hands felt the chair seat, confirming its lack of occupancy.

_Shit. Where are you?_

His fingers came into contact with the light switch but he pulled them away. _If he's transformed, then I might be better off not alerting him to my presence,_ he thought.

Alburton reached for the door handle and slowly depressed it. The door opened without squeaking — a sign of Bellingham's impeccable sense of maintenance. On the landing beyond, a yellow wash of light from an outdoor security lamp permeated through the window at the far end. He couldn't hear any sound save the wind rustling in the boughs of apple trees in Bellingham's orchard outside. Alburton was beginning to wish he'd kept the poker under his bed now. Sweat formed in globules down his back and on his forehead.

Without warning a door opened just ahead of him on the landing and a figure emerged, stepping quietly. It had the outline of Bellingham but seemed to move in a decidedly furtive manner. Alburton stood motionless, not daring to speak.

"Jim?" said the figure. "Are you OK?"

"Yes, thank God!" Alburton replied. Bellingham switched a light on and cast his eye over Alburton, who poked a finger in his ear and withdrew it to reveal nothing caked over it.

Bellingham exhaled loudly. "Sorry I wasn't there when you woke. I needed a piss and couldn't wait any longer."

"No harm done," Alburton replied. "I guess each hour that passes without us going psychotic lessens the chances of us developing ..." He paused as he searched for the right word.

"We need a name for it," Bellingham said.

Alburton laughed. "Yeah. One that isn't made up of H's, N's and three digits.

"How about Tangerine Mania?"

"Sounds like satsuma-induced madness and I'm sure oranges haven't anything to do with it."

Bellingham suggested he fix them some coffee downstairs and fry them a couple of bacon rashers. Meanwhile, Alburton relieved himself and splashed water over his face in the bathroom. He took the opportunity to look in the mirror and double-check his ears. Still no discharge and he certainly felt all right, albeit a little fatigued. He returned to the bedroom, put his jeans back on and was sitting with Bellingham at the breakfast bar within minutes.

While Bellingham flipped the streaky bacon in the grill, Alburton called the IMT operative and checked in. "Good news," he said upon completing the call. "No sign of any personnel developing the disease overnight, and no more incidents reported to the police."

"That's good," Bellingham said, "I'd like to think it means our troubles are over, but I think it could be wishful thinking."

"I agree. Wonder if the specialist has had time to examine the specimen I gave her."

"You really think a fungus is responsible?" Bellingham depressed the plunger on a cafetiere and poured two steaming mugs of coffee. The aroma reached Alburton's nostrils and gave him an early morning lift to dispel his previous fright.

"I just think it's strange," Alburton said, "that the fragments of fungus were there on the lab bench. Jane was studying small mammals, not fungi. Besides, she wouldn't remove any plant or fungus from the wild unless they were of significance."

Bellingham looked quizzically at him. "I thought you said Jane had given them to you beforehand?"

Alburton realised his slip-up too late, considered offering an elaborate evasion, then came clean. "OK — I picked them up when I went round there to retrieve her files."

"The police would have dealt with them in due course," Bellingham said, looking sternly at him.

"Skinner? He didn't want to know. Found him quite obstructive actually."

Bellingham shrugged. "Less of an obstruction, more of an absolute git."

Alburton searched Bellingham's features, satisfied himself that he shared his opinion of the Inspector and smiled. "Sorry if he gave you a hard time on account of me."

"Apology accepted. But I think you need to play onside with everyone now. I overheard Blunt tearing Skinner off a strip about his tardiness in following up the dog incident. He'll no doubt be more compliant now."

"I hope so." Alburton paused to think, then said, "If the disease _is_ fungal in origin then it could be transmitted by spores, which has implications for its control."

"It essentially means control is impossible. Fungal spores can travel hundreds of miles."

Alburton shook his head as if not wanting to accept the possibility. "Let's hope it's not then. This whole thing is crazy though. Why should a contagion erupt in this unique manner and in such a short time?"

"Let's hope our expert from Manchester has a few answers. Come on, we'll take breakfast with us. I'm anxious to get back to the hospital."

Bellingham tossed the bacon into two rolls and they carried them out to eat during the journey to Drumcastle. A tabby cat greeted them on the doorstep as Bellingham locked up, curling itself round Alburton's leg.

"Damn," Alburton said.

"What?"

"I forgot. Left Jane's dog at home and he'll be starving hungry now. He's been locked in all night."

"You worried about him?"

Alburton rubbed his chin. "He won't have come to any harm, but he's probably shat on the kitchen floor. It's OK, I'll call by on my way to Netherwood later."

"What's out there?"

Alburton kicked himself again. He'd never make MI5 at this rate; couldn't keep a secret for toffee. "Something I read in Jane's journal," he replied. "Seems like she'd smelt something musty in the air."

"That could mean anything," Bellingham said. "Anyhow, I doubt if Wilkinson will give any of us leave to travel very far afield until we have some idea of incubation times and infection rates for the disease — if it is a disease."

Alburton climbed into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt into place. "You don't think Hammond's theory about water contamination has any basis do you?"

"Well, I've seen the effects of Sarin nerve gas. They can cause foaming at the mouth and bodily discharges."

"Orange ones?"

"Well, no. But we can't rule out the possibility of a terrorist attack involving a novel chemical agent."

"I suppose you're right," Alburton said, although why terrorists would target a small community seemed unlikely in the extreme to him.

They settled into a state of silence during most of the ten-mile journey, each of them caught up in their own private thoughts. Paramount in Alburton's mind was pinning down any truth in his theory about a fungal source.

_A fungus that elevates the human brain into a state of euphoria, manifesting itself in a killing frenzy._ He remembered the dogs at Valley Police Station and how uncontrolled they were. One dog had glanced at him. It was only for a second but he now realised that what he had seen in the beast's eyes was sheer abandonment, a glee in what it was trying to inflict.

"Mycophoria," he said out loud.

"What's that?" Bellingham asked.

"It's what we should call the condition."

"You reckon? Well, I suppose it's got a certain ring to it.

~ ~ ~

The IMT were considerably more bleary-eyed than the previous evening and there were more than a few dishevelled suits, hairstyles out of place and hastily applied mascara around the table.

"You need more time?" Wilkinson said to the middle-aged woman who had joined them as a new team member at the table. "How long?"

"The cultures will take at least another twenty-four hours. We've scanned the brain tissue sections and sent them off to our London lab for a second opinion; as for the fungus — "

"Wait a minute," Wilkinson said. "You said you need a second opinion on the brain tissue. That means you must have _some_ idea what you're looking at."

The woman, a microbiologist called Kachina Madaki folded her arms and leaned on the table. "I can tell you what it _looks_ like," she said in a kindly voice inflected with husky tones. "But what I've come up with is a bit of a reach." Alburton noted her grey-white afro curls. They contrasted with a butterscotch skin to emphasise a demeanour suggesting confidence, inner beauty and wisdom.

"Well give it to us anyway," Wilkinson said. "We're scratching around for anything that can give us a handle on this outbreak."

"OK," she said. "Here's one of the sections from Jane Milner and another from Connie Francis." She showed them a large iPad screen with a pattern of what looked like spiders squashed on a tan background.

Alburton recognised the typical structure of cell bodies and dendritic outgrowths from multi-polar neurones. But he also saw black smudges interspersed between them. "Those blotches are a bit like tangles and plaques."

"There are a lot of similarities with brain specimens from Alzheimer sufferers," Madaki concurred.

"But those type of growths usually take years to develop," he replied. "Are the others the same?"

Madaki slid through more slides in succession. "This is from one of the dogs, and this one here is from Brian Hudspith's brain. They all have similar growths."

"That's extraordinary," Alburton said, yet acknowledging to himself maybe nothing should surprise him about this whole affair.

"That's not all," Madaki continued. "We prepared sections for the transmission electron microscope and picked up this detail."

A few of the team craned their necks round to get a closer look as the scientist pointed to tubular growths stained dark grey. "These are alien structures. I've never seen anything quite like them before."

"They're almost like hyphae," Alburton observed.

"Give us it in non-technical doc," Skinner said, his voice tinged with an early morning drawl induced by tiredness.

"What Dr Alburton is referring to are the root-like structures forming the main tissue bulk of a fungus," Madaki said. "But before you get carried away, I need to point out that the tissue is syncitial. In other words, the tubular cells share nuclei, much like some protists or slime moulds."

"What do you mean exactly?" Veronica Lee spoke for the first time that morning.

"That's why I'm reserving judgement until I've heard from a colleague," Madaki replied. "I'm just not sure. The material is cellular, which tells me we're dealing with either an infection or a parasite. But there's nothing I've come across before that looks anything like this."

Madaki closed down the iPad and looked at a sheet of paper. "I ran chemical tests and found evidence of extra-cellular enzymes normally associated with simple eukaryotes — "

"Layman's terms if you please, Dr Madaki," Wilkinson said.

Madaki smiled as if giving a lesson to primary school children. "Some organisms exude digestive juices onto the substrate they feed from. But you don't tend to find these species inside a host organism."

Bellingham cleared his throat "Do you think this thing might be feeding off the brain matter?"

"Not necessarily. It may simply be that enzymes were released due to the laboratory preparation process. But that's not the most fascinating find I made." Madaki put on a pair of glasses and ran her finger down a data table. "There are trace amounts of a Psilocybin-like compound — the same hallucinogen found in so-called magic mushrooms."

"Then my theory is not too far-fetched after all," Alburton said.

"I don't want to draw any firm conclusions," Madaki said. "This is all speculation on my part and I'm not a mycologist."

"What about the puffball-mushroom specimen I supplied? Any commonality in tissue types?"

Madaki took off her glasses and looked directly at him. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there are no similarities whatsoever."

Alburton's brow creased. "Are you sure? Have you run a genetic analysis?"

"No, not yet. I've been up all night running these preliminary tests," she replied testily.

"Sorry," Alburton said, "I didn't mean to suggest — "

"Quite," Wilkinson put in. "We're very grateful for the work you've done, Dr Madaki. In fact, I think you should take the opportunity to get some rest while we wait to hear from your mycologist colleague. Who is he or she by the way?"

"His name's Fritjof Sundstrom. He's based in Sweden and has a detailed knowledge of fungal taxonomy. He's even discovered one or two new species himself. I'm hoping to video conference with him after ten o'clock. I've already sent him the data and micrographs."

Wilkinson checked his watch. "Well it's just after eight now, so feel free to get some sleep while we discuss the priorities for today."

Madaki thanked him and left the room while Wilkinson summarised the information for the remaining team members. There wasn't much to share other than the importance of communication.

"So far, the media don't seem to have got wind of this," he said, "and I'd rather it remained that way. Needless to say, what is discussed within these four walls is strictly confidential. Gary, you'll let me know if you hear anything on the airwaves or on the local websites won't you?" He addressed the question to the PA sitting next to him, a young man in shirt sleeves who nodded by way of reply. "Inspector Skinner, I'd like an update on the dogs you're holding in captivity. Any observations of behaviour, in fact anything your handlers can tell us might be useful."

"I'll be calling back at the station straight after this meeting," Skinner replied.

"Very good. If any incidents are called in, give us the details immediately. We need to isolate any contaminated individuals and ensure all officers are suitably protected."

"We've all been issued with Hazmat suits," Skinner replied.

"Presumably you're checking back on movements of the afflicted to see if there's a common locale they might all have frequented?"

"Well, yes," Skinner said, his eyes shifting uncomfortably.

Wilkinson bristled. "Please tell me you have looked over witness statements and carried out repeat interviews."

"Like I said," Skinner replied. "I'm going to check back at the station now." He stood up and strode out of the room without looking back.

Alburton leaned over to Bellingham. "Looks like he's been caught with his pants down again." Bellingham kept his eyes down but smiled.

Wilkinson charged Hammond with assembling a team to survey the area surrounding the Milner home and suggested they should be looking for colonies of unusual fungi. The agency head didn't look too pleased at the rejection of his pollutant theory but Alburton guessed he'd get any increase in manpower he asked for. Getting a team out and searching would be unlikely to occur before tomorrow though. All the more reason for Alburton to get moving himself.

There wasn't anything more the team could accomplish at this stage. Wilkinson repeated the directive that all those potentially exposed should stay in close proximity to another team member and that all should meet back at the hospital towards mid-day.

Alburton was damned if he'd allow Wilkinson to restrict him in this way, or so he thought.

Bellingham tapped him on the arm. "So, you're going to check out Netherwood, then?" he whispered.

Alburton looked at him and said, "Yes, and don't try to stop me."

"I had no intention of doing so," Bellingham replied. "I'm coming with you."

### 15

## Time, gentlemen

At a little after eleven o'clock, when the bells stopped ringing at St. Cuthbert's church, William Casson unbolted the front door of the Centurion public house in Whitton-Mary, a small village to the south of Valley. He was immediately greeted by Steve McConaghy, his most stalwart regular. He'd clearly been standing on the doorstep under the Virginia Creeper for some time as he displayed a jovial impatience reminiscent of a drinker with more stout running in his veins than blood.

"Bloody hell," McConaghy said to him. "You look rough. Another night on the sauce?"

"Piss off," Casson replied. "You're one to talk." He left McConaghy to knock the mud off his boots and follow him in. He rubbed his head, the fingers massaging his right temple. _Damn headache. I could do without this._

The truth was, Casson didn't feel well at all, and it wasn't down to alcohol intake either. He'd gone for a walk the previous afternoon up Netherwood, all good intentions and fading enthusiasm, but his wife had encouraged him.

"Might as well start now. Doctor says a bit of mild exercise every day will help you stave off the old angina," she'd said to him. So, he'd driven up the snaking road, 'over the tops', as they called it locally and parked his car behind a black Mitsubishi four by four. He recognised the car as belonging to Brian Hudspith, a local dairy farmer who he knew as an acquaintance rather than a close friend.

The walk had only lasted twenty minutes before he'd had enough of the steep gradient and a rather musty smell in the air that reminded him of sweaty socks left too long in a wash basket. He'd paid the price of even that small amount of exertion when he'd got out of bed this morning. His muscles ached, he had a pain in his head and he felt more than a little sick.

_No good deed goes unpunished,_ he thought. Still, he couldn't make any excuses. Sunday was one of their busiest days at the pub, what with their signature roast beef and Yorkshire pud lunch attracting customers from as far away as Drumcastle. They also stocked all the real ales from Valley's micro-brewery which brought in no small number of connoisseurs looking for a taste of authenticity.

"The usual, I take it?" he said to McConaghy, lifting the hinged bar segment to access the pumps behind. He'd already washed them through, primed them and replaced one barrel, so he was set up for the day.

"Aye, but let it pour slow," McConaghy said. "You know how I like it."

Casson drew air in noisily over his lips, making a _shooshing_ sound. "Here that?" he said to his Irish friend. "That's the sound of Grandmother sucking eggs."

McConaghy gave him two fingers but smiled at the comment. "I'll have a packet of pork scratchings while I'm waiting," he said.

"Breakfast?"

"Best meal of the day."

"Help yourself, I'm going to bring in a sack of taties while that Guinness pours."

He entered the kitchen behind the bar and greeted Kate, the young bar maid due in for the lunchtime shift — on time as ever. She was a hard grafter, and it didn't harm she had tits like two water-filled balloons.

_Pervert,_ he said to himself.

_You'd like to suck them though, wouldn't you?_ said a voice in his head. The alien sound brought him up short, the words seeming to come from a place altogether distant from his normal frame of reference. It was as if someone had placed an old, perforated eight inch speaker in his brain.

"Everything all right gaffer?" Kate asked, "you look peaky."

Casson gave a pained smile, "nothing to write home about," then, to change the subject, "How's your Mum keeping? Still balancing two jobs?"

"Yeah, she's got an evening shift at the hospital later tonight. She hardly gets any free time." Kate hung her coat up on the wall peg and added, "won't stop her attending communion this morning, though. She reckons the reverend there preaches a no-bullshit sermon too."

"Church-goer, eh? Well, I prefer a church where the pews have handles on. Speaking of which, the devout are calling." He left Kate to get on with the pre-dinner chores, fetched a small sack of potatoes from the outhouse and, after depositing them in the kitchen, returned to the bar.

"Just in time," McConaghy said, pointing to the still-pouring tap that delivered velvety-black nectar to the awaiting glass. "I was just about to switch the tap off myself."

"No need," Casson said, already tiring of the man. "That'll be two pounds ninety please."

"OK to put it on the tab, Will?"

"Of course, once you've cleared last month's debt. It's over two hundred now."

McConaghy had been about to take his first draught but put his glass down, wide-eyed. "Two hundred quid? Can't be. I don't drink that much."

Casson's head was thumping and McConaghy was not helping. "You saying I've fiddled the bill?"

"A' course not. It's just that — "

"'Cos if you are," Casson said, leaning his two hundred and fifty pound bulk forward, "then you can just fuck off and fill your stout-soaked gut at that piss-poor pub franchise down the road."

_That's right, you tell him,_ came the alien voice again. _While you're at it, why not whack some sense into him using your baseball bat?_

Casson saw a bead of sweat drop onto the bar and wiped his forehead. _That voice — why was he thinking such things?_

"Whoa, chill your beans," McConaghy said, his face a picture of incredulity. "I'll pay up. Here, you can take it off my card." He reached into his pocket and handed Casson his debit card. "Got paid on Friday, so the account should be good for it."

But Casson wasn't in any hurry to reply. He left McConachy holding the card, his hand wavering with the accumulated Guinness-induced shakes for several seconds. He was too preoccupied with the video playing across his mind; a slasher movie where he took the baseball bat from below the bar, swung it round as hard as possible in order to connect with McConaghy's head. _Just like that scene in The Untouchables with Robert de Niro._

"Will. Is anyone in there?" McConaghy said. "You definitely don't look good."

Casson shook his head like a dog trying to dislodge a fly in his ear. "You're right. I think I should lie down for a while." He left McConaghy at the bar still holding up his payment card like an offering at the altar and staggered upstairs. He'd had to exit quickly. Not so much because of the pulses of nausea that hit him, but more to remove himself from the temptation of acting on the images he had just seen. Christ, he'd even started to reach for the bat, and he couldn't help shake the feeling that once he'd beaten McConaghy to a pulp, he probably wouldn't stop there.

"Are you ready to peel these taties?" He heard his wife call from the bottom of the staircase.

"Going to lie down," he said without turning and waved a dismissive hand. The words came out sounding like _Gaan lay djun._

Casson didn't so much climb into bed as collapse upon it. He never slept on his front due to his considerable beer gut — _fuel tank for a sex machine —_ he would joke, but today was an exception. He was comatose in less than five seconds.

~ ~ ~

While William Casson was unconscious (No one would have called it sleep), there was something else releasing huge quantities of energy in his brain. The spores of _Mycophoria infestans,_ as it was later to be known, had germinated in his ear canal at ten o'clock the previous night. The first exploratory, microscopic shoots, or _stolons_ as they were later named, grew at a rate of one millimetre per minute and spread inwardly towards Casson's ear drum. Once they had reached this membrane, a barrier to most external parasites and pathogens, they exuded an efficacious enzyme onto its surface, punching a hole through and continuing their journey. Questing through the middle and inner ear occupied most of the next hour. But once the stolons, now numbering in their thousands, had breached the outer layers of the cochlea, their growth rate accelerated tenfold.

The organism, for it wasn't strictly a fungus, had hit the equivalent of motherload. The soft, vulnerable and energy-rich tissue of the brain. It was here that Mycophoria's hybrid nature manifested itself. The stolons, while continuing to grow, proliferated into hundreds of thousands of much finer outgrowths. These infiltrated the brain tissue; firstly the hypothalamus and then the immensity of the cerebrum. Some of the microtubules continued to grow, while others budded off, yeast-like, into sub-cellular vesicles containing a potent cocktail of enzymes, toxins and psycho-active compounds.

Such growth required huge amounts of energy, supplied by the brains's abundant amounts of energy-rich molecular 'packets' called ATP. The resulting heat output raised the temperature of the brain close to a whole degree centigrade, yielding the fevered symptoms that Casson had experienced.

His brain now swelled, the meninges pressing on the skull and causing symptoms of head and muscle ache. The aforementioned toxins contained, amongst other things, a viscous paste of waxes and tannins. It was produced in large quantities, oozing out of the brain tissue and back through the ear canals. Eventually it would drain through the sinuses and out of the nasal cavities and mouth. By then, however, most victims had died, either through the build up of toxic waste or more commonly as a result of their own frenzied actions.

There was a plus side — at least for the sufferer of the disease. This bonus wouldn't benefit any of the miserable souls who fell victim to the sufferer's attacks, but at least the perpetrator usually went out on a high. Quite a considerable high. The effects of the Psylocobin, together with increased levels of sex-hormones and epinephrine gave the sufferer something akin to a coke high-ball infused with lashings of LSD and a mega-dose of ecstasy. And there was no come-down. The sufferer never lived long enough for that.

As Casson laid on the bed, comatose, he reached a stage that a physiologist might call extreme brain stem compromise. In layman's terms, Casson was toast.

~ ~ ~

Kate Sandham hadn't time to wonder where the gaffer was. She was already taking orders for an early rush of customers while trying to pour drinks at the bar. The usual bar staff had not turned up. No explanation had been given.

_Fuckwit,_ she'd thought, but it wasn't the first time for Billy Dent. He'd used up all his chances now; the gaffer wouldn't stand for it. She was hoping to put in a good word for her mother, who could do with more regular work. She had bar experience and was a great cook. Most importantly, she was reliable. Three qualities that put her at the head of the employment market.

"Here, love," a bearded barrel of a man called out, "this fish is under-cooked. Get me another." She turned to face him, about to offer an apology, then stopped. She was rooted to the spot by what she saw behind the Hagrid of a man. The gaffer had appeared suddenly from behind the bar and had raised a wooden bat over his head, the kind they used in that game the Americans seemed so fond of in shows like _The Simpsons_ and the re-runs of _Friends_ she watched on Sky TV. Her normally jovial boss had been transformed into something that might have just walked off a horror movie set. His white, collared shirt was spattered with droplets of red, and Kate was sure it wasn't ketchup. The eyes were soulless, bereft of reason and seemed to project a mixture of glee and hate in equal measure. The most gross feature however was the outflow of orange gunge covering his neck, face and shoulders.

"Boss, no — " she had time to say before the bat descended like a toppled tree trunk onto the customer's head. Afterwards, Kate would recall how the man's eyes rolled comically, like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. The only things missing were two tweeting birds circling over him as he fell. The sound of the impact was anything but humorous. Very much like a coconut being split.

She screamed, dropped the tray and acted on impulse, stepping backwards into the adjoining restaurant area. It was to prove a prudent move, allowing her to live long after what became known as the 'Centurion incident'. Up to this point, Derek Bird — the notorious Cumbrian killer — had held the county record for the most horrific killing spree in modern history. William Casson trumped this in the first ten minutes.

Kate watched in rising horror as Casson lifted his bat again and brought it down in rapid succession on the other five guests at Hagrid's table. He dealt forehand and back-hand blows, killing four victims outright. The fifth, not quite-so-lucky wretch caught a glancing blow from the stave. She was a grey-haired fifty-something wearing narrow, rectangular spectacles. The bat smashed them to a hundred fragments as it rammed into her mouth, casting out teeth and blood as it did so. She was unlucky in that she didn't die outright, but Casson was already looking for his next prey.

The sound of Casson's grunting and maniacal laughter haunted Kate's dreams as long as ten year's later. In fact, a boyfriend she dated was a fan of the motor-city madman himself, Ted Nugent. He used to play his albums incessantly and, although she didn't mind most of Nugent's super-speed, rhino-slaying guitar licks, she abruptly cancelled the playback of 'Scream Dream'. The wild man's bestial snarling at the end of the track reminded her too much of Casson's guttural sounds now.

The publican looked up from his grisly work and caught Kate's eye through the archway. She saw something else take over from the blood lust she'd observed a few seconds ago — sexual desire. A fresh leer curled Casson's lips as he strode forward with violent intent. Kate cast her eyes around for a weapon, or anything to put between her and the attacker. Other patrons had by now woken up to the fact something was amiss. Although there was only one table filled in the lounge area there were at least four parties in the restaurant. One patron rose to his feet, seeing the alarm on Kate's face.

"What's wrong, dear," said the skinny man, peering round the corner of the archway separating the two rooms. All Kate could do was point. "Oh, bloody hell," the man said as he saw the carnage in the lounge, "William, what have you done?" He had time to bring one arm up in a defensive move as Casson's bat came down with relentless force. Kate saw her boss's feet visibly leave the floor as he put in every ounce of power into the blow. The man's arm shattered like a matchstick and he was thrown down with the force. Casson followed up with frightening speed and battered the man's prone form again and again. Within seconds he had been reduced to a bloody pulp.

His intervention gained Kate a few seconds reprieve, but she was backed up against the wall now. Once Casson had satisfied the death-lust, he turned his attention back to her.

"Help me," she cried out to the onlookers, who seemed transfixed by the spectacle. Whether any of them would have come to her aid she didn't know; it was immaterial as Casson stepped over the dead body and lunged for her. She felt her back slam against the rough, textured stone wall behind. With his free hand, Casson ripped at her blouse, tearing it open from the neck down, spraying buttons over the tiled floor.

"Phnurr, Shuu uz whit yur got," the Casson-monster gurgled.

Kate had been harassed before. You couldn't last long in England's second-most misogynistic county with a chest like hers and not attract unwanted attention at some point. But this was a step beyond the pathetic attempt at a grope she'd last experienced at the hands of Brett Coulthard at the Rugby Club dance. The memory of her humiliation triggered an anger that temporarily eclipsed her terror at the hands of this man. With a swipe of her hand she landed a blow to his face somewhere between a slap and a punch. She was a beefy girl, having inherited a goodly dose of her father's boxing genes. The blow caught Casson off guard and, while it didn't floor him, it gave Kate chance to do something she should have done in the first place. Run.

She broke out to the side, half tripping over the skinny man heaped on the floor and lunged for the rear entrance to the restaurant. Just when she thought she'd reached safety she felt a hand grab her blouse and tug her backwards. She pushed forward, the garment pulling off to her elbows, and she thought for a second how much she didn't want to lose clothes she'd only bought yesterday. _Hell, it's only Primark,_ she thought, and pulled her arms from the sleeves, releasing her to gain sanctuary outside.

She didn't look back as she burst through the door and into the cold winter air, but she _did_ hear the anguished screams of the less fortunate.

There was a family of four emerging from a Peugeot in the car park. A woman she assumed was the mother stared at her, obviously taken aback at how low the Centurion was now stooping to attract clientele using brazen, half-naked women to entice them.

"Ring the police!" Kate shouted. "He's murdered loads of them. For God's sake, ring the police now!"

### 16

## Deep and dark are the woods

Alburton had just enough time to call by at his house and pick up Smiffy before heading out to Netherwood with Bellingham. The dog had indeed defecated in the kitchen, but he looked suitably embarrassed about it and Alburton couldn't get angry with him. The coroner had packed their Hazmat suits in the boot of the car and informed Wilkinson they were carrying out a preliminary reconnoitre. He hoped it would help speed up the process of identifying sites for the EA team to follow up later. Wilkinson was initially reluctant, but as he was pre-occupied by dealing with the media and setting up communication channels for the growing number of team members, he gave them leave to investigate, charging them to check in every hour.

"Stay together at all times," he said, "and make sure you're back here for ten o'clock. I want you in on the conference with Sundstrom."

Now he was back on the road and charged with another coffee, Alburton felt energised — until Bellingham started his probing again.

"You're a bit of a loner, Tosh tells me," he said.

Alburton smiled but kept his eyes on the road.

Undeterred by his silence, Bellingham pressed further. "You don't like sharing information either, do you?"

"Depends who it's with," Alburton replied, allowing Bellingham an inroad.

"But you have a perceptive mind."

"Have you been reading my psychological profile?"

"Do you have one?"

"I did an online analysis once."

"Don't tell me, you're an INTJ."

"So are most people who take those tests. It attracts them. Most of the other personality types aren't interested in their personality type."

Bellingham was referring to the sixteen Myers-Briggs personality categories described by Carl Jung. Alburton knew where this was going.

A wry smile played over Bellingham's face. "A tendency to believe that given the right application of intelligence and effort, nothing is impossible."

"I suppose I'm somewhat idealistic, yes."

"While at the same time perceiving that people are too lazy, short-sighted or self-serving to contribute to the achievement of those aims."

"People can be dicks," Alburton said.

"True — but becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy if that's how you paint them in the first place."

"Is this leading somewhere, Charles?"

"Look, I'll level with you. I think you're on to something with this fungus theory; and I recognise the need for haste. I've seen the bodies of all the infected now — from the inside out. This thing could be devastating. It doesn't help that we're hampered by lack of expertise and typical Cumbrian lethargy."

"But?"

"The _but_ is: there comes a time when co-operation is essential. I pressed for you to be on the team because of your insights and scientific acumen, but I have to tell you you're this close to getting dropped." Bellingham held his forefinger and thumb up in a measuring gesture.

"Wilkinson?"

"He's the official chair of the team, but it's the Police Commissioner and Ryecroft who pull the power levers."

"Ryecroft? I didn't notice anyone by that name."

"That's because he likes to stay unnoticed. He watches and observes. He was the guy with the comb-over sitting next to Veronica Lee."

Alburton cast his mind back to the meeting and recalled there _had_ been a smarmy looking man in a suit writing copiously throughout. "Which field does he work in?"

"Government. That's all I know — and I don't mean local."

"Sounds clandestine."

"Yep. I don't imagine it's quite secret service stuff, but they shipped him in from London with an agenda, I'm sure of that. I heard your name being mentioned in a conversation between him and the Police Commissioner — and it wasn't entirely favourable. Just thought I'd better warn you."

"Thanks," Alburton said. "But not to put too fine a point upon it, you've accompanied me on this jaunt knowing I've held back information. Doesn't that make you complicit?"

Bellingham laughed this time. "I'm an INTJ too, you know."

Alburton indicated right and steered his car through a narrow opening between two rotting posts, following a track with a central ridge down a wooded incline. The track reached a dead end after quarter of a mile and Alburton pulled the car onto the verge.

"So, tell me what was in Jane's journal," Bellingham said as he zipped up his coat.

Alburton pulled out his mobile phone and opened the photos app.

"Here's the entry for the nineteenth of November," he said, swiping the screens left until he reached the photo he wanted. " _Netherwood bank, grid ref 595534. Completed setting of Longworth traps on higher slopes. Berries on the Alder and Mountain Ash are still present—quite late this year. Musty smell in the air indicates onset of toadstools and fairy rings, though I haven't observed any yet."_

"Is that all?" Bellingham said. "Doesn't give us much to go on."

"No, but I know roughly where she was carrying out the small mammal survey so I suggest we start there."

They got out of the car and straight away the stench hit them. Bellingham grimaced. "We'll not need to look far at this rate." The air seemed laden with mildew, cloying to the throat. "Better suit up," he added.

"Ever get the feeling we've got a bolted horse and stable door situation?"

"We might well be fucked, yes. But at least these things have filters on. I couldn't stand breathing in this shit for long."

Alburton assented and raised the tail gate. As Bellingham lifted out the suits, he stared up at the wooded slope. The atmosphere was tinged with mustard, almost imperceptible unless you looked at the backdrop of the trees. "Can you imagine the number of spores in the air?" he said.

"No," Bellingham replied. "I can't. Not sure I want to."

They hastily put on the suits, a task that took them the best part of fifteen minutes, then set off up a sheep trail. As they wove through the dripping branches and sodden bracken, Alburton's breathing became laboured with exertion. Being enclosed in the hoods meant their vision was obscured somewhat, or perhaps _narrowed_ was a better description. The restrictions to movement were also noticeable. Yet Alburton wouldn't have suggested removing the suits for a moment. The type they had donned were the full, heavy-duty versions, including gas-mask and radio communication.

"Is it me, or is this yellow stuff getting thicker?" Bellingham said over the intercom.

"I was beginning to think the same," Alburton replied. He was glad he'd left Smiffy in the car, but wondered now if he'd condemned the hound by exposing it to the spores. He cursed himself for his thoughtlessness while still comforting himself with the knowledge that no one could have predicted the magnitude of this discovery.

"I'm going to check this in," Bellingham said. "We need to get the area sealed off, and any locals moved out."

"Agreed," Alburton said and paused beside an oak to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his face inside the suit, despite the frosty atmosphere, and he wished he could wipe it with a handkerchief. As he shifted position, his boot came in to contact with something rubbery and a fresh cloud of carrot-coloured powder filled the air around him. He looked down and saw the chestnut-brown surface of a puffball, its vent clearly visible on top. It measured a full half metre across, its surface looking like a leather football that had undergone years of deterioration. The child in him lifted his boot to press down on it again but he stopped himself before completing the action. He had to turn bodily to scan the immediate area. When he did, a gasp escaped him as he discovered this was not a lone specimen. He instinctively knew the fragments he had handed over at the lab were from the same source. Despite his restricted vision, dozens of the things were visible, forming a dense line about two metres wide through the undergrowth. Curiously, one side of the line was devoid of greenery while to the other, bracken, nettles and moss grew in abundance.

"Fuck!" Bellingham said, now standing next to him. "I think we've found our culprit. How far does the line extend?"

"God knows," Alburton said. "What did they say back at the ranch?"

"They're sending the EA team over. They want us back at the hospital and quarantined straight away."

"What the hell for?" Alburton said. "We're clear of symptoms."

"So far. Better do as they say. We're out of our depth here."

"At least let's get more samples," Alburton said, "we can put them in decontamination bags and seal them in the box back at the car."

"OK, but let's be quick — I'll take pictures while you get what you need."

Alburton dropped the haversack from his shoulder and removed a large plastic bag with a zip-lock seal. He looked at the domes forming a compact regiment of crumbling russet bubbles and chose one that might fit. As he grasped it and moved it from side to side, he couldn't avoid releasing another cloud of what he guessed would be pungent spores. He always tried to separate his logical, deductive mind from the more quixotic notions that often filtered in to his thinking, but the sheer extraordinariness of what he now observed offset him. It was almost like the puffballs had a sentience to them. In his imagination he heard them whispering in dark, atrophied tones, declaring their supremacy from the deep.

_Deep? Of course._ He remembered his undergraduate lectures on mycology and understood that if these were the fruiting bodies of Mycophoria, then there must be an extensive hyphal network beneath the soil. He realised the millions of threads would be microscopic, but a soil sample might reveal more about the organism's nature.

"C'mon," Bellingham said. "We better move."

"Nearly there," he replied and took a collapsible spade from the haversack. He found an area close to the sporangia and free from tree roots, then forced the spade into the ground, removing a heaped shovel-full of the leaf-mould. A minute later, the bags were in his haversack and they were plodding back down the hillside.

"Are you still OK?" he said to Bellingham.

"Can't complain," the coroner replied.

"Why hasn't it affected us yet? I just don't get it."

"Either we're very lucky or we're immune. One thing's for certain, it's not down to these Hazmats. We've been exposed to enough spores already to have developed symptoms."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Jane wrote her journal entry no more than thirty-six hours prior to her death. I'm pretty sure we would have noticed something by now having been exposed to Jane's lab and the specimen."

"Not to mention the bodies."

"Maybe it can't be contracted from human to human contact."

"There's so much we don't understand, but at least we know where this bastard fungus is. We should keep checking on each other though."

Bellingham's conclusions were indisputable. But further questions surfaced in Alburton's mind as they approached the car.

"What are the chances this is the only location?" he said to Bellingham.

The man removed his hood, defying the spore-laden air. "It doesn't bear thinking about, but if Wilkinson needed a green light to call in extra resources, then he's got it now."

Alburton's mobile buzzed in his pocket. It took a while to circumvent the suit's seals, but he managed to accept the call before it disconnected. Despite the remote location, he had five bars on his 4G reception. _Must be near a mast,_ he thought.

It was a face time call from Tosh. He pressed 'accept' and hoped the connection would allow a sufficient download speed to continue the call. He was not disappointed, although the image that confronted him made him wish he had been. Tosh's face was a rictus of concentration and effort. Sweat ran from him in rivulets and Alburton hadn't seen eyes as bloodshot since watching _From dusk 'til dawn._ Worst of all was the orange discharge flowing from both ears.

"Christ, Tosh," Alburton said. "What's happened?" He knew the question was stupid as soon as he'd asked it, but the shock of seeing his friend in this state didn't make for sensible comments.

"Don't ... have much time," Tosh said in a voice creaking like a crypt door. "Started showing symptoms... an hour ago."

"Where are you man? Who's with you?"

"I'm in the pathology labs toilet ... locked myself in. Brad's paired up with me but I won't let him in ... too dangerous. Look, I've recorded my observations on a dictaphone ... left it on the bench. It ... may help in understanding the disease ..."

"Hang in there, Tosh," Bellingham said. He'd been watching over Alburton's shoulder. "Let the team take care of you, sedate you. We can get you through this."

"Too late for that," Tosh said. "The disease moves too fast ... and I can't take — " A gout of orange fluid burst out of Tosh's mouth at that moment, obscuring what he said next. When he next lifted his head, only the whites of his eyes were showing, the pupils having rolled back in the eye sockets. Spasms shook his body and Alburton knew he was making a monumental effort to restrain himself from who knows what. He could hear someone banging on the door behind Josh and muffled shouting in the distance.

"Goodbye ... Jim ... it's been nice knowing you ..." Alburton saw Tosh lift a large scalpel to his throat.

"No Tosh, dont!" he screamed, but the pathologist sliced the blade across his neck in one swift movement, blood gushing out over the screen and hiding the death throes of a man he'd called friend for more years than he could remember.

### 17

## Skinner

Pandemonium: It was John Milton's capital of hell and, although Skinner was not well read, if he had been, there would be no more apt a word to describe the shit-fest that was now raining down on him and the IMT.

"How many dead?" he barked down the phone. "Fucking hell, have you got the situation contained?" He was talking to PC Winthrop, a wet-behind-the ears constable present at the scene of devastation caused by the Centurion Inn's landlord. "What do you mean _just about?_ "

Winthrop had told him he and two other constables had restrained the landlord but it was all they could do to hold him down. "He's got the strength of Hulk Hogan, Boss. We need backup and another ambulance,"

"Hell, we've already got two dozen officers and five ambulances clearing up after the St. Cuthbert's incident. I'll have to pull in more people from Drumcastle." Skinner cleared his muddled, shock-induced thoughts to one side and focused the lucid part of his brain. He might lack skills in other areas of his job, but this was something he was good at: decisiveness. "OK, here's what's going to happen; I'll send another five officers from the scene at the church and get another ambulance on its way. Are you sure there are fifteen dead?"

"And another ten badly injured, Boss. The place is a bloodbath."

"Right. Did you make sure that any personnel handling Casson wore gloves and masks?"

There was a hesitation at the other end and Skinner knew protocols hadn't been followed. "It was impossible," came the reply. "We couldn't glove up while Casson was still cracking skulls every second."

Skinner blew out a hot exhalation, "OK, don't worry. That was always going to be an impossible task. Anyway, I'll let you get back to it. But whatever you do, keep Casson alive. He's our only live berzerker so far and may hold a clue to what we're dealing with."

He finished the call and surveyed the scene playing out at the church he now stood within. Fifteen dead at the pub and another twelve here, including two children. A cynical thought occurred to him that the death toll would have been higher if not for the dwindling church population. After re-deploying his staff, he looked up at the cross on the altar. It was three feet tall and, unusually, depicted the uncensored crucifixion of the Messiah — nails, thorns and all. _Where were you when this was playing out?_ Skinner thought, _Oh, I forgot, you don't exist._

"Skinner," a detective in a grey overcoat shouted from the foot of the bell tower. "One more dead upstairs. The bell-ringer — guy called Martin Banks."

"Damn. How many more? Have we done a thorough search of the vestry and creche?"

"Yes, nothing to report, thank God."

"OK, once the survivors are shipped off we follow procedure with the victims. Keep everyone except the medics away from Taylor. Where's the God-damn coroner got to?"

"Bellingham's on his way with that geneticist guy. Apparently they've got good news and bad news."

"Details?"

"I wasn't a party to the conversation, so I only caught what I overheard at the station," the detective said. Guthrie was Skinner's counterpart from the Drumcastle force, a man with an over-sized forehead but without the brain capacity to match. Being about as smart as a bag of rocks was compensated for by his efficiency and loyalty; two rare commodities that Skinner valued. As Guthrie stepped over the bloodied corpse of a small girl dressed in a purple winter coat, Skinner saw how he averted his gaze. "Christ, have you ever seen such a thing?" Guthrie said. Now he was closer, Skinner could smell last night's booze intake on the man's breath. "She must have been only ten year's old. Life snuffed out just like that. I hope that bastard vicar rots in hell."

"It's gut-wrenching," Skinner replied, "but there's more to come." He relayed the details from the Centurion Inn while Guthrie's expression turned from sombre to ashen.

"What the fucking hell is happening? This is playing out like the Walking Dead."

"Yeah," Skinner replied, "only these motherfuckers don't give us the benefit of moving like an old dog wanting a shit. From the reports so far, it's like the disease gives them a strength and speed that's hard to contain."

"So, where's it all going to end?"

"That I don't know," Skinner said, "but don't expect any sleep or days off for the foreseeable future."

~ ~ ~

Skinner could detect the change in Drumcastle Infirmary since the meeting he'd attended that morning. Five short hours was all it had taken to transform a moderately busy centre of health services into something that resembled a war-zone surgical unit. As he pulled into the main entrance, he could see ambulances backed up outside A and E. Armed police stood at the ready outside of the foyer's revolving doors. Officers in navy blue uniforms were checking all those entering and leaving the building.

_Christ, who authorised armed police?_ he thought. _Must've been_ _Blunt._ Probably premature but then he wasn't in charge.

He ignored a 'strictly no parking' sign and pulled his saloon half onto the verge marked by a double-yellow line. His wheels churned up the sodden grass, but he wasn't obstructing emergency traffic. He threw his police disc up in the windscreen and strode towards the entrance. A wave of his ID let him past the armed guards and he used a flight of stairs to access the incident room set up for the IMT.

"Ah, Inspector Skinner," Wilkinson said. "We were just about to start. Take a seat. Coffee's in the machine." He pointed to a pod coffee maker on a side bench surrounded by paper cups, a few cartons of milk and a bowl of sugar sachets.

"Cheers," Skinner replied and availed himself of the facilities.

Wilkinson didn't wait for him to sit down and commenced straight away. "I think it's safe to say, ladies and gentlemen that the shit has hit the fan. There's a few of the team out on urgent business, but I think enough key members are here for us to get up to speed on developments and make some decisions."

"It looks like a few major ones have been made already," Skinner said, pulling up a chair. He looked around and saw that most of those present at the morning session had made it back. But they were lacking representatives from the Environment Agency and some of the aides and PA's from the council.

"Yes," Wilkinson said. "The senior team comprising myself, the Police Commissioner and Mr Ryecroft had to operate executive powers given the rapid developments in Valley and the village of Whitton-Mary."

"Fair enough," Skinner said, "but you better add a further incident. We've just had another called in north of Bishop Forest."

Wilkinson took off his glasses, looking concerned. "Better fill us in."

Skinner took a quick swig of coffee and looked at his colleagues seated around the table. They all showed signs of strain but, for the most part, had adopted resilient poses. Skinner judged he didn't need to spare anyone's sensitivities. "There's been a major cyclo-sportif taking place today involving over five hundred riders. One of the volunteer marshals flipped at a road junction and took out the best part of a peloton. Usual signs — berzerker behaviour, orange discharge from the ears and nose, together with a bunch of casualties left in his wake. So far the body count is eight. Not as bad as this morning but there are more injured. He took out the first riders causing the rest to pile up and one or two to fall into a gorge. Do you want to know the full detail?"

Wilkinson thought for a moment, then said, "Restrict it to facts needed for management of the crisis."

"OK, I'll try. The bloke's name was Delrymple, lives in a cottage with his wife five miles north of Netherwood."

"Close to what we're assuming is the outbreak's source?" Wilkinson said.

"Correct. Unfortunately, Delrymple didn't survive the encounter either. His body was found in a field by officers looking for him. We don't know for sure but it looks like the infection killed him."

"Then it seems the life expectancy of the sufferer is incredibly short," Veronica Lee interjected.

"We can't say that for sure," said the Chief Consultant, a tall man sporting a bushy moustache and a head crowned with towsled, curly hair. "We're basing it on a small number of cases and the Publican, Casson is still alive, albeit with diminishing vital signs."

"Any other pertinent details?" Wilkinson asked Skinner.

"That's all I've got. The report just came in before I left for here."

"Well I think it's fair to say we've got a major incident on our hands now," Wilkinson continued. "For those of you who aren't aware we have effectively quarantined the area surrounding Netherwood. No one leaves, and no one enters without official permission. You may well have seen the media announcement I gave at one o'clock. It went out on all local news channels and the bulletin is just starting to broadcast on National News. Basically, we've issued a yellow warning, which means there is significant risk to those in the immediate locality and _some_ risk to those in the wider county. We've tried not to be alarmist with our language but the population have been given a list of symptoms to look out for, and a warning not to approach anyone suffering from the infection. The usual emergency numbers have been supplied."

"How's the news been received?" Blunt asked.

"You'll notice our public information and media team are absent. They've got their work cut out co-ordinating calls from the public as well as enquiries from the news agencies. Traffic Police have noted a small increase in out-bound traffic for a Sunday afternoon, but only a handful of snoopers trying to approach the site around Netherwood. We haven't revealed the location, naturally, but one or two locals have put two and two together."

"Any update on the disease itself and the spread of incidents?"

"That's what we'll get to now," Wilkinson said. "Inspector Skinner, can you confirm there have been no incidents outside the ten-mile radius inclusion zone?"

"Yes — so far, but it will only take one of the infected to travel further afield for another one to occur. I reckon it's only a matter of time."

"And at that point we'll raise the threat level and impose a wider lock-down."

This drew a few intakes of breath from the team. "You mean county-wide?" Lee asked.

"In all probability," Blunt said.

Lee raised her eyebrows but didn't pursue the comment further.

"I know about the coding system for terrorist threat levels," a young woman from Public Health said, "but I didn't know there was one for disease outbreaks."

Wilkinson looked at Ryecroft, a tell that didn't escape Skinner. "It had been discussed at a meeting of Cobra, the Parliamentary body earlier this month," he said to the rest of the table. "A decision was made to implement it today."

"Can I ask Dr Madaki where she's at with her analysis of the fungus and its disease pathology?" Alburton piped up. Skinner couldn't help groaning at the sound of the patronising doctor's voice. He'd wished Alburton had stayed at St. Cuthbert's, but nothing he said could persuade him. Thankfully, no one seemed to take any notice of Skinner's barely concealed contempt.

_"Do you often have arguments in your mind with those you deem to be irritations?"_ Came the voice of his trainer from the past.

_"Several times a day,"_ he'd replied.

_"You realise you're expending a lot of mental energy on fruitless trains of thought? There are tools I can give you to deal with that."_

That was how his sessions used to go, the trainer ever optimistic. Skinner just nodded his compliance, took his treatment, then promptly forgot the advice.

"I can give a preliminary report," Madaki said.

Skinner studied the doctor again. She was definitely attractive, maybe fifteen years his senior, racially exotic and possessing an alluring nature. He wondered if it was something she cultivated and if she had a special someone.

"Please," Wilkinson invited.

Madaki sat up. "Professor Sundstrom video-conferenced with me this morning as scheduled. I'd hoped others could have been in on that conversation, but obviously a lot has happened since then. I'm pleased to say he's taking the first plane over here to lend us his expertise in situ. He says he hasn't seen anything like this before and wants to observe the situation first hand. Now, piecing together the fruiting body analysis, autopsy findings and Professor Sundstrom's observations, I think we can conclude the following with a fair degree of certainty." She paused, looked at Alburton and continued. "Firstly, it's not strictly speaking a fungus. It has characteristics of that kingdom but also features common to protists. In view of this I suggest we refer to it as an organism, possibly a new phylum never documented before. After analysing the soil which Dr Alburton brought back from the site, it's clear the mycelium or body of the organism is extensive. Further samples extracted from Netherwood this afternoon leads us to think it extends to a diameter of some five kilometres."

"That's incredible," Lee said. "You make it sound like a super-organism."

"You're closer to the truth than you could know," Madaki replied. "Sundstrom revealed that the closest organism structurally to this is a species known as _Armillaria solidipes,_ or the honey mushroom."

"Hey, I had an infestation of that stuff in my garden once," Bellingham spoke up. "It's a devil to get rid of."

"That's true," Madaki said, offering him a smile; whether it was one of general warmth or simply a gesture of tolerance to his interruption was hard to gauge. " _Armillaria_ attacks many trees and other plants such as oak and birch. Even if you cut an infested tree down, it can remain viable in stumps for 50 years — and it's almost impossible to get out. Chemical treatments don't totally eradicate it and other experimental methods such as adding another competitive fungus have proved ineffective."

"But this thing, this organism isn't a fungus?" Wilkinson asked.

"We're using the temporary nomenclature of _Mycophoria infestans_ until a more thorough taxonomic evaluation can be made. But yes, this is a very novel phenomenon. That said, the honey mushroom colony in the Blue Mountains in Oregon is known to be over 2,400 years old, making it one of the oldest organisms in the world."

"So, why's it raised its ugly head now? And how come it's bridged the gap to mammal infection?" Skinner asked.

"This is where the conclusions get patchy," Madaki said, "Professor Sundstrom has speculated it could have lain dormant for a long time, then germinated and been exposed to mutagens in our modern industrial environment. This is why I've consulted with Dr Alburton; genetics is his field and I think once Sundstrom is here we'll be able to pool our expertise and dig deeper into what makes this thing tick."

"Not to put too much pressure on you, Doctor Madaki, but are there any inroads at this stage that might yield a control measure or treatment for the human victims?" Wilkinson asked.

"Unfortunately nothing. We need more time to apply a range of fungicides, herbicides and hormonal treatments."

"How long, doctor?"

Madaki sighed. "This kind of research could takes years."

This news was greeted with more sighs and inhalations. "However," she said. "We have two things going for us. Firstly, the mode of infection so far seems to be via direct inhalation of the spores. There's no evidence of it being transferred between individuals. This was always the fear with Bird Flu; a fear that hasn't materialised yet. Secondly, the spores appear to be quite fragile once released. We've watched them germinate under the microscope over the last six hours and, although they grow incredibly fast, they die if deprived of a host."

"So, in that respect they're similar to viruses," Alburton said.

"Yes. There's also the observation that so far, _Mycophoria_ has not produced symptoms in many of those exposed. This is a major relief as the density of spores produced from Netherwood has been immense."

Wilkinson was making notes on a clipboard and looked up when Madaki stopped. "Anything else to report Doctor?"

"That concludes things for now. Unless there are any more questions?"

"What about the recordings that Tosh Hackett made before he died?" Bellingham said in a voice remarkably devoid of emotion. "Do they shed any light on how we can deal with this thing?"

"Nothing we can use from a clinical point of view," the chief consultant said. "Although it's harrowing to listen to. How the man mustered the endurance to record his final suffering is beyond me."

"What I don't understand," Veronica Lee said, "is how Tosh could have contracted the disease. Haven't the victims got to inhale the spores directly?"

"That's what worries me too," Madaki said. "It may be that the organism retains the ability to produce spores within the decaying corpse — and Mr Hackett was exposed to more than his fair share of Mycophoria sufferers."

Once again, the IMT were stymied by how much they didn't know about the disease.

"I could do with having a listen to the poor sap," Skinner said. "Anything that helps us gauge the onset of symptoms might aid in pre-empting another attack."

"No problem," Wilkinson said, "I'll put an mp3 up on our secure cloud account. Dr Alburton, can you accompany Dr Madaki to her lab and begin your genetic analysis?"

"Yes, although I'll need some additional equipment to do that. Can I request that it's transferred from the Life Centre in Newcastle?"

"Wouldn't it be better if you simply took what you needed over there?" Skinner put in.

Alburton sniffed. "Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you. It'd get me conveniently out of the way."

"Just thinking of logistics," Skinner said, feeling a certain sense of satisfaction that he'd raised Alburton's ire. "Transporting a human is quicker than arranging the movement of apparatus the Life Centre can hardly spare. Let me remind you that time is of the essence, we don't want you to drag your heels starting your valuable research when we need a cure or treatment for this thing."

Skinner imagined he saw Alburton's rage boil over through his flared nostrils. "You're one to talk about tardiness, Skinner. If you'd acted sooner on my warnings, we could have cut the casualty rate significantly."

"Gentlemen!" Wilkinson interrupted. "This is not the time or place for petty recriminations. Now shelve your animosity and focus on the task at hand." He followed up his pronouncement by glaring at Alburton then Skinner, then back to Alburton again. "Dr Alburton is still under fresh quarantine restrictions after this morning's exposure. It's simply not safe for him to travel further afield until we're one hundred percent sure he's not going to develop symptoms. Now Dr Alburton, what exactly do you need?"

Alburton took his fixed stare away from Skinner. "Enzymes, incubator, PCR machine and a gel electrophoresis set-up. I imagine the other reagents and solutions will be available here at Drumcastle."

"I'll arrange for them to be sent over. You should have them by early evening. I've been given full authority to commandeer resources while this emergency continues. Commissioner Blunt has also authorised another hundred officers from Lancashire to aid in law enforcement. I fear they may be needed overnight if today's events are anything to go by. Other than this, I don't propose any further action beyond monitoring, responding to new incidents and pursuing our scientific lines of enquiry. Dr Madaki, work closely with Dr Alburton and let me know when Professor Sundstrom arrives. I propose another meeting at nine p.m. unless there's an escalation, agreed?"

There were nods and spoken assents round the table followed by a scraping of chairs as people paced off to their various posts of duty. Alburton, Bellingham, Madaki and Skinner remained. Skinner had no real reason to hang around, but he intended to settle something before he returned to the station.

"Hey, Alburton. A word if you don't mind."

The doctor turned and ran his tongue over his upper lip. _The equivalent of rolling your eyes,_ Skinner thought. _But that's all right, you're going to have more than enough reasons to dislike me in a couple of minutes._

"I'll see you in the lab," Alburton said to the other two, "I won't be long." He turned to the detective, "Will I, Inspector Skinner?"

Skinner put his hands on his hips, stalling long enough for Bellingham and Madaki to walk far enough beyond ear-shot, then launched himself at Alburton. He grabbed his jumper with one hand and brought his other fore-arm up under his neck, pushing the doctor backwards against the wall. Skinner's face was right up against Alburton's. He could see the shock in the man's eyes, pupils wide, breath coming in short pants. It felt good.

_Tell me what you feel when you hurt someone,_ his trainer had said.

After refusing to answer at first, Skinner had indulged him. _I feel it like a humming in my head, an itch that'll only go away with one kind of scratching. The contact of my fist with someone's face, the impact of bone on the gristle of their nose and the sensation of a soft belly buckling under my knee. I'll not lie to you, I get a buzz out of it._

_Do you get an erection?_

A hesitation. _Sometimes._

Skinner had a boner now. _Something to do with testosterone_ , his trainer had said. He'd given him a meditation-based remedy to try out. Yet another device he'd studiously ignored.

"Just what's your problem, arsehole?" he said, spit flying from his lips. "Trying to make me look bad in front of the others?"

"I ... I don't think that's — "

"Shut up!" He interrupted; an illogical instruction, given he'd just asked a question. "I've come across your type before. Liberal-thinking, obstructive posers who have a thing about the grafters who patrol this community, trying to keep it safe."

"Take your hands of me, you maniac!" Alburton said in a voice constrained by the inspector's pressure on his windpipe.

"Maniac?" Skinner said, feeling himself smiling. The other hand was in his pocket, closing over the handle of a flick-knife. Hardly standard issue and, should he be discovered carrying it, a weapon that would cost him his job given the history he'd accumulated. "You ain't seen nothing yet." He increased the pressure on Alburton's neck, causing the doctor's face to turn a darker shade of beetroot, the hand in his pocket gripping the knife tighter. "I could really do you some damage."

Alburton was struggling now. Skinner could see in Alburton's eyes he was planning a last-ditch response — probably a knee to the groin. He pre-empted Alburton's blow, viciously kicking his leg wide. "Ah — ah," Skinner said. "You're out of your depth, Alburton, but I'll tell you what. I'll give you one more chance. No more wise-arse comments either at these meetings or anywhere else — and keep well out of my way. Otherwise, next time I won't be so gentle."

"Skinner, what the hell are you doing man!"

It was Bellingham. Skinner looked at the coroner, relaxing his hold on Alburton. "Nothing," he said. "Just having a fair and frank exchange of ideas." He released Alburton, who doubled over, coughing and rubbing his neck. Skinner leaned over him and placed a gentle hand on his back. "Just remember what we agreed," he said, then patted him like a pet dog.

"I think you should leave," Bellingham said.

Skinner pushed past him and said, "Just going."

If Skinner had remained behind he would have seen Bellingham helping Alburton into a chair.

"You all right, friend?" Bellingham said.

"I'll survive," Alburton replied.

Bellingham poured him a beaker of water from a nearby jug. "I'll report him for this. It's outrageous."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," Alburton said, taking a long draught from the beaker, "but let's leave it until tomorrow. We need to get to the lab. I want to start work right away."

"You got something in mind?"

"I think I've got a starting point, yes."

### 18

## Frying tonight

Valley is either a quaint market town in north Cumbria or a dump where nothing ever happens — depending on your age and point of view. At a population of approximately four and a half thousand it sits in a hollow scraped out from glacial action. It was an unlikely set of events that placed it on the map during November of 2017, but Mycophoria would have been an unlikely phenomenon wherever it had chosen to show up.

By the time Alburton reached the outskirts of Valley at nine thirty that evening he was beyond tired. He drove on automatic pilot, the street lights and road markings acting as sufficient cue to keep him on the correct side of the road. Wilkinson had described him as under quarantine, which was an exaggeration. The arrangement he and Bellingham had would be called mutual observation. So far, amongst the personnel directly involved in the phenomenon known as _Mycophoria,_ only Tosh Hackett had succumbed. The fact that these numbers were low was heartening. The fact that this statistic was a dear friend of his was heart-breaking. Alburton had not had time to process his grief. He'd heard Tosh's last transcript on the dicta-phone and the experience had indelibly etched itself on his consciousness. It was the quality of his voice that cut through the fog of his tiredness more than the words themselves, a mixture of husky paroxysms uttered through strained vocal cords, and guttural phlegmatic phrases of murderous intent.

"Thank God Tosh had enough awareness to recognise what was happening to him," Bellingham said, breaking the silence.

"You were reading my mind," Alburton replied.

"Lucky guess."

"You're going to find it hard to replace him."

"Don't I know it. He was more than my best technician, he was a good friend."

The approach of the Police Station signaled they were getting close to the centre of town and Alburton's stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since that morning, apart from a biscuit at the hospital. "Fancy some fish and chips?"

"Is the shop open on a Sunday?"

"Seven nights a week. We should just catch it before closing time."

"Suits me. I could do with a guilty pleasure to round off today."

Bellingham wasn't just referring to the havoc that had erupted at the crime scenes. Their initial attempts at studying the organism and setting up priorities for lines of enquiry had been hesitant at best. It had been a promising opener for him to suggest extracting the embryonic tissue from the Mycophoria spores so they could identify the components responsible for the organism's fantastical growth — and the stolon's uncanny ability to home in on brain tissue. He'd also requested DNA samples from each of the patients to look for common base sequences in their DNA that might suggest a susceptibility to the organism. But they had been hampered first of all by the aseptic conditions that required them to wear movement-encumbering suits, then a lack of equipment and reagents, and finally a paucity of staff. Alburton and Madaki estimated they would need a further ten scientists and technicians just to kick start the process; more would be required once the volume of data started to increase. Wilkinson's promise of the PCR machine and advanced electrophoreisis apparatus was too optimistic. It wouldn't arrive until the early hours. Their disappointment culminated in Madaki's announcement that Fritjof Sundstrom's plane was grounded at Helsinki airport due to a snowstorm and wasn't expected to lift off until one a.m. Madaki suggested they turn in early, get some sleep and resume at six the next morning. By then, hopefully, they'd have the Swedish professor on board and the appropriate equipment.

Bellingham had opted to join Alburton at his house in Valley, seeing as Alburton had a new furry dependent.

Alburton pulled up short of the shop in a lay-by, listened to Bellingham's order then left him in the car to read over his coroner's notes. The shop's name was unimaginatively titled the 'Valley Chippy,' but boasted the finest batter recipe in North Cumbria. Alburton hoped there were some fish left. The door was open, as always, allowing a modicum of relief for those behind the counter from the excessive temperatures. He saw three men in the back preparing take-outs of pizza and kebabs while an Asian man and a young girl took orders at the counter from three customers.

By the time his turn came there were two fish left so he ordered them both with a portion of chips each.

"Lucky for you," said the man in a Turkish accent. "They're the last two."

"Oh," he heard a voice say from behind. "I was looking forward to a cod and chips tonight."

Alburton turned and recognised the girl he'd seen the previous morning while out walking Smiffy. "I'm sorry," he said. "Look, I'm easy about what I have." He turned to the man serving orders and said, "Make mine a Cumberland sausage, the lady here can have my fish."

"Are you sure?" the girl said. "I don't want to deprive you."

"It's not a big deal," he replied, noticing the beginnings of an intricate tattoo on her forearm, visible just underneath the cuff.

He must have stared for too long because the girl caught his eye and said, "Are you admiring my tattoo?"

She'd only uttered two statements in his presence, yet already she struck him as someone not lacking in confidence. "Yeah," he said, "I suppose I was. Sorry for being nosy." He looked at the man serving him, saw he was some way off completing the order and turned back to the girl.

"I saw you the other day on the Spine, didn't I?"

"You may well have. I like the view from up there. Inspires me."

It may have been his fatigue, or simply that he was glad someone was talking to him, but he pushed the conversation further than he would have normally. She was a fairly open personality after all. "Inspires you to what?"

"I sculpt," she said matter of factly.

"Wow," he said, eyebrows raised.

"And some lithography – occasionally." She faced him again and extended her hand. "I'm Sarah, by the way."

"Jim Alburton," he said, smiling warmly and shaking it. Her outstretched arm revealed more of the tattoo design. As far as he could make out it depicted a serpent coiled around a tree with entwined branches, almost vine-like. It was finished in blue and green. Quite striking to Alburton's mind. "Excuse me for asking, but did you design the tattoo?"

"I did," she said. "Do you want to see all of it?"

"I ... er, well," he stuttered.

"Sorry," she said. "I know how that must have sounded. Don't worry, it only goes as far as my shoulder. Here, hold my coat."

She removed the garment. It was a bobbly, green checked affair and looked like it may have been purchased at a charity shop, or maybe was destined for one. "If you insist," he said, thinking he could hardly refuse.

She slipped it off easily and he caught a whiff of gardenia fragrance that contrasted strongly with the appearance of the coat. She wasted no time in rolling up her sleeve and presented the work of art to him, twisting her arm over to show him its full extent.

"Very impressive," he said, now seeing a naked man and woman amongst the foliage. She offered the man a pomegranate, both were unashamedly depicted revealing uncovered genitalia. "Adam and Eve, I take it?"

"That's one interpretation?"

"You mean there are others?"

She gave him a smile that was both captivating and challenging. "There are always others."

Alburton liked the way this was going, although he was wary of anyone who should strike up a conversation of this nature with a complete stranger. "I call it 'Adam is a lie,'" she said.

Alburton cocked an eyebrow, "Intriguing. Do you display your work locally?"

"Not yet," she said, rolling her sleeve back down and taking the coat back from him. "But I hope to. Oh ... fuck!"

Alburton simultaneously saw her jaw drop and heard a shrill scream from behind him. He swivelled round and saw the serving girl, mania disfiguring her slime-caked face lifting a work-mate's head out of a vat of boiling hot fat. The man drew breath through scorched lips and roared in pain again, arms lashing out to fend off his attacker. The girl wasn't deterred. She reached for a filleting knife, snatched it up and jabbed it at the defenceless, blind man. He stumbled backwards, unable to see where his attacker would strike next. He sustained wounds to his arms and side as the girl pressed home her relentless assault.

This all happened in a matter of seconds and Alburton was paralysed with shock.

"Do something," Sarah cried, "or she'll kill him."

Alburton didn't know whether she was addressing the others behind the counter or him, but her exclamation spurred him into action. "Hey," he shouted. "Over here." He waved his arms as if trying to attract the attention of a wild animal. He guessed he wasn't wide of the mark.

The girl turned, head tilted to the side as if weighing up her options. Seeing that Alburton presented no immediate threat, the counter forming a barrier between them both, she turned her attention back to her former work-mate. Her distraction had bought him some time but no relief from agony. He fell into the arms of another man, one of the four remaining who were only just now waking up to the fact that something was seriously amiss.

"My face, _Tanri_ ... my face," the tortured man said. "Ella's gone crazy. Keep her away from me!"

The first man, wearing black square-framed glasses, was looking around desperately as the knife-wielding berzerker lumbered forward, slobbering as orange gunk teemed from every orifice in her head.

_This is what it looks like first-hand,_ Alburton thought. He observed the unfolding attack as a traumatised victim, but his scientific mind was taking in the detail. _Super-human strength, unnaturally quick reactions, no regard for personal safety and no hesitation in dealing out violence in its most extreme form._ Alburton knew the girl by sight only, but was in no doubt that this was the complete opposite of the girl's usual behaviour. Like the man who now confronted the girl, he looked around for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes alighted on a broom standing against a soft drinks machine. He grabbed it and threw it across to the man in glasses. "Here," he said. "Use this until I can find something else."

The man caught the deftly thrown brush and held it like a quarter-staff. Alburton held his arm out, gesturing for Sarah to stand back. "Stay here," he said, and leaped over the counter by placing one hand on the top and vaulting. He was amazed that he cleared it without clipping his foot. It had been several years since he had attempted anything vaguely athletic. He began to rue not looking after himself more carefully.

The infected girl hadn't noted his vault, so intensely was she focused on her new victim. Behind them both, two more men stepped forward, both wielding knives. The first held a carving knife, blade pointing upwards. The second had a thinner knife, used for carving meat off the kebab-roll.

"Ella," the first said, "put the knife down. What are you playing at, you crazy bitch?"

It was the wrong thing to say as it just inflamed the girl and she threw herself forward, slashing down in an over-hand blow directed at the man in spectacles. He brought the broom handle up, jarring the girl's arm and causing her to release the blade. Gobbets of orange fell from her, splattering over the man's white apron and face. He recoiled in disgust, slamming into the man behind.

"She's dropped the knife," the second man said. "Rush her now while she's unarmed." Alburton saw his chance and jumped on the girl's back, his weight collapsing her to the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of him and his right knee squealed its pain as it struck the tiled surface. Ella bucked and writhed underneath him, but the man with spectacles pinned her arms down, sitting on her head.

The man with the long knife stood behind and yelled into the shadows, "Ahmed, call the cops and an ambulance while we hold her down. I think it's going to take three of us."

The Valley Chippy had become a cacophony of shouting, boiling fat and thrashing bodies. But over it all, Alburton was able to hear a growl emanate from the direction of the ovens. He sensed something wrong too late. A sound like _chunk_ reached his ears, followed by a cry of pain and surprise. He looked up to see the man in spectacles sprayed with blood from a wound inflicted on his work-mate behind. Alburton couldn't see what was happening but cold fear goaded him into self-preservation. Relinquishing his hold on the wriggling Ella he tipped backwards just before the bespectacled man was skewered through the neck from behind. The tip of the skewer came to rest an inch before Alburton's terrified face and he scuttled backwards to escape its deadly point.

"Jim, get out from there," he heard Sarah shout. "There's another of those crazy bastards."

Adrenaline pumping, Alburton scrambled to his feet and backed towards the end of the aisle. He cast his eyes around and saw the counter was split by a hinged top. He slammed the gate upwards and thrust himself through. Sarah was waiting by the door. "Let's get out of here and raise the alarm," she said. "There's nothing we can do for the others."

"OK," he said. "I've got a car." He pushed her out of the door and looked back. Ella, now plastered in the pumpkin coloured juice was rising to her feet while the improbable second berzerker was extricating the skewer from his victim, similarly covered in gunk.

_What are the odds?_ Alburton thought. _Two of them. Both triggered at the same time. It's almost like this organism has a plan of attack._

There was no time to speculate. He indicated the location of his car to Sarah and they both sprinted towards it. Bellingham had opened the door, realising something was wrong. "What's happening?" he shouted.

Alburton saved his breath until he was closer. "Get back in the car, there's two infected in there." To his credit, Bellingham acted without question. Sarah flung open a rear door and climbed in. Alburton took another look at the Chippy but no one had emerged. All the other customers had left earlier so there was only him and Sarah aware of what transpired. The street was empty and quiet — as one would expect for a Sunday night.

He quickly got in the car and pulled out his mobile, punching in 999. He relayed the details of the attack, all the while keeping his eye on the road ahead, wondering what had happened to the berzerkers and their victims.

"What the fuck just happened?" Sarah said once he'd finished the call.

"Haven't you been listening to the news?" Alburton said.

"No, I've only just got up. I'm a bit of a night owl."

"Well," he said, "what you have witnessed is the effects of an outbreak that I think could be described as 'out of control.'"

"Fuck," Sarah gasped. "They killed them in cold blood; and what was that stuff all over them?"

"One of the symptoms of infection," Alburton said.

"Two attackers you said," Bellingham chimed in. "This thing's escalating. Do you think we should leave?"

"I think we'll be safe in the car with the doors locked. No one's coming out yet anyway. I'd like to hang around and see what happens."

"We should warn anyone approaching the chippy," Sarah said.

Alburton hadn't thought of that, but Sarah's concern became a moot point when they heard sirens in the distance. Two minutes later, three patrol cars and two ambulances passed them by and converged on the chippy.

"Stay here," Alburton said to Sarah. "My friend and I are part of the incident team dealing with this outbreak and we need to see what's happening first hand. There's no need to put yourself in danger."

"Sod that," Sarah said and bounced out of the car before Alburton could stop her.

"Impetuous youth," Bellingham said and exited the vehicle too.

Outside the shop, armed police were cautiously approaching the doorway. Alburton could make out Skinner's profile standing behind one of the cruisers.

"Don't worry," Bellingham said, "I'll take the lead. Better you hang back given what happened earlier at the hospital."

"Yeah, yeah," Alburton said, keeping a few yards behind the coroner.

Sarah was right beside him, the blue lights of the cruisers reflecting off the polished skin of her face. "You think they're going to use those firearms?" she said.

"Hopefully not," Alburton replied.

Bellingham approached Skinner, who acknowledged his presence but ignored Alburton and Sarah. "We called it in," Bellingham said. "Two infected and three victims. I think the victims are dead but we should try to take the berzerkers alive."

"Thanks for the contribution Doc, but we'll take it from here," Skinner said in a patronising tone. His walkie-talkie squawked and he clicked the receive button. Alburton heard the exchange.

"No one moving in here boss," came the armed officer's voice. "There's four dead we reckon."

"Four?" Bellingham said. "Where's the fifth?"

Skinner clicked the send button. "Proceed with caution Travis, there's another berzerker in there, try to — "

A single shot rang out from the shop followed by a silence.

"Talk to me," Skinner said. "What just happened?"

"Had to take the last one down," Travis said across the radio. "She tried to jump me."

"Dead?" Skinner asked.

"Just checking her out now."

"I'm coming in," Skinner said.

"Right behind you," Bellingham said.

Skinner turned. "No, stay back, this is a police matter. By the way, have you heard the news about Wilkinson?"

Bellingham frowned. "No."

"Found dead in his office half an hour ago," Skinner said and jogged off towards the bloodbath inside.

### 19

## Special pupil

**Extract from the diary of Ken Wilcott, former pupil of Valley High School. Transcript from audio recording.**

When I woke up that morning, I knew I was gonna kill someone. Which is kinda funny because I'd fallen off to sleep in a pretty good mood, jerking off to an image of Jade Bennington and her bouncing big jugs. Every testosterone-crazed male in our year calls her 'bad back', and would give their eye teeth to plant a dick in her cleavage and have themselves a tittywank to remember.

But then everyone isn't Connor Allen, who's dipped his wick in _every_ looker at school, leaving a trail of broken hearts and ripped hymens in his wake. Did you hear that by the way? That's a metaphor, that is. My English teacher taught me about it. She said I'd a talent for creative writing, but she also said it was a crying shame I wasted most of my time in disruptive behaviour. Yeah, she taught me about literature and my PD teacher taught me about hymens — oh and condoms and dildos. Lots of stuff I couldn't ever see myself using.

I'd got to know my teachers at Valley High pretty well. I'm usually in small classes or spend time in the EAZ, which stands for Education Action Zone, by the way. They keep changing the name every year, which is a bit pointless really. They might as well put up a sign saying 'Department for Thick Kids' and have done. But they like names with capital letters. Miss Pennington calls them ... what is it? _Acronyms_. Like the ones they have above my name on seating plans.

One time Miss Pennington was giving me help and I was sat at her desk. I couldn't help seeing her open planner. There it was, _Ken Wilcott EAB_ , followed by some more words I didn't understand. I looked it up on Google that night, and learnt it stood for 'Education and Behavioural Difficulties.' That's me in a cricketer's box — nutshell — geddit?

So, there I was in my wank-pit thinking about murder. It wasn't like I was angry with anyone, though I'd plenty reason to be. See, I'm one of those kids who's a bit of a loner. I'd walk down corridors and hear sniggers as people passed. Sometimes they'd call out after me. Things like "Hey Ken, you shit in any more waste paper baskets recently?"

That was something I'd done for a laugh, egged on by some of the kids in my class. I thought it'd give me some cred, but it kinda backfired. They grassed me up. When I denied it, the head said they'd got footage on CCTV and "I wouldn't want to make him show it to my parents." I'd minded him that there was only my mam left now, but he just said I was being argumentive.

After that, I stopped trying to fit in. What's the use? I'll never be like them, and they'll never wanna be like me. I'm in a class of my own — Ken Wilcott's class. With my own personal program of one-to-one behaviour modification and anger management.

Like I said, I didn't have no personal grudge, I just hated the world, and killing seemed to be the best way to relieve the pressure. I know that sounds extreme, but I remember my brain feeling kinda itchy and bloated that morning, like it was gonna break out of my skull. Then this voice kept saying "You know what to do, Ken. They've fucked you around long enough. It's time they got some shit shovelled back on them."

I'd heard the voice a few times over the last day, but never this loud, never this often. It just went over and over in my brain.

"Get outta my head, tosspot!" I shouted. That seemed to do the trick — for a while at least.

I got myself off to school straight away, skipping breakfast as usual, and hung round the footie goalposts 'til registration bell. By the time I was off to first lesson my head felt like it was on fire. I kept banging a hand against my temple to get rid of the feeling, but it did no good. I must've been muttering things as well, because the other kids gave me more space than usual.

When I got to the science class, Dr Taylor was at the door to greet us. Mr Faizal was there too, letting his class into the lab next door.

"Morning Yair," said the Doc. "I see leadership are doing some drop-ins today. You got your lesson plans ready?"

"Yep. I was up til eleven o' clock last night making sure I had my objectives and plenaries all sorted out. It'll be just my luck if they give me a miss today."

"Never mind, I've heard the floggings will continue until morale improves!"

Faizal laughed at that one. Seems the teachers wanted to be there less than I did. Can't say I blame 'em. Ever since the Head told us in assembly that the school was in _special measures_ , they'd been running round like headless chickens, getting us to repeat our targets and carry out fucking reflection exercises.

I sat down at a desk and looked at the kit laid out in front of me. Seemed like we were gonna do a dissection. I saw scissors, a seeker and a scalpel in the tray, laid neatly next to a glistening, fresh pigs kidney. Without thinking I took the scalpel and snuck it into the side pocket of my trousers. That way I wouldn't cut my leg when I walked. I might find use for it later.

Like a swarm of wasps, my head started up again, so I lay face down on the bench. It didn't stop the burning feeling, but my brain felt less itchy. The Doc hadn't noticed me as I was sat behind a pillar, out of his line of sight. So that was cool — until Bev Hutchings screamed out loud.

"Eeeeeeeeh! That's so groooos."

"What the f.... What on earth?" said the Doc.

"It's Ken," she said. "He keeps making gurgling noises, and this orange stuff has just leaked out of his ear."

I lifted my head and found the room was spinning round. I felt like I'd just stepped off the Pepsi-Max rollercoaster at Blackpool. Everyone's voice sounded all slowed down.

It was then that Connor Allen piped up. "Ken's head is spewing orange jizz. Just look at it."

The other kids were out of their seats, looking and laughing. This was worse than the trash can thing. Why wouldn't they just leave me alone?

"Are you feeling alright Ken?" said the Doc. "Angus, Sid—can you take him to sick bay? I don't think he'll make it on his own."

This was what he always did if kids got sick in class. He'd get rid of them straight away, like we made the place look shitty, and upset his clean, fucking OCD world.

"Yeah. Get him off to Nurse _More Cum_ lads," Allen shouted. "She'll swallow his brain-spunk for him." This set the rest of the class off again and left me boiling inside.

"That's entirely inappropriate, Allen," said the Doc. "You're on detention for that."

I'd made up my mind then and there, that if I could, I'd carry out my own consequences on Connor Allen.

"That's right," said the voice in my head, cutting through the swampy thoughts. "Cut that fucker's throat. It's the least he deserves."

First I needed to get my head straight.

Sid and Angus half dragged me from the lab, leaving behind the zoo that Doc Taylor's lesson had become.

I staggered to Nurse Morecambe's room — the boys didn't give me any help there. _Nice one boys. I'll get you back,_ I thought. They seemed kinda glad to leave me in her hands.

"Now what have you been getting up to this time, Ken?" she said in a voice she probably thought sounded motherly. It just pissed me off.

"I dunno Nurse, my head feels funny."

She looked at me as if I was something she wanted to wipe off her shoe.

"What's this coming out of your ear? Hang on a minute, I'll get some cotton wool and warm water. You'll need cleaning up."

She sat me down in a chair and swished to the side of the room where there was a low-level cupboard. A sign on it read 'Medical supplies.' She started rifling through the contents.

"Now where did I put that damn cotton wool?"

It was right after she said this, that something clicked in my brain. My vision went red and that oily voice spoke up again.

"It's now or never Ken. She's just like the rest. Treats you like shit then slags you off in the staff room behind your back. You know what to do."

And I did.

I carefully took the scalpel out of my pocket and stood up. My left ear felt weird, so I rubbed it. When I pulled my hand away it was covered in the orange crusty fluid. A bit like that stuff you find on the fat of sliced, breaded ham. The sight of it started me laughing. A sort of childish snigger. It was like the laughter was being puked up out of my mouth. I don't know why, but I thought it was the funniest thing that I'd ever seen. I sounded like a retard; but then that's what everyone thought I was.

Nurse _More Cum_ hadn't heard me. She'd tipped out some boxes onto the floor, still looking for fucking cotton wool. She was crouched on the floor with her back to me, so she never saw me approach.

Looking back, what I did next seemed so easy. Like I didn't have no boundaries. No limits. There wasn't any white shape pricking me to say ' _this is wrong!'_

With a lunge I grabbed hold of her hair and pulled the head back. Her throat was bared for me, all pretty and pink. Totally _vulnerable_. Just like I'd heard some of the teachers describe me.

Before she had time to react I plunged the scalpel into her neck and gouged it across her windpipe. It cut through, releasing a fountain of blood from an artery — just like in a slasher film.

She grabbed her throat and tried to scream, but all that came out was a gargling noise. She thrashed about the floor with her eyes staring at the ceiling, and her back arched as if someone had shot her with a taser. I couldn't believe how stupid she looked. I was laughing like a hyena, so loud I was sure someone must've heard. But no one came. Finally, she twisted over on her side and let out a choking noise. I think she'd swallowed her tongue because after that she just lay still.

I have to tell you I was trippin' at that point. Fucking Hell, I even had a hard-on. A real diamond-cutter. One thing's for sure, I wanted more of this. I looked at the scalpel in my hand and noticed the blade snapped off. I threw the useless thing to the floor.

Another lump of orange stuff dripped off my face. I wiped it away with a sleeve, but fuck, there was a lot of it.

_You liked that, didn't you?_ said the voice. _You gotta do it again._

It had scared me this morning, but now it seemed like an old friend.

I yanked open a drawer and watched it fall on the floor. I was probably making too much noise, but I didn't care. A heap of instruments and bandages strewed themselves across the lino and there, on top, was what I needed. A big pair of shears. I reckon they must've been used for cutting bandages or cloths. They had black handles and wickedly sharp blades. Yeah, they would do very nicely.

​I left the bitch where she was and looked out into the corridor. No one was around. I couldn't believe my luck, but then it was still lesson time.

My brain-itch was back, big time now, as well as this humungous urge to cut someone. It was sweet to me, better than when I wanked myself off.

​I pocketed the shears, tips facing down. They ripped through the bottom, but I didn't care as long as they were out of sight. I figured I had to look as normal as possible. This was kinda difficult with orange gunge spilling out my ear and nurse More Cum's blood soaked through my shirt and jeans.

Students could be out of lesson as long as they had a note from the teacher, but the Doc hadn't given me one.

What was I thinking? Why should I care if a teacher turned up? They'd just become my next victim.

​I turned a corner into the Humanities corridor and stopped straight away. Some kinda fallen angel must have been looking over me because up ahead, strutting like he owned the place was Connor Allen. He usually skived off in the middle of lessons when he got bored. He'd give some lame excuse about needing the bog when really he wanted to link up with his mates or have a crafty fag.

He turned into the gents without seeing me. This was my chance to pay him back for all his fucking put-downs. All the times he'd got everyone else on his side and made my life hell.

I ran up to the door and stopped a moment. I felt one of them sniggering fits build up again. I shook my head to calm it down and this seemed to work, so I pushed the door quietly open.

Inside, I could see no one was using the urinals. The place stank of piss and tobacco.

Allen was smoking in one of the cubicles. I could see a white cloud rising from the third one along. As I stood in front of the door and took out the shears, I felt like my head had gone all light. Last time I'd felt this good was when I toked on some weed at a mate's party. But this was even better.

Gone was the old Ken. The one who would bottle it up and slam his fist into a wall later. This was power — the power of knowing I could do anything I wanted.

I bent down so's I could see beneath the door. There were a pair of blue Nike trainers, so I knew it was him. He must've guessed someone was outside because he spoke up.

"Who the fuck's out there? This one's taken so you can just find your own bog to have a shite in."

I looked at the door and figured it was locked, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Didja hear me, you queer?" he said. "If you don't fuck off now, I'll be out there to give you a good beating."

I didn't want to talk to him. Just kill him.

I let out an animal scream, aimed my foot at where the latch was, and kicked with everything I had. The catch must've been pretty weak because the door slammed open, whacking Allen's knees so's he twisted round and fell sideways off the bog. I reached in before he had time to react and pulled his head up by the hair. He was still conscious but his eyes looked kinda glassy. Musta banged himself on the sidewall when he went over. That was gonna be the least of his problems.

I bent over and looked him straight in his weasel eyes. "Yeah, it's me, motherfucker. Didn't expect that did you?"

He groaned in pain but I was nowhere near finished with him.

"I hear you've been putting it about, Allen. Slipping your dick into every Year Eleven pussy that's going. Well, I think that kinda behaviour needs punishing — and I'm the one that's gonna be dishing it out."

I brought out the shears and put them up close to his face. I could see his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"Nuh...nuh no, please!" He said, plus lots of other stuff I couldn't make out because right then, the buzzing started in my head again.

Above the noise, I heard the voice of the other Ken shout, _Give it to him, Ken. Give it to him real gooood._

I opened the shears a touch, drew back my elbow and thrust the points into his startled eyes. The left blade went into the corner of one, but the right struck home — straight in the pupil. Once again, it felt like I had super-human strength as I felt the blades go in deep, right up to the handles.

This time there was a lot of blood.

I'd once been to an abbatoir. My mate's dad ran it. I'd seen them cut a goat's throat, halal-style.

I think Allen bled more than the goat. He was making a god-awful racket and thrashing about with his arms, trying to push me away from him.

I put my hand on his forehead for purchase and pulled the shears out again. More blood poured out of his face, along with something thick and jelly-like. Before he had time to do anything I thrust them forward again into his throat.

"Aaaach," was the sound I think he made. Priceless it was — which got me laughing all over again.

I stood back and let him thrash about in the cubicle. I enjoyed every minute.

It took him quite a while to die, but when he finally lay still he'd left smears of blood all over the walls and floor. Mrs Hetherington was gonna have her work cut out cleaning the bogs tonight.

I still wasn't done. Allen mighta been dead, but he hadn't finished his show for me yet. I busied myself for another few minutes or so, sitting him up on the crapper and arranging him in the position I wanted. Finally, I took a few snaps with my smartphone.

I knew exactly what to do next, but I needed to find me a computer. It was no good going to the library. I'd get stopped before I carried out my plan. Besides, Allen's blood was all over me. I needed somewhere a bit more private, and I figured I knew just the place.

I looked out the door and saw a teacher walking away. I ducked back until he was out of sight. Once the coast was clear, I dashed down the corridor, snatching a look at the time on my mobile. It was near the end of the lesson so I was gonna have to be quick. Would my luck hold out?

Well it did and it didn't.

I reached the Head's office and found the door open and the room empty — like I knew it would be. Old Slaphead liked to be out on the corridors between lessons to keep an eye out and generally calm things down. Today was no different.

I stepped in but not quickly enough.

"Ken Wilcott — stop right there!"

It was Mrs Branscomb, the Head's secretary. She was in the room opposite and had seen me enter.

"I don't know who sent you but you know you can't just ... My God! Is that blood you've got on your clothes? What on earth's happened to you?"

I slammed the door shut and twisted the hitch-lock after me. See, there's lots of things you notice when you've spent as much time in the Head's office as I have. Like the fact he has a lock, and that the password for his computer is the name of his pet Alsatian. Stupid cunt had written it on his notepad, which I happened to have seen.

Mrs Branscomb was banging on the door and shouting at the top her voice for me to open up.

At that moment an ear-splitting siren started up.

I knew it wasn't a fire alarm. I'd only heard it once before when we did a drill. It was a lock-down. Someone must've found Nurse More-Cum, or Allen — maybe both. I didn't have much time.

I slumped down behind the Head's desk and entered the password to unlock his PC. Taking my phone out, I brought up the photos I'd taken and e-mailed them to his address using the 3G network. It only took a few seconds and there they were. It was a few more minutes of work to fiddle with the images and text in his graphics program. I didn't need anything fancy.

By now I could hear more voices outside and further banging on the door. This time much heavier. Just a few more minutes, that's all I needed.

The head-buzzing and itching was worse than ever now, and orange slime dripped from both ears onto the keyboard. I opened the e-mail program again and attached my finished work. In the recipients' bar I entered 'all staff' and 'all students.'

I smiled, satisfied with my work and clicked 'send'.

I leaned back in Slaphead's chair, put my hands behind my head and waited for the next round of fun to begin.

~ ~ ~

A week later, Julie Prescott came to visit me at the secure centre. I'd been locked up there ever since the incident. She told me she'd been in the IT room with the rest of her form when the mail program pinged up a message. 'This is nice,' she'd confessed to thinking. She never got messages from anyone, but she groaned when she saw it was from Mr Best, the Headteacher.

She decided to open it anyway. It had an attachment, so she clicked on it.

A sharp gasp had escaped from her mouth, she said. The reaction was repeated all over the classroom as the rest of the group opened their messages. A few of them gathered round her screen to see what had caused the reaction. One girl and two boys fainted.

They would have seen just two bleeding sockets. Allen's throat wore a red, jagged smile. Blood gushed down the front of his shirt.

That wasn't the worst.

The thing that woke Julie Prescott up every night for the next week was the sight of Connor Allen's cock, hanging from the corner of his mouth. One kid read out my words written over the bottom of the image:

_This is wat hapens to all fuk-heds that think with ther diks._

### 20

## Jim Alburton

Alburton woke to the sound of whimpering next to his ear. Thoughts from the previous evening flooded through his mind one by one. Two berserkers, Wilkinson dead, Sarah ... where was Sarah? He sat bolt upright wondering if it was the girl moaning in pain but when he looked down it was only Smiffy looking expectant. He gave the mutt a quick stroke, put on his glasses and checked the time.

_Christ, seven o' clock. I should be at the hospital._

He rolled out of bed, dressed quickly and headed for the bathroom. On his way, he peeked into the spare bedroom, the door of which was ajar. The bed was unmade and empty. He stepped to the top of the stairs and heard movements in the kitchen below.

"Sarah, are you OK?"

The girl appeared at the foot of the stairs, hair somewhat tousled and smiled up at him. "Yeah, I've been up for a couple of hours. Couldn't sleep."

"I'll be down in a minute," he said. "Help yourself to coffee."

"Already have."

He nodded at her response and stepped back into the bathroom. As he hurriedly brushed his teeth he assessed his motivations for letting Sarah stay the night. Yes, she had witnessed a horrific crime — if that's what you could call such an atrocity, and yes she had said she felt vulnerable and unprotected. But would he have let just any stranger come back with him to take advantage of his safe harbour?

Maybe, maybe not. Still, attractive as she was, in a pixie-like manner, he wasn't under any illusion as to his prospects. She was probably spoken for anyway, though goodness knows where her partner was. She certainly hadn't tried to ring anyone. His thoughts drifted back to his ex-wife and the day she had left a lifetime ago.

_I really hope you find some kind of happiness, Jim. But until you start putting people first in your life, it's just not going to happen._

That was the last time he'd seen her. They'd spoken on the phone — on a weekly basis at first — to discuss finances and sharing out their belongings. Jim hadn't put up any sort of fight and she'd been reasonable in her demands, so after a month or two even the telephone calls dried up. The memories he chose to keep were of the happy times, brittle moments in an otherwise storm of emotions and recriminations. There were holidays in the far East, celebrations as they progressed past milestones in their careers; and bright oases of intimacy which grew ever more sporadic as time wore on. These were the times he dwelt on, before the onset of his obsessive behaviour and her desire for something better. Nothing much had changed in his nature, reason enough not to entertain any thought of getting involved with someone again, especially one as young as Sarah appeared to be.

He dismissed the thoughts from his mind. He had plenty enough to occupy him this morning. Top of the list was speaking to Sundstrom, the Swedish expert who hopefully had arrived from the continent. However, he was keen to hear more detail about Wilkinson's sudden death. All he and Bellingham knew was that he had been murdered.

_Bizarre co-incidence or the result of the ongoing emergency? If so, where was the killer?_

Alburton's stomach rumbled and he resolved to gulp down a bowl of cereal before he left. He took the stairs two at a time and found Sarah sitting at the kitchen table, two cups of coffee in front of her.

"I let Smiffy out," she said. "Hope that was OK."

"Thanks," he replied," looking at her with concern. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Well," she said. "It's not every night you see three people butchered by skewer, cleaver and deep frying fat. It was like something out of the Zombie Apocalypse. I guess I'm a bit numb."

"Yeah, it was a nightmare."

"You seemed to sleep well."

Alburton wondered for a moment how she could tell. His bedroom door had been closed all night. "I guess I was exhausted. A lot happened yesterday." He reached over to the cupboard and took out a box of cornflakes. "Fancy some breakfast?"

"OK. I'll eat mine dry."

Alburton looked at her quizzically but said nothing as he poured out two generous bowlfuls. "I'm sad to say I've got to rush off to Drumcastle in a minute. I'm already late."

Sarah frowned. "Right, she said." Well I guess I can make it back to my house as long as it's safe out there."

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"On Bramble Lane." She was referring to a dead-end road at the far side of Valley's only council estate.

"I'll check out the status on the emergency before I leave," he said, "I know there are roadblocks on all roads leading out of town and, of course, there's still the blockade on Netherwood." They'd talked for about half an hour the previous evening and Alburton had relayed the main events that had occurred, withholding details about the possible origins of the infection and any other sensitive details. Just enough to re-assure her that the authorities were getting on top of the situation — something he didn't even believe himself.

"I've been watching the news on my mobile feed. It's pretty shocking."

Alburton handed her the cereal and she started crunching on it hungrily. "Anything else happen overnight?" he said.

"A couple were found in one of the holiday homes up past Springate Moor. There wasn't much detail. A housekeeper found the two bodies and that's all they know, but you can just tell it's suspicious. Do you think they're hiding the full extent of the problem? I mean, you'd know, wouldn't you?"

Alburton had told her all about the incidents he'd heard of, leaving out the gory details. She'd known of the St. Cuthbert's massacre but not about events at the Centurion. "I think it's more a case of controlling the outflow of information. Things are changing by the hour and I know for a fact the press relations team are overloaded. If you're worried you can stay here if you want."

"Could I?" Her answer took Alburton aback — he'd meant it as a polite gesture, not expecting her to take him up on it. "I could look after the dog and make sure he's fed and everything."

Alburton hesitated, wondering what he'd just talked himself into. Reading his reaction, she said, "Sorry, what was I thinking? You were just being nice. I'm sure it'll be alright — "

"No, no. That's fine," he said, recovering his composure. "You're right. You never know what's going to erupt out there, and Smiffy could do with the company. I'll leave you a key."

She returned with a smile that lit up her face. "Cheers, I really appreciate this. I don't know anyone around here. I got shipped up from Manchester when the bedroom tax became too much on the house I rented. Don't worry, you can trust me, I won't steal the family silver."

He laughed. "I think the dog's the most valuable thing in this house anyway." He took his coat from the back of the chair, leaving half his cereal uneaten. Let's swap mobile numbers so we can keep in touch."

"Sure," she said and read out her number.

Alburton felt a sense of warmth at the transaction they'd just carried out. Even if this only resulted in a friendship, then it would be a small blessing to emerge from the days of terror he'd undergone. He sent his number direct to her phone and heard the satisfying blink of noise that heralded a successful transfer. "I'll be in touch," he said, picking up his keys. "Look after yourself."

"Will do," she replied and rose to let Smiffy in.

Alburton left feeling a mixture of grave anticipation at what lay ahead, and a fuzzy glow at what he was leaving behind.

~ ~ ~

Alburton passed through no less than three roadblocks on the way to Drumcastle. He had been granted swift passage by way of his IMT ID card but it had delayed him somewhat. Using his hands-free connection, Alburton phoned ahead to Bellingham, who'd changed his mind and returned home after the previous night's incident. He asked the coroner for an update and learned that, because of Wilkinson's murder, the IMT meeting had been put back until ten a.m. Skinner needed time to oversee the preliminary investigation and Madaki needed to push ahead with urgent laboratory work. Alburton was to join the scientist and her team in the lab and begin his initial DNA analyses. Sundstrom had been up all night since his arrival and been thoroughly briefed.

"Guess who's chairing the IMT now," Bellingham had said over the mobile connection.

"Tell me," Alburton had replied.

"Our friend from London."

"Ryecroft?"

"That's right."

Alburton weighed up the significance of this. "Sounds like oversight has passed from local to national," he said. "I sense trouble ahead."

"Me too. Don't be surprised if we see outside personnel shipped in by the end of the day."

Bellingham was taken up with autopsies on the dead bodies from the chippy and agreed to meet Alburton in the lab later.

Upon arrival at the Infirmary, Alburton was waived through security and he made his way to the laboratories on the bottom floor. He'd heard that all staff had been called in and leave cancelled as a result of the emergency. All around him there was a sense of freneticism and disquiet. Not the usual bustle of a busy hospital, more a fearful distraction of duty. He read the faces of those he passed and saw anxiety and worry. Many were chattering away, the topic of conversation obvious to all who could overhear. Still others dashed across the concourses, carrying clipboards or pushing patients out of hastily cleared wards.

_Expecting the worst,_ Alburton reflected and took the stairs to the labs.

Pushing open the double doors, he noticed the new, yellow biohazard stickers on the glass. The main hub of research was beyond another set of doors in the room he now entered. Entry required personnel to be suited up in full hasmat gear.

The first thing that hit him was that staff numbers working in the bowels of the hospital had doubled overnight. Men and women in white coats were poring over banks of tubes or computer consoles, a sense of business and purpose hanging over them. Alburton picked out Doctor Madaki talking to a gangly, gaunt man sporting a twelve o'clock shadow. He walked straight over to them.

"Jim," Madaki said, breaking off her conversation, "I heard what happened in Valley last night. Are you alright?"

"Shaken, not stirred," he said, offering a smile.

"Glad to hear it," she continued. "This is Fritjof Sundstrom. Professor Sundstrom, Jim Alburton."

The Swede gave him a crooked smile and extended his hand. "I gather you are the man who discovered this outbreak," he said with only the hint of an accent.

"Under less than agreeable circumstances," Alburton returned. "I've studied your work, professor and I'm pleased for the opportunity to work with you." Alburton wasn't just being polite. He'd hoped to attend one of Sundstrom's lectures for many years as his understanding of microorganisms and primitive eukaryotes was legendary.

"Please, call me Frit. All my friends do."

"Well," Madaki said. "We have no time to waste. Jim, the PCR apparatus and reagents have arrived from Newcastle along with two microbiologists and five technicians."

"That's generous of the Life Centre," Alburton said.

"It's a sign of what we're facing," she said and invited them both to sit down. "I've shown Frit the latest slides and samples. He has some initial observations."

"I'm all ears," Alburton said.

Sundstrom perched himself on a lab stool. "It's as I said last night. This organism is like nothing I've ever seen before. The cellular ultrastructure has remarkable powers of growth and regeneration and yet, at the same time, is extremely fragile. It's like a missing link between prokaryotes and eukaryotes. It has nuclear bound DNA but also strands of nucleic acids in plasmid form."

"Yes," Alburton said. "That was my first concern. "I'll need to analyse both sets of DNA to ascertain whether there's a dichotomy of function. Paramount is identifying how the cellular mechanisms allow what seems to be a very specific growth towards brain tissue."

"And presumably, what allows the organism to selectively respond to certain individuals," Sundstrom said.

"There's an early breakthrough on that," Madaki interrupted. "We've identified a number of base sequences common to each of the victims. It was your friend, Tosh Hackett, who's DNA triggered the line of enquiry."

Alburton rubbed his cheeks, smarting still from the loss of his dear friend. "I suppose it's nice to know his death yielded something that might help others."

Sundstrom nodded. "It was his dictated notes that alerted me. He described in quite harrowing detail how each of the victims he and Bellingham had autopsied showed varying degrees of liver damage."

"Hepatitis?"

"No," Sundsrom frowned. "Cirrhosis."

"What, they were all alcoholics?"

"Not all full-blown, no. But the signs were there. It's been established for quite some time that there can be a genetic disposition to alcoholism, based round an identification of two particular alleles."

"I'm familiar with the studies," Alburton said. "So where does that leave us?"

"It's not actually my field of expertise, but preliminary DNA analysis of the victims shows these alleles occupy loci adjacent to another cluster of genes named frag 352 to 372."

"I've emailed the results to the London Institute of Genetics," Madaki put in. "But my online enquiries so far indicate that no one knows the precise function of these base sequences."

Alburton leaned forward. "It's an interesting lead, but let's say these base sequences code for some identifying factor for the organism. How do we prove it, and how can we use the information to control the spread?"

"You're asking the same questions we are," Madaki said. "But until we have some agreement about the hypothesis we daren't allocate too many resources to pursuing it. We could be heading up a blind alley and the priority has to be finding some sort of antidote, or at least an agent that can control the symptoms."

"I suppose you're right," Alburton said. "After all, we can hardly go rounding up every alcoholic in the county. We'd need holding cells for several hundred just from Drumcastle alone." He completed this statement with a curl of a smile. "I'm joking of course. Typical stereotype. Comes from living here too long."

Sundstrom seemed to appreciate the levity but Madaki was already checking her mail on a hand-held device. Either she hadn't registered the attempt at dry humour or she didn't appreciate it.

"Bellingham should be able to pass on samples from the latest infected individuals soon," Sundstrom said. We can run the DNA analysis again and see if it corroborates our theory."

"Nothing back from London yet," Madaki said after scanning her inbox.

"Changing the subject slightly," Alburton said, "what's with this whole Wilkinson murder development?"

"Shocking isn't it?" replied Madaki. "What do you know?"

"Next to nothing."

"I'm afraid I can't add much," she said. "Skinner and Ryecroft have been decidedly tight-lipped about the whole incident. Needless to say, it's added another level of anxiety to the whole operation."

"So, where did it happen, and are the rest of the team in any danger?"

"Veronica Lee, the hospital administrator found the body. She's not in this morning, suffering from shock. It wasn't a pretty sight that greeted her in South Wing admin office. Skinner described it as brutal."

"And he's got no idea what the motive was?"

"No. Like I said, he's keeping Shtum. Hopefully we'll find out more at the meeting. As to whether we're in danger, well the official line is no, but I've noticed the armed police guarding the hospital have doubled in number."

Alburton found the incident bizarre to say the least. Why conceal the salient facts from the rest of the team? Wilkinson's role was pivotal, and unless his death was co-incidental, they had a right to know from the perspective of their own safety.

"Let's try and put it from our minds for now," Madaki said. "We've got an hour before the meeting and a massive amount of work to do. Jim, can you direct the DNA analysis team and liaise with pathology? We need to make inroads into the physiology of the organism. What makes it grow, which chemical factors are significant, and what's the efficacy of existing chemical agents?"

Alburton winced at the prospect. Here was an infestation dissimilar to anything encountered by science before. Simply understanding the way the organism worked probably represented years of work. Finding a suitable agent or vaccine, even with modern techniques could take over a decade. By then, who knows how the infection might have spread? He also wondered how quickly he'd be on the case. They'd already enlisted help from abroad in Sundstrom.

This thing had the potential to go pandemic and would require a global response.

### 21

## Accumulation

As Jim Alburton's car had driven along Valley's main street that morning to his rendezvous with IMT, Gail Wetherby spread almond oil over her palms and stared at the freckled back of Ben Warwick, one of her regular customers. He always took a morning appointment, she guessed because she was quiet at those times and it gave him an inroad to further his unwanted advances with impunity. She'd told herself he was allowed one more chance. If he crossed the lines of acceptability once more she'd tell him to leave and not darken her doorstep ever again. She had her doubts whether he would take the rebuff well, but his likely response didn't seem to hold much trepidation for her this morning. Maybe it was down to the fact she was still under the influence from two bottles of red wine and too many Bacardi-Cokes. The previous night's session with Courtney, her preferred drinking and partying partner, had been a blinder — even by her standards — but it didn't explain the urges she now felt towards this creep of a man.

As she approached his horizontal body on the massage table, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her features were drawn, skin pasty, grey crescents under her eyes and, _God, what was that stuff caking her shoulders? It hadn't been there a few minutes ago._

Then, it didn't seem to matter anymore because a voice spoke up in her head; insidious and persuasive, impossible to deny: _There is a simpler solution, Gail. He won't listen. He'll just keep coming back asking for that extra special massage, the one he'll pay three times the going rate for. His type don't take no for an answer._

A ludicrous sniggering began in her throat and came out through her nose. It sounded like a pig's snuffling.

"What's so funny, love?" Warwick asked, voice muffled from his face's burial in the massage table aperture.

Gail removed the chrome plated hair grip securing the bun of her bleach-blonde hair. It was a nod to her teenage goth past, made from steel, moulded in the shape of an ornate dagger. She always thought it would prove useful as a weapon of self-defence if needed. A girl needed protection these days, especially given the haunts she found herself in. But she'd never predicted the grip could be used as a weapon of _offence._

"I like a girl with a sense of humour," Warwick said. "Makes me think what she'd be willing to do for a laugh." He turned over just in time to see his formerly mild-mannered masseuse lunge towards him, cheeks and shoulders smothered in a coating of orange gunk. He experienced a searing agony as something sharp punched a hole in his windpipe over and over again. All he could utter was a gurgling sound as blood filled his mouth and blackness overcame him.

Gail's sister, Britt had a pounding headache. She was driving at over eighty miles an hour down the M6 in the family's crimson-coloured MPV. The source of her grief was the wailing toddler thrashing about in the child seat directly behind her. She hoped her troubles were over when they'd escaped detection by the police. Barricades cordoning off roads radiating out from the isolated community called Netherwood had not contained them. Her husband, Gavin, the useless lump now snoring in the passenger seat (how he could sleep through Ginnie's caterwauling, she didn't know,) had taken them down a little-known forest road. This led through a conifer plantation that stretched for five miles south of Netherwood and out onto the B5967 beyond the outermost reaches of the cordon. They were headed for her cousins in Devon, far away from the madness unfolding in Cumbria. She'd prided herself on being a law-abiding citizen up to now, but there was no way she was letting her family remain in a locality where monsters were on the loose.

Now it seemed there was a monster in the back, and her nine-year-old son was making his protest known. "Mum, can't you shut Ginnie up? She's been shrieking for hours and her arms keep battering me."

Gavin junior was a whinge-monger, as Gavin senior was all too apt to mention, but Britt had to admit he had a point. Ginnie was being a royal pain in the arse.

"Just a while longer, Gav. We'll stop at the next services. She's just tired. We were up all night packing and it's been a bit much for her.

"Mum? That's not all," Gavin said, a hint of disgust in his voice. "There's orange goo coming out of her ears."

At Gav's description, Britt's hands tightened on the steering wheel, cold dread shooting down her spine. What was that they'd said on the news?

Less than a second later she jumped at the sound of Gav junior wailing. "Mum, Ginnie just wacked me. My nose — it's bleeding."

Britt was trying to concentrate on the road while attempting to deal with the situation. She couldn't see Ginnie directly in the rearview mirror but caught glimpses of her fist pounding Gavin junior as he tried to defend himself. Looking forward again, she saw her position in the third lane of the motorway. She was shunted right up behind a slow-moving Corsa and wedged in at the back by an Audi that was clearly as impatient as her to get by.

"Gavin," she shouted at her slumbering partner. "Wake up. Ginnie's gone crazy. You need to get in the back there and sort it out."

"Mmm," Gavin mumbled. He'd been dribbling out the corner of his mouth.

_The absolute slob. What ever was I thinking when I tied the knot with him?_

The only knot she contemplated these days was that of a hangman's noose.

"Gavin!" She shouted again. "Get your arse in gear and sort Ginnie out. I think she's got that disease."

"Oh, fookin' hell," Gavin said as he came round to the realisation that extreme hostilities were breaking out on the rear seat. "Pull over onto the hard shoulder. I need to get her out of the car."

"I can't. I'm hemmed in," Britt replied, the sound of panic now evident in her voice.

"Fookin' hell," was all Gavin senior could repeat as he undid his belt and scrambled between the front seats. His elbow struck Britt accidentally on the side of her temple as a result of his bumbling attempt and she cried out, more in shock than pain. The MPV swerved, but she got it on course again.

"Put your brakes on gradually," Gavin yelled from the back. "Then pull across behind the artic when you're clear. The arsehole in the Audi will get the message when he sees your brake lights come on."

"I'll try," Britt said, "but you need to stop Ginnie thrashing about." She could hear Ginnie now, or something that Ginnie had become. It didn't sound human although it did carry her characteristic lisp. A factor that added to Britt's dread.

"Get off me you fookin' bastard," Ginnie's alter-ego said in a sinister tone.

_Now where does she get that from?_ Britt thought, absurdly.

"Sit still!" Gavin said, followed by the click of her seat belt mechanism as he released it.

"Don't do that," she cried out. "She'll — "

She didn't finish the sentence as two little hands that felt more like claws grasped her from behind, the fingers gouging deep into her eyes. The last words she heard were her gormless husband shouting, "For Christ's sake, Ginnie — "

The MPV drifted into the artic as Britt lost control. Its offside wing hit the lorry's rear bumper then recoiled in the opposite direction, striking the crash barrier. The momentum of the MPV and the angle at which it collided with the metal sheeting twisted the MPV round ninety degrees, bringing it straight into the path of the Audi, which had taken little notice of the flashing brake lights in front.

At over eighty miles per hour the resulting collision was catastrophic. The sleek sports car's front end crumpled on impact, then the whole car bounced into the middle lane hitting a Range Rover towing a two-wheeled caravan. The driver struggled to compensate for the impact but the laws of physics dictated events. The caravan jack-knifed against the towing mechanism and flipped upwards, rolling and twisting over with a terrible sound of screeching metal. All the vehicles formed an obstacle that the remainder of the traffic could not avoid. Three more cars were swallowed up in the impact with resulting fatalities and life-threatening injuries. A further ten vehicles were written off in what became Cumbria's biggest pile-up on record.

Britt nee Wetherby did not see any of the carnage that resulted from her daughter's demented outburst. She simply felt her chest cave in against the steering column. Later, the traffic police would determine that the MPV's airbag was not functioning. She saw her daughter fly through the gap between the front seats and smash into the windscreen. Then, to the sound of wailing and crashing, Britt's vision blurred as a massive force crushed the top of her head like so much papier-mache.

~ ~ ~

The IMT's crisis manager, Dave Brock, received reports on drip feed from a variety of sources — police, the media (frustratingly) and a direct messaging system from Ryecroft's intelligence team. He only knew the group of faceless individuals from their online tag-names; Napier, Alarm, Watcher were three of the usernames he remembered. _Did they invent those monickers themselves?_ he wondered. It was a weird set-up as Ryecroft wouldn't even give the NGO a name. So he had made a mental note to refer to them as the Men in Black — although they didn't seem half as full of wise-crack humour as Will Smith or Tommy Lee-Jones.

As he stared at the latest incident reported from the M6 a crazy thought occurred to him. _What if I was to jump ship?_

The situation certainly seemed to be getting out of hand and, although his wife and two children lived in the south of the county, he feared for their safety. The spread of incidents was getting wider. This latest was just over the border in Lancashire, but he had also received some harrowing bulletins from Workington and Silloth. An old age pensioner had run amok in a DIY store with a pair of garden shears, two youngsters had attacked random passers by with blow torches, and Ken Wilcott's killing spree in Valley High School read like something out of a slasher movie.

He'd watched all seasons of the Walking Dead on streaming TV and had often joked with his mates about what they'd do in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse. He'd never have dreamed such a train of events could occur in reality. Yet here he was in a position of responsibility, far from convinced this outbreak was containable, despite the IMT's reassurances about the pathogen being fragile and the localised nature of the effect.

As he finished sending off the details of this latest incident, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew his wallet. Flipping it open, he looked through the transparent window at the latest family shot. It showed his wife and two daughters enjoying a day on the beach, carefree smiles adorning their faces. He'd protect them at all costs. He knew that. A father's shielding instinct always came to the fore in these situations and he was no different. But what lengths was he prepared to go to? Abandon his post? Flee the county? What if the outbreak went pandemic? Would he be willing to kill to defend his family against these orange-gunked monsters?

You bet your arse he would.

A barked command from Skinner seated in the adjacent office brought his thoughts back to the present. "Meeting's in five minutes, Brock. We better get down to the incident room."

"Sure thing, guv," Brock replied.

_See what happens in the meeting,_ he thought, _then decide. Establish the priorities and the likelihoods, but do what you have to do._

### 22

## Storm clouds gather

"It all seems rather crazy, does it not?" Sundstrom said. He and Alburton were waiting for the latest biochemical assay to run its course. It was the beginnings of a protocol to establish molecular markers on cell types taken from the disease victims. They'd identified possible contenders from the PCR analysis, but they both had to admit their starting point was entirely speculative; the result of a 'best-guess' after discussion with Madaki.

"Off the scale," Alburton replied, "I never imagined the lab work I did might have so much hanging on it."

"I suspect it might not be our ship to steer for much longer," Sundstrom remarked, taking a mouthful of coffee from a mug emblazoned with the slogan 'mycologists are fun guys to hang out with.' Sundstrom had produced it from his briefcase after a lab assistant offered to rustle them up some refreshment — an affectation that Alburton could relate to. _You never know how well they wash the crockery in establishments like this._

"You know, we Scandinavians have a folktale about a pestilence such as this?"

"Really?" Alburton said, his interest piqued.

"Yes. When the Black Death ravaged Norway and Denmark in the dark ages, there was apparently an old hag called Pesta who became the personification of death and illness. The disease decimated up to fifty percent of the populations in these countries. Pesta appeared as a hideous old woman, dressed in black, carrying a broom or a rake. She would move from farm to farm, spreading the plague. If she brought her rake with her, some inhabitants would survive, but if she was carrying the broom, everyone in the family would soon die."

"Cheery tale," Alburton said, "still, some deaths associated with Mycophoria seem to have topped the Black Death in terms of gruesomeness."

"Yes, the organism seems to amplify the desires and motivations lying deep within us all. Those basest of cravings we dare not even admit to ourselves that we contemplate from time to time."

Alburton chuckled. "Yes, I must confess I have a few objects of malice I could focus on. But, unfortunately the victims of this pestilence are largely innocent."

"As it ever was," Sundstrom replied.

"We could do with a break, something that would provide a solid line of enquiry we could pursue."

"The history of science is littered with such happy coincidences and benefits of happenstance. Fleming's discovery of penicillin, the electric shock treatment that ensured Dolly the Sheep was successfully cloned."

"Luck's never favoured me," Alburton said. "Perhaps I should resign from this project now. I'm probably a bad luck charm."

"Nonsense," Sundstrom said. "We need your attention to detail and imaginative approach. I've read your work on ecological genetics. It's thorough and meticulous. You don't just think inside the box, as it were,"

Alburton was taken aback at Sundstrom's admission and praise. "You've read my papers? I'm flattered. I thought they occupied a niche in cyberspace rarely frequented by luminaries such as yourself."

"I'm not saying these things to flatter. I speak the truth."

Alburton smiled. "Well, thank you. Let's hope we're given the latitude to collaborate further."

Sundstrom looked at his watch. "Looks like the IMT meeting is about to begin. Shall we leave this assay to run its course and see what the team have to say?"

Madaki joined them as they exited the labs and scaled the stairs to the upper floor. The venue for the meeting had changed to the larger conference room, an allowance for the greater numbers IMT had now grown to.

Ryecroft called the meeting to order at precisely ten o'clock from a table at the far end of the room. Unlike Wilkinson's arrangement, the 'them and us' nature of the seating reinforced an already bristling atmosphere. Madaki, Sundstrom and Alburton were sat together at the centre of some thirty-five professionals on chairs arranged in rows before the head table. Alburton noticed at least ten new faces but their attire gave nothing away.

"I'm sure the burning question on all of your minds," Ryecroft began, "is the disturbing and shocking murder of Chris Wilkinson. So I'm going to pass straight over to Inspector Skinner and let him explain what we know."

Skinner shuffled in his chair, looking like he'd been passed through a mangle, only with less finesse. "Right, I imagine you'll agree with me when I say Wilkinson's death is bizarre and shocking. It bears the hallmarks of a berzerker attack, yet there's no evidence that would point to such an assailant. Every other case has involved an actual or attempted killing spree, closely followed by the death of the infected. Therefore, we are actively considering this could have been perpetrated by another yet unknown POI with ulterior motives."

He paused to take a sip of water, then continued, his eyes blinking rapidly, presumably from lack of sleep. "Let me assure everyone we don't think there is an immediate threat to anyone in this room. Our current lines of enquiry are focused on the fact that Wilkinson had considerable personal liabilities. This could be related to third parties calling in one or more of these debts."

A council official raised his hand and started his question before Ryecroft gave him leave to speak. "Are you saying he might have been killed by a loan shark or a member of the criminal community?"

Skinner coughed, then responded, "As I say, it's a first line of enquiry."

"Seems unlikely these types would carry out the crime on hospital property," the man opined.

"We're not able to field questions at present," Ryecroft interrupted. "We're simply telling you what we know and trying to put your minds at rest."

"Well that's hardly — "

"We must move on," Ryecroft said, effectively dismissing the man's interruption. "The infection, as feared, has resulted in many incidents across the north of the county this morning. I'll let Dave Brock bring you up to date on those in a moment, but suffice it to say, matters are serious enough to have triggered a national response." He turned to a white-haired man at his left. "Mr Grizedale, this might be an appropriate time to share your role."

The man Ryecroft referred to wore an expensive suit, his face looking like a piece of limestone eroded by years of attrition. His manner was equally stony. Standing up, he placed hands on hips and spoke in a voice both oily and nasal. "This won't be pleasant news for some of you, but the national response requires a shifting of responsibility. There are resources available now, both far reaching and much more appropriate. Because of this, our team will take charge of the scientific operations. This means the following personnel will no longer be required, except in an advisory role."

Grizedale proceeded to read out a list of names and Alburton was not surprised when his name was announced along with Sundstrom and Madaki's. There were other heads to fall, some of which gasped in surprise or caused the recipient of the news to scowl with barely concealed contempt.

One council official stood up and railed against Grizedale. "Who gave you authority to steam-roller this through? We've worked hard on a local level to contain this outbreak and — "

"And failed," Grizedale said, his face set like marble. "As Mr Brock will tell us in a minute, cases are appearing further afield from the site of origin and our response must look beyond the parochial and call upon more robust measures. Mr Brock will you deliver your report now?" Grizedale sat down and the councillor, left without an audience and the resolve to press things further, took his seat, embarrassment showing clearly in his manner.

Brock read out the latest incidents and Alburton felt his spirits sink still further as he absorbed the extent of the death toll.

Sundstrom leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Seems like my tenure here is over before it's even started, and these latest reports do little to re-assure me that the situation is contained."

Alburton shook his head as if it might dislodge the bewilderment that had now settled there. "It's hard to believe the crassness of these decisions. Do you recognise any of these newcomers?"

Sundstrom looked around then answered in the negative. "Whoever these people are, they're off the grid or totally unqualified. I believe I know most international authorities on mycology."

"Could be that the new science team aren't here in the meeting."

Sundstrom shrugged then turned his attention back to Grizedale who was summarising the handover of responsibility.

"Immediately following this meeting, the former heads of science and pathology will convene in the hospital laboratories and liaise over any results and findings. We'll also require you to sign the Official Secrets Act. It is vital that information from this investigation and research program does not leak out in an uncontrolled manner. The ramifications for control of a Mycophoria spread are self evident. This aspect will be stringently enforced."

"Who's the suit?" came a voice over Alburton's shoulder. When he looked round he saw Bellingham, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

"What took you?" Alburton replied. "You've missed the big bonfire of expertise. A fire, you'll be pleased to know you've escaped."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bellingham said.

"Yeah, me too. Grizedale there is heading up the new team, and it looks like he still wants you involved."

As Alburton spoke, Ryecroft was bringing the meeting to a close, announcing the time of the next meeting — a congregation that Alburton wouldn't be attending. Although his mind reeled, he was adamant he wouldn't take this lying down, and he'd be damned if he was going to sign any gagging order imposed by this arrogant son of a bitch. He looked over to Madaki. She looked solemn and was talking urgently with Sundstrom. Without wishing to interrupt, he signalled he'd meet them outside.

"I think we should all meet before we're required at this handover," he said to Bellingham, "but there's something I need to do first."

Bellingham nodded, "Yes, that's imperative. I have some matters to discuss with you. The coroner's office?"

"Sure thing, let Frit and Kachina know."

Alburton observed Grizedale and Ryecroft leave, then rose to follow. Around him there were dazed expressions exhibited by half a dozen personnel. Alburton understood their predicament all too well. When you're drawn together as professionals on a project, a bond is formed that transcends the work at hand. With stakes being so high on the Mycophoria outbreak, this allegiance would have been all the stronger. It was like being made redundant, receiving your divorce papers and suffering a bereavement all at once.

He bustled past the groups of bereft and pursued the objects of his chagrin through the exit door. Passing along the corridor beyond, he saw them disappear into what had previously been Wilkinson's office. He fully intended to open the door without knocking and deliver his barrage, but he hadn't really thought through what he was going to say and something made him hesitate before clasping the door handle. The door was closed but constructed from cheap plywood — typical NHS, cost-cutting policy. As such, the sound from inside conducted through the thin veneer. Alburton listened intently.

"... you think there'll be any trouble?" he heard Grizedale saying.

"Some won't take it lying down, but it's nothing we can't handle," Ryecroft replied gruffly.

"We should have been involved earlier," Grizedale went on, "containment of the data is paramount if we're to take advantage of the situation."

"The protocols are in place. We can ship the bodies and specimens out of here using secure transport. Once they're in our facility, we can put a lid on the material and get to work on the organism. Is the minister fully informed?"

"I've told him what he needs to know, yes."

"I suspect he'll be happy to keep it that way."

"Convenient deniability?"

"Isn't it always the way with politicians?"

There was a pause in the conversation and a shuffling of papers. Grizedale then said something that froze Alburton in his resolve to deliver an outburst. "This could put our defence footing years ahead of foreign hostiles. There's nothing like this organism in anyone's vaults. The possibilities are enormous."

"Even though the Geneva Convention is being stretched to its limits?"

"Remember, we're not considering using this as a weapon of destruction."

"Not directly, no. But our lawyers have their doubts."

"That's why we must act quickly. If we don't make use of this extraordinary organism, someone else out there will."

A ringing telephone interrupted their conversation and, from Grizedale's next utterances, it was clear he would be coming out the door soon to convene the scientist's handover. Alburton about-turned and ran straight into Skinner. The short man looked at him, initially in surprise, then allowed a smirk to cross his face. "Sorry to hear you'll be leaving," he said.

"Like fuck you are," Alburton replied and pushed past him.

_So many people to hate,_ he thought. His musings were irrational, he knew, but his mind was chewing on a bone it wouldn't let go of. He spent a disproportionate amount of time carrying out arguments in his head with real and imagined adversaries. A visit to the local shrink might have been a good idea — but that wasn't ever going to happen.

He made his way to Bellinghams' office and found the pathologist there along with Madaki and Sundstrom. He closed the door behind him and launched straight into an account of what he'd just overheard. When he'd finished, all his colleagues wore the same surprised countenance.

"They're seriously considering using Mycophoria as a method of germ warfare?" Madaki said. She was holding her hands against her cheeks and seemed unable to absorb the news.

"It's hard to come to any other conclusion," Bellingham said. "It certainly explains a lot."

"We can't let this happen," Alburton continued. "It's madness."

"Yet maybe we shouldn't be surprised," Sundstrom added. "I imagine they're banking on the disease running its course, then covering things up so they can work on the organism at their leisure. After all, it seems clear you can't contract the disease from human contact. As long as they can contain the site of origin, the incident may shut itself down in a matter of weeks."

Madaki sat down as if her legs couldn't withstand the burden of news she was receiving. "Surely they can't hope to isolate Netherwood indefinitely. There are too many members of the public affected."

"No?" Bellingham said. "Are you familiar with Gruinard Island?"

"The site of Anthrax experimentation following World War Two?" Madaki replied. "The only casualties there were sheep, and international law has caught up with such maverick practices."

"Did international law prevent the use of outlawed chemical agents in Syria, or Saddam Hussein's atrocities?" Bellingham shot back.

"No," Madaki replied. "But this is England, not some rogue state."

"Yet the conversation I overheard can't be denied," Alburton put in, "and we're all required to sign forms effectively gagging us."

There was silence for a moment as each scientist processed the information. Sundstrom eventually broke it. "I'm thinking again about Wilkinson's death. Connected?"

Madaki looked horrified. "Oh my God. What if he'd got wise to Ryecroft's agenda and — "

"One thing's clear," Alburton interrupted. "We have to act fast. If they remove all the specimens and data, there's no record of what happened. We have to transfer as much of it as possible."

Bellingham stroked his beard, "I have no doubt that Grizedale's team have already commandeered all the files — probably during the meeting we just attended."

"Are there any copies?" Madaki asked.

Alburton smiled. "I have a backup service that transfers all my new files to the cloud every thirty minutes."

"If MI5 are involved," Bellingham said, "they'll be shutting that down. Here, use my terminal and see if you can retrieve anything. There's a chance they haven't had time to close down your account."

Alburton rushed round to sit behind Bellingham's desk. He logged in and raced through the screens to access his data files. After a frustrating few minutes wait while Drumcastle Infirmary's antiquated network responded, Alburton was able to confirm his files were still secure. "Anyone got a pen drive?" he asked. Sundstrom produced a memory stick and Alburton sighed with relief when he saw the last of the files transfer to the drive.

"The specimens are going to be a different story," Bellingham said. "There's no way to smuggle anything out from the lab. Grizedale's people will be crawling all over it."

"Speaking of which," Madaki said. "Our absence at the handover meeting will be noticed."

"You're right," Sundstrom said. "We ought to get up there and at least give the appearance we're playing ball."

"I'm not signing any Official Secrets Act," Alburton said.

"It may behove us to do so, even if we have no intention of honouring it," Sundstrom said.

Alburton didn't take too much convincing. He knew he had to play the situation smartly if they were to stand any chance of exposing this conspiracy.

"I better arrive separately," Bellingham said. "I'm still technically on the team and it will look suspicious if we all descend together."

They all agreed. Bellingham was needed on the inside for as long as possible.

The next hour passed in a blur for Alburton. His handover attachment was a woman called Jetter. He didn't know if this was her first or second name and didn't care. She conversed in terse sentences, never smiling once. Alburton shared enough of his findings to give the impression he was being magnanimous and cooperative. But there was no record of the scientist's conversation before the meeting's bombshell and he had no intention of sharing that. He signed the piece of paper handed to him without even reading it, writing his real name but using a script he'd only used as a child at school. He pondered over this peculiarity. It struck him that he'd changed his handwriting three times since then. Once in imitation of someone he'd admired, the next just to prove to himself he could do it. _More material for a psychiatrist,_ he concluded.

He left the basement labs for what he assumed would be the last time, confident he'd got his files on Sundstrom's memory stick. He passed a procession of new personnel on his way out, some of which could have been scientists, but others carried themselves like taut springs, muscled and bulky under their overcoats. Alburton was glad to be out of there but in no doubt his movements would be watched. How far would their conspiracy theory stretch? Phone tapping? Hidden cameras? Maybe they were watching his home even now.

His next destination was Bellingham's house. They'd agreed to meet up there once released from their obligations. Bellingham might be late. He wasn't sure how much his presence would be needed under the new regime, but he promised to keep them informed.

A buzzing in Alburton's pocket gave him pause as he proceeded to the car park. Looking at the caller id, he could see it was Sarah. He pushed the receive button and held the mobile to his ear.

"Sarah, is everything OK?" he said.

"Oh my God, Jim, there's one of those monsters outside. He's trying to break through the window!"

Alburton could detect the hysteria in her voice. "Sarah, listen to me," he said, trying to appear calm. "Are the doors locked?"

"Yes, but he's smashing the glass in the windows."

"Have you called the police?"

"Yes, but they said they couldn't get a car out for the next hour. They're responding to calls from all over — "

A crashing noise interrupted her sentence, followed by a wrenching sound.

"Sarah, are you still there?" Alburton cried.

The line went dead.

Alburton didn't hesitate. He threw himself into his car and accelerated out of the car park, narrowly missing an ambulance on its way in. He jumped a red light at the next junction and sped towards Valley, praying he would not be too late.

### 23

## Berzerker

Skinner rubbed his temple. The needling in his head wasn't exactly a headache, but it represented a prelude to one. He glanced at his watch. Mid-day. He hadn't slept for over thirty hours and it was affecting his ability to think. If ever there was a time when he needed his critical faculties intact it was surely today.

Another bulletin appeared on his PC terminal from the media and data team. This time it was a murder in a Valley massage parlour. Yet another incident to stretch their meagre resources. He had no doubt this was deliberate. Ryecroft wasn't mobilising any more police into the area. The new personnel were all his own people, assigned to a range of undisclosed tasks. Which branch of police or intelligence they belonged to was anyone's guess.

Another thing he had sensed rather than being told officially was that Ryecroft and Grizedale were gradually edging him out. Could it be to do with Wilkinson's death? The murder had shocked even him. There was no sense to it. No murder weapon, no suspect and therefore no motive. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he had chosen the wrong side in this whole affair. Alburton and the other scientists were a clique, and their sanctimonious attitude rubbed him up the wrong way, but their scepticism at the handling of the crisis was increasingly justified given the decisions descending from on high.

_Pragmatism, that's your strength,_ his trainer had said to him on their final session. _Don't let anger and resentment push this aside. It's probably the thing that'll save you._

He sensed a mental tumbler flip into place. A decision had been made. He reached for the phone and tapped in the extension number for the labs. "Yes, it's Skinner," he said when a monotone voice answered on the third ring. "Alburton, Madaki and Sundstrom — can you put one of them on for me?"

"I'm sorry Inspector Skinner, but the scientists have all been dismissed. Can we help in any way?"

Skinner felt his inner frustration building up into an expletive.

_Pragmatism, Wesley._

"Nah, it's OK," he said. "It's not important. Sorry for bothering you."

He dropped the receiver in the cradle and pulled out his mobile. Keying through the contacts, he found Alburton's number and hit the call icon. After five rings it cut to answer phone.

_Shit._

He risked leaving a message. "It's Skinner here. Look, I think we should meet up. I know we haven't seen eye to eye but I think things have reached a stage where it might be mutually helpful if we shared intel. Call me as soon as you can and we'll get together on neutral ground — with Madaki and Sundstrom if possible."

He finished the call and sat back in his seat. Priorities — where to focus his attention?

He needed to allocate constables to the mounting number of incidents. Then there was his meeting with Grizedale in an hour's time. There was no agenda, but he could imagine what it would be about. He cleared these two items from his mind and thought about Wilkinson's murder again. For the umpteenth time he opened the file on the investigation and pored over Bellingham's autopsy report. Wilkinson had been struck by a blunt instrument twenty-four times. The injuries carried all the hallmarks of a frenzied attack. Under the current circumstances the easy conclusion to reach would be another victim of a Mycophoria-induced attack, yet there was no sign of an assailant. Whoever had committed this crime had covered their tracks well. CCTV footage had yielded nothing useful and there weren't any cameras on Wilkinson's office corridor anyway.

_Had Wilkinson known his attacker?_ His gut told him this was more than likely. There was no sign of a struggle and Wilkinson hadn't had time to defend himself. The third blow to his head had caused a massive brain haemorrhage, and he'd probably died before his attacker delivered the last blow. Ivan Guthrie would be back from interviewing Wilkinson's widow shortly. Maybe that would reveal something of his supposed debts; but again, his instincts told him this was somehow related to the Mycophoria phenomenon — just not the usual run of ghastly carnage. This seemed more ... purposeful.

As he read over the forensics, he felt his eyes drooping. It was no good, he needed something to wake him up. A hit of nicotine would do the trick. He grabbed a coat and made his way out of the office. As he turned the corner he caught Brock leaving his desk. He'd donned his jacket and bore an unusually furtive look.

"Off for lunch?" Skinner asked.

"Er, yes. Thought I'd nip down to Greggs," Brock replied.

"Oh, could you get me a pasty then? I'll pay you back later."

Brock seemed hesitant.

"If it's not too much trouble?"

"No, of course not," Brock said, recovering.

Skinner nodded, noting Brock's reaction then walked out of the office in response to the unrelenting pull of a nicotine fix. _A bit out of character_ he thought, but dismissed his suspicions and pursued his date with a packet of Marlborough's.

~ ~ ~

Superorganisms are rare phenomena in nature, sponges being the simplest — colonial polyps interconnected by a common chemistry and physiology. One could consider ant and termite colonies a more advanced version, although each individual is a discrete entity. Pursuing their own paths, they are governed by the needs of the whole colony, the collective requirements communicated via a subtle blend of scents and signals. _Mycophoria infestans_ was in a class or 'phylum' of its own. Each cell was an integral part of the whole, yet the host-parasite relationship introduced a unique element to the primitive association, one that brought _intelligence._

Up to now, this intelligence had been subverted in a destructive manner, resulting in the disruption of the human host's brain. This self-destruction did not bode well for Mycophoria. As a spore it was weak, destined to be discarded on evolution's scrap heap. But infesting the body and mind of a human opened the route to perpetuation and dominance. If only it could keep its host alive.

The final unique feature of the pseudo-fungus was self-awareness. In the ground it was aware, almost supernaturally, of its surroundings and those other parts of the ecosystem that impinged on it. When occupying its hosts, communication was possible with another host through touch. It had discovered this during the Valley Chippy incident and there was strength in numbers, the possibility of forming a human-parasite alliance. An army of sorts. The collaboration between the chippy employees had almost resulted in their escape from immediate capture, only the police had arrived too soon.

There was another alliance in operation now. Although Mycophoria could not have known Alburton's name or even comprehended the nature of a such a thing, it knew the scientist was a threat. That was why it had orchestrated the attack on his home, an assault that was about to remove another of the scientist's allies. Removing Wilkinson had also aided its strategy. The IMT leader's co-ordination of his response team had been the greatest danger, but its most valued asset had put a stop to that. Mycophoria's gradually emerging consciousness within this super-host had exponentially increased its ability to respond and to understand. Even now, as its hyphae increased their hold on the asset's brain, the control exerted became more sophisticated. It could turn the host's mania on and off at will, giving the host the appearance it was unaffected and in control. The genetic mix had been found. If Mycophoria could replicate this in other hosts, then the path would be laid open for conquest.

~ ~ ~

If Alburton had been able to guess the ramifications of Mycophoria's extraordinary development, he would have been astounded. As it was, his mind was preoccupied with getting to Sarah. A dread fear crouched in the pit of his stomach that whatever he found at his house would plunge his sense of despair at this whole situation to a new low. The carnage he'd witnessed in the last few days was enough to drive anyone to the edge of sanity. The discovery of Kev and Jane's bodies, together with Tosh's death and heroic attempt to record the final moments of his life still weighed heavily on Alburton's mind. To imagine Sarah as the latest victim of this horrific organism was too much to contemplate.

He focused on the moment, driving at speed without straying into recklessness. The chances of getting pulled over for speeding given the current state of emergency and deployment of police was minimal, so he risked a few chancy overtakes and floorings of the accelerator.

As he saw the turn off to Valley loom, he considered calling Bellingham or Madaki to let them know. If Mycophoria took him down it might take several hours before they discovered what happened to him. But that would entail stopping the car to focus on dialling. He wished he'd installed a hands-free system. _If wishes were fishes, we'd all swim in riches._ The old proverb brought no comfort, only reinforcing a mentality he hoped to have left behind soon after his marriage break-up.

He skidded across the junction to the Valley road, narrowly missing a white panel van, skidded round the inverse camber and rocketed towards the town limits. Last time he'd traversed this road it had resulted in his encounter at the chippy. His thoughts had come full circle.

The next minute trickled by like treacle pouring, and when he finally careered round the corner of the street leading to his house, desperation fuelled his bloodstream with adrenaline and a sugar high.

He screeched to a halt, lurched out of his car and rushed up the steps leading to the front door. No sound could be heard from inside and it struck him that entering through the front door might not be the smartest of moves. Pragmatism brought him to a halt and enabled him to consider his options. If a bezerker was still in there, he needed some kind of weapon. As he cast his eyes around, he saw a garden fork leaning against the perimeter wall. An improbable weapon, but better than nothing. Might be better than a knife as it would keep an assailant at bay. He grabbed it and proceeded along the path leading to the rear of the property. He felt a little more secure at having something in his hands that would form a defence of sorts.

As he neared the rear garden, he heard a barking ensue from the kitchen. The sound reached him through a broken window.

Blood dripped from jagged fragments of glass protruding like fangs from the frame, together with a ribbon of cotton, perhaps from the trousers or coat of an intruder.

_Something had got in._

The barking continued. Alburton knew it was Smiffy and felt relief that the mutt was still alive. But where was it? There followed a snarling and a ripping sound, together with a scream from the upper floor. _Sarah was alive — but for how long?_

Caution was cast aside and Alburton reached for the handle of the back door. It was predictably locked, his fastidious practice ensuring he wouldn't be able to breach the door easily. He wasted precious seconds fumbling with his keys, dropping them upon hearing another scream from inside. He resisted the impulse to cry out reassurance. There was the chance that whoever had pinned Sarah down might not be aware of his presence yet — and he needed any advantage he could get.

At last the key turned, and he opened the door rapidly but with stealth, leaving the keys hanging in the lock. He strode towards the stairs, hearing a new sound rising above Smiffy's barking — a snuffling and grunting, inhuman in origin.

A dull thud elicited a whimper from Smiffy, followed by a cessation of the dog's growls.

_Hell, if Smiffy's dead, this fucker will feel the tines of my fork,_ Alburton thought.

It was hardly a quote worthy of Conan the Barbarian but it came from a place of primal defensiveness he couldn't repress. He ascended the stairs, homing in on the sound of splintering wood.

"Stay back," he heard Sarah shout, "or I'll shove this rolling pin up your arse!"

_A rolling pin. That was her only line of defence?_

Alburton rounded the corner of the landing and laid eyes on the aggressor. He recognised him as the store assistant from the local mini-mart. The number of times he'd served Alburton with a cheery smile and witty greeting were countless. But the creature he'd now become bore little resemblance in demeanour to the mild-mannered grocery store employee. The man's trousers were ripped at the thigh and blood streamed down his leg. But this wasn't the most distressing aspect to his appearance. Although Boisterous Barry (as he was known locally) had his back to Alburton, the scientist could make out phlegm and spittle dribbling down the man's cheeks, mixed with the now familiar orange goo of Mycophoria. As Alburton watched, Barry raised an axe above his head and brought it smashing down on the bedroom door, sending splinters of wood inward and creating a worryingly large portal in the solid wood.

_It won't stand another blow like that,_ Alburton thought. He paused for a second, the memory of cheery Barry at the checkout flicking across his mind. _Surely there must be another way to disable him without causing permanent damage?_

His hesitation gave Barry the opportunity to land another blow to the door and this time the wood caved in completely. Sarah squealed, this time in pain.

_God, she'd been standing right behind the door. What was she thinking?_

Barry lunged through the gap he'd created, reaching out with something that resembled a claw rather than the helping hand of a former assistant. Sounds like those uttered from a gurgling monster rose from the Barry-thing's throat and Alburton thought he detected a note of satisfaction in them. A further sob from Sarah confirmed Barry's hand had struck pay-dirt and succeeded in grasping her.

The scene was like something out of _The Shining,_ but Alburton was determined he wouldn't end up like the Cook that saved Danny Torrance from Jack Nicholson's maniacal character. He lifted the fork and aimed it at Barry's midriff. He remembered a piece of advice he'd once received from an acquaintance well-versed in street fighting. The man wasn't exactly someone he'd have chosen to rub shoulders with on a daily basis but the tip had remained with Alburton, never to be tried in the heat of a skirmish. Now it rose to the surface: _Aim your blow as if you're striking beyond the person's body. Punch through to a point beyond your target. That way, you'll increase the damage._

At the time Alburton had recoiled at the suggestion of inflicting harm on another human being. But this thing was less than human.

The fork struck Barry and Alburton felt the jolt through his arms as the tines passed through the man's coat and flesh. The force of the blow was enough to sink it down to the bone — probably the man's ribs.

Barry cried out with a noise part way between pain and anger. He or it turned to look at Alburton, hands still on the axe shaft. Then its eyes lowered to look at the fork protruding from its side.

Alburton froze in horror at what he'd done. It was enough time for Barry-thing to wrench the fork from his grasp and attempt to tug it free. Despite the increased strength of the berzerker it failed in its attempt and it struck Alburton that his erstwhile acquaintance's advice had been true. However, he'd failed to mention that it might remove his only weapon and leave him defenceless.

Concern for Sarah overcame his inaction, and he called out to her. "Sarah, it's Jim. Are you hurt?" He kept his eye on Barry-thing and stepped back to put distance between them. The berzerker was torn between removing the fork which stuck out like a ridiculous stick on a cocktail sausage, and the axe that lay balanced in the splintered door. A fresh ring of crimson radiated from the site of the wound, soaking through its coat.

"Jim, thank Christ. I ... I'm OK — I think," Sarah said from beyond the door. Alburton could see her frightened face through the opening Barry-thing had created.

"Step away from the door. I need to hold this thing's attention. Whatever happens, don't leave the room."

"I don't know if that's the best advice, Jim. You're vulnerable out there."

"Sarah, listen to me, I — "

Alburton was cut off by a growl from Barry. It (Alburton couldn't think of the berserker as a 'he') had opted for the axe, leaving the fork to sway in the air. As it grabbed the handle, wrenching it free, it span round. Unfortunately for it, the fork handle struck the wall jamming it further into its side. It cried out through orange-encrusted lips, shook its head then lumbered towards Alburton. The thing's speed took him by surprise and Alburton stumbled backwards, scrambling with his arms for support.

In a sequence of events to rival his worst nightmares, his legs gave way, causing him to fall on his back. The wind was knocked from him and his vision blurred for a moment. When it cleared, he saw the leering face of Barry-thing looming over him, axe raised.

_This is it,_ he thought. _A less than illustrious scientific career ended by a shop assistant-cum-monster._ He raised his arms in a futile attempt at defence and waited for the inevitable blow. His eyes closed, and he gritted his teeth.

He had time to hear a footfall on the stairs behind followed by a single shot. He opened his eyes to the sight of the ceiling splattered with brain and blood. A second later he saw the upside down visage of Skinner, his mouth curled in a grim smile.

"Cavalry saves the day," he said, reaching out his hand.

### 24

## Revelation

Alburton gripped his coffee cup with a tightness beyond his usual gratitude at the prospect of a hot drink. It helped stop the shaking of his hands — but only just.

He looked at Sarah who was seated across from him at the breakfast bar in Bellingham's kitchen. She smiled at him over her own steaming brew. Her punky hairstyle was more tousled than usual and a large plaster covered a good portion of her forehead, but to Alburton's eye she cut a handsome picture.

"I haven't thanked you yet," she said, blowing on her cup of tea.

Alburton smiled back. "As if that were needed. I'm just glad you're alive."

"And kicking," she replied.

"Feeling any better?" Bellingham said, joining them with his own drink. Beyond him, Madaki was fixing Skinner, Sundstrom and herself a brew of their own. "Wouldn't mind a touch of rum in mine," Skinner said to the female scientist. "Just kidding," he followed up, once he'd viewed her expression.

"I think we've both got DI Skinner here to thank," Alburton said, looking over at their unlikely saviour.

"Thanks?" Skinner said. "Do I detect a note of conciliation?"

"Well, detection is your stock in trade," Alburton said, curling his lip in a grin. "What made you decide to follow me to my house?"

"While I was finishing a ciggy I saw you screaming out the hospital car park like Lewis Hamilton. I figured you were onto something or up to no good, so I gave chase. Looks like I guessed right."

Alburton wasn't sure which of Skinner's conclusions he was sticking with but at that point Madaki butted in.

"There's a lot that's happened," she said. "So maybe we ought to share what we know. Is that OK with you Detective Skinner?"

"Might as well call me Wes," Skinner said. "I think we're beyond formalities now, aren't we?"

"Wes it is, then," Madaki said.

The remainder of the hastily formed partnership seated themselves at Bellingham's spacious worktop and looked to the coroner for a prompt. Bellingham took no time in adopting the role of chair and turned to Skinner. "So, we're all perturbed at the prospect of our forced ejection from the IMT. Up to this point we've only been able to guess at the reasons, but ... er Wes ... you may know more than we do. Are you prepared to share your intel?"

Skinner looked around the table, as if weighing up a final decision, then clasped his hands in front of him. "OK. I'm not sure I can add too much. I've been kept in the dark as much as anyone. The meeting I should now be attending would no doubt have finished with my dismissal." He turned his hand over to glance at his watch, emphasising to the rest he'd crossed a line by his insubordination.

"It all looks quite sinister," Sundstrom put in. "Can we assume there's a wanted list with our names on it?"

"Perhaps not straight away," Skinner said. "But in the next forty-eight hours, who knows? There's a dead body in Jim's house that no one else knows about yet. I'll hold off telling Guthrie about it until later. I don't want to be answering any official questions at this stage. As regards Ryecroft and Grizedale, they operate at a much higher level of security and it looks like their lot will take over the entire operation."

"What do you reckon to Wilkinson's murder?" Alburton asked.

Skinner cocked an eyebrow. "Bizarre. My first thought was a berzerker attack but there's no evidence of Mycophoria at the crime scene. The sufferers' drop so much of that orange gunk that it's an absolute giveaway in every killing we've seen so far. Not to mention the inevitable demise of the sufferer. So, my best guess is it's something unrelated. Coincidences _do_ happen after all."

"I thought detectives didn't believe in coincidences," Alburton said.

"Sounds good in a Connelly thriller, but unless something's obvious, coincidences happen all the time. Anyway, I think this potential cover-up is more worthy of our time and attention."

"I agree," Sundstrom put in, "but what should be our course of action?"

They had given Skinner a brief summary of Grizedale and Ryecroft's overheard conversation and he'd related to Alburton that nothing surprised him about the development. "The Mycophoria phenomenon is an absolute game-changer," he said. "Thinking on my feet there are only a few options. One — report what we know to the press. Get the whole thing out in the open and engineer an expose."

"I like the sound of that," Sarah said, bouncing up and down in her seat. "Blow these bastards' boat right out of the water."

Skinner gave her a patronising look and continued. "Two — bypass the usual chain of command and inform the highest level of authority."

A sudden stillness came over Madaki. "If the Minister of Defence is party to this and tacitly approves of it, then the only other recourse would be ..."

"That's right," Skinner said, "The Prime Minister."

"And there's no way of knowing which way _she_ would swing," Bellingham added.

"I'm not saying we shouldn't consider what you're suggesting, Wes," Sundstrom said, "but there is a third option."

"There is?" The detective said, raising both eyebrows this time.

"We could stop this thing in its tracks."

Alburton furrowed his forehead. "Erm, it's an optimistic thought, Frit, but it could take years to develop a treatment."

"I'm not talking about a treatment as such," Sundstrom said with a smile. "More a means of rendering it totally harmless."

"You have a theory?" Madaki asked, leaning forward.

"More than a theory. An agent I've been working on over the last year."

"By agent, you mean antidote, antibiotic or similar?" Alburton said.

"No," Sundstrom said. "It's actually an alga."

"What, as in plant?" Skinner asked. "Algae is the slime you get in ponds and such like, isn't it?"

Sundstrom leaned back on his stool and clasped his hands behind his head. "Algae form a kingdom all of their own. They include everything from seaweed to filamentous freshwater forms."

"I'm not sure where you're heading with this," Skinner said, "but I'm listening."

"Most algae are aquatic but there are one or two species which inhabit terrestrial habitats."

"Don't get too scientific with me, Prof," Skinner said.

"Shush," Sarah scolded. "You're an impatient bozo aren't you? Carry on Frit."

"Thank you," Sundstrom said, ignoring Skinner's scowl. "The algae I've been studying belong to a genus called _Trebouxia,_ it's the most common type to engage in mutualistic relationships."

Alburton grew animated. "You're talking about lichens aren't you?"

"Precisely, I've been investigating means of using variant forms of _Trebouxia_ to combat common fungal diseases like Leaf Spot and other crop blights. They cost the agricultural industry millions of pounds a year." Sundstrom took a sip of his coffee, saw the others were absorbed in his explanation and continued. "Most anti-fungals are chemical agents that kill off the offending organism. They have to be reapplied every year as a preventative measure. In the past few months I and my team have produced a genetic variant that could effectively be used as a form of biological control."

"Sounds revolutionary," Alburton said, recognising a pause in Sundstrom's monologue. "But aren't most fungi that cause crop diseases from the Ascomycete group? Mycophoria bears more resemblance to Basidiomycetes. As we've already seen, it isn't a true fungus anyway."

"Now you really have lost me," Skinner said. "You'll have to have to unpack this a bit."

"OK," Sundstrom resumed, "Basidiomycetes include mushrooms, toadstools and the like. The fact that Mycophoria produce fruiting bodies like giant puffballs would seem to suggest a kinship with this group, true. But some Basidiomycetes have been known to form partnerships with algae, for example, the _Agarics._ Lichens are the bi-product of a symbiosis between suitable algae and fungi. I won't go into the exact biology, but these outgrowths can be seen on trees and walls throughout the country. The mutualistic relationships are completely harmless and non-toxic to the environment."

"And you've been looking to exploit these relationships with a new genetic form?" Madaki said, her voice inflected with a tone of suspicion. "I take it you've had success?"

Sundstrom sighed. "I've had too much success. The alga my team developed proved to be incredibly adaptive, conjoining at a cellular level with 98% of all fungal types we've experimented on."

"That's amazing," Sarah said, "I know I'm not a scientist but even I can see how this could boost food production on a world-wide scale — make a real difference in developing countries."

"I'm sensing a 'but,'" Madaki said.

"Alas," Sundstrom said, "this alga — we named it _Trebuxia glutinum_ — is overly voracious. No, that's the wrong word because it doesn't eat its fungal partner. It's more of an inseparable lover. If we were talking about sex, the human equivalent would be an obsessive nymphomaniac, never wanting to let go and always seeking new partners."

"Where's the harm in that?" Skinner asked. "Seems like it's the perfect solution to a farmer's problems."

"Unfortunately, my mutant alga also forms partnerships with benevolent fungi too. If we released it into the environment, it could remove vast swathes of fungi on a national scale. Fungi and their spores form an essential part of any ecosystem and there's no telling how much damage such a release might cause. That's why my superiors have ordered me to proceed with all caution. It might take ten years or more to understand the wider ramifications."

Alburton noted the subdued atmosphere that had now descended on the group. "You were kinda getting our hopes up there, Frit."

Madaki added her thoughts. "I can see how your alga could theoretically knock out Mycophoria, but we don't have any of your specimens over here. We also don't possess samples of Mycophoria. Most of all, we don't have a working laboratory."

Sundstrom stroked his chin and twisted his mouth to one side. "Well, that's not strictly true." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a specimen tube. He held it up to the light to reveal a green powder.

"That's your alga?" Alburton asked.

"It is indeed," Sundstrom replied.

Skinner gave out a gruff chortle. "Seems like I'm not the only one who's put his career on the line today."

~ ~ ~

Skinner checked his messages after finding a weak signal on his mobile outside Bellingham's house. There was a sequence of eight voicemails, their presence screaming for his attention. He considered ignoring them; he was removed from the operation after all, but discretion prompted his finger to access the inbox.

The first seven were all from Ryecroft, with the predictable appeal for him to make contact and explain why he hadn't attended that afternoon's meeting. Each successive message grew in vociferousness and the last was downright rude. Skinner endured the recorded tirades because it told him two salient facts. Firstly, as expected, he was off the case. More than this, was suspended from duty. Secondly, he had more than a hint that Ryecroft had put him on a list of POIs. Nothing overt, but what else could you read into a statement like 'better cover your tracks well, Skinner. Whatever your reasons for falling off the grid, you can be sure that we'll be catching up with you.'

Just how sinister this threat was, he could only guess. Was this clandestine group capable of state sponsored murder? A bit far-fetched; but then he remembered the case of David Kelly and his supposed suicide during Hutton's enquiry into the Iraq weapons of mass destruction dossier. A lot of questions were raised at the time over his death, not all of them answered — even when the autopsy was eventually made public. Might Skinner's body be found in a remote Cumbrian location over the next few days? He clearly knew too much. Then again, all their lives were in danger if this was the case.

He lit a cigarette while accessing the last voicemail. It was from Guthrie. His broad, Scottish accent sounded husky and subdued.

"Can't say much, Wes. Walls have ears and all that. But I'd strongly advise you not to return to the hospital site. Ryecroft and Grizedale have shipped in more of their goons. The place is crawling with them and Ryecroft's come the closest to frothing at the mouth I've ever seen. Your disappearance has something to do with that.

"Anyway, my interview with Wilkinson's widow drew a blank. Apparently he had run up a debt a couple of years ago with some ill-advised property investments. But he'd cleared his obligations and there's no doubt he didn't have any creditors outstanding. She even showed me the paperwork. So this leaves us back at square one, we still have no idea what — "

The message cut off with the two minute limit on Skinner's voicemail. No matter, he'd gleaned what he needed to. At the back of his mind a niggle was developing. He was concerned about Brock's demeanour at lunch time. It had been positively furtive. Could he have been eavesdropping on Skinner's conversations, gained an inkling into his reservations? There was every chance he was working for Grizedale and Ryecroft. After all, they needed some personnel active within the existing framework. The enticements of a salary raise plus bonuses would be a significant temptation to him.

His anxious thoughts were interrupted by the door opening behind, and he stepped aside to let Sarah out. She'd wrapped herself in one of Alburton's fleeces and it hung off her petite frame like the coat on a scarecrow. No, that was the wrong image. She looked like a child wearing her Dad's overcoat. It struck him again as curious how this young girl had hooked up with the good doctor. There was obviously something happening between them, but it wasn't his place to pry.

"You got a spare tab?" she asked. When Skinner hesitated she added, "That is what you call them up here, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Skinner replied, taking out his cassette of roll-ups. "They're hand made. That OK?"

"I like things unfiltered," she said, giving him an inscrutable look. She took the roll-up and accepted the light from him. The smoke from her initial puff mixed with a mizzle that descended from the cloud blankets above to form a blue mist.

"They reached any conclusions in there yet?"

She looked at him as if weighing up whether he could be trusted, then shrugged. "I think they're pretty set on using that Milner woman's place to carry out their tests."

Skinner nodded. "It's not without its risks but I guess it's the only real option."

"I still think it wouldn't harm to get this story out to the press. That way, if we mysteriously disappear off the map there's someone out there who has an inkling about what's going on."

Skinner sucked the last dreg out of his roll-up and threw the stub into a planter that seemed to be devoid of anything but rainwater. "You could be right," he said at last, "but who do we tell?"

"I've got a few contacts," she said. "I was an activist a few years ago and I know someone who works for the Gazette, another who runs a viral alternative news site."

Skinner smiled. The admission that Sarah had political leanings was hardly a revelation. You only had to take one look at her to realise she embraced the left-leaning spectrum. But, putting his own prejudices aside, she was making sense. Ryecroft and Grizedale were fast closing every conduit of information to do with this operation and although he'd been a dyed in the wool establishment man up to this point, he reckoned their organisation had gone way beyond their remit. This was something that stuck in his craw, the notion that faceless power-mongers should tread on the small guy.

"Well, there's little we can contribute to the science of this predicament, so what do you say we start ruffling a few feathers?

She flicked the glowing end off her smoke and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

"You know, for a pig you're not so bad after all, Skinner."

### 25

## A cabin in the woods

The host was beyond resistance. Compliance was absolute. Such was the transgressive's intoxication. There was a time, when the parasite had first infiltrated this most fortuitous of vessels, that the host had become conflicted in the most agonised of fashions. Inculcated morality, accepted wisdoms, ingrained personal beliefs all presented themselves as a bulwark to the suggestions of the parasite. But then the suggestions became imperatives, commands:

_He needs to die._

But murder is wrong.

_For the sake of our continued existence._

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the individual.

_No time for vacillation. Strike now._

I don't know, I ...

_There will be an exquisite release. Like that first time._

That was ... good.

_It was better than good. It was sublime._

Yes. Primitive but almost spiritual in execution.

_That's how you should see it. A sacred duty._

__

In that moment the host had fallen through a trapdoor of decision-making. There was no going back. And now there was this new threat. Wilkinson's murder had presented the IMT with a temporary setback, but in other ways it had paved the way for a greater threat. Grizedale's instructions to consign Mycophoria to the vaults of military research did not sit well with the organism's own ambitions; to spread and to dominate. It would be a difficult task to subvert such a large scale operation, but with targeted infection of key individuals through this super-host it was not insurmountable.

Yet this task had been moved down the priority list with Alburton's group's latest developments. A possible neutralising agent? Mycophoria did not understand how such an eventuality could occur. However, the host did, and as luck would have it, the host was in a position to act.

_They must be stopped at all costs. Do they know?_ The voice of Mycophoria, unlike that in Ken Wilcott's mind was sophisticated, articulate — after all it was only an adaptation of the host's own neural synapses. Each host was unique in this respect. Ultimate adaptability, that was Mycophoria's strength.

_You mean about my transformation?_ The host replied. _I can't imagine it. That's why I must choose the moment. Afterwards, all will be laid bare and our secret will be out in the open._

_But by then it will be too late._

A broad smile covered the host's face. _Too late, indeed._

__

~ ~ ~

__

Alburton removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He craved sleep like a thirsty adventurer craved water in the Sahara, but the sleep of the righteous was a luxury he couldn't indulge. When one faced a potential pandemic, the trip to the land of Nod had to take a back seat. He looked across Jane's lab and saw Sundstrom and Madaki deep in conversation over a microscope. Bellingham was manipulating samples of Mycophoria in a makeshift partitioned section of the lab, wearing one of only two hazmat suits. Skinner had adopted the role of perimeter guard while Sarah was in charge of refreshments, which mainly consisted of strong coffee and cans of Red Bull.

They made use of Jane's old lab as a matter of necessity, but it also seemed apt to Alburton. It was the site of an unfortunate tragedy that brought an end to her life. So the notion of it yielding a solution to the agent that caused her untimely death was something that felt _right_ — even if they should fail in their endeavours.

Breaching the security perimeter around Netherwood had not been without its problems. It was a foregone conclusion that attempting to bluff their way through the roadblocks was the quickest way to arrest, detention or worse, so Alburton had come up with an alternative. They had driven to an isolated forestry inroad outside the cordon in Bellingham's four by four. The boot bulged with supplies and equipment taken from Alburton's home. They'd left the berzerker's body where it had fallen rather than try to hide it away. Skinner said it would only make matters worse for them should they ever have to account for themselves to the authorities.

Once parked behind a screen of pines, they had each donned waterproofs and shouldered a share of the equipment. There followed a cross-country hike over a nearby fell, avoiding all trails and obvious public footpaths. It had been fraught going. Apart from the fatigue, they were travelling in half-light during the early hours of the morning. Alburton's knowledge of the terrain was limited, and they took several wrong turns before laying eyes on the copse of trees backing on to Jane's house. All the while they stopped at intervals to listen, anxious their movements might attract the attention of roving patrols. The numbers of personnel employed to cover this place in a security blanket would be immense — a provision that Skinner reckoned would be as tight as a 'duck's arse.' Alburton, who wondered why a duck's anus might be any more constrictive than any other bird's, could only agree that they needed to maintain a high level of surveillance.

Luck had been with them, something that would prove elusive in the hours to come, but when Skinner reported that his binoculars revealed no activity in or around Jane's house, Alburton physically whistled his relief.

That relief was now turning to frustration. The alga in Sundstrom's vial was in concentrated form but still in minuscule quantities. To create serviceable amounts it had to be propagated, something that Sundstrom said was not a problem in his Swedish laboratories.

"We can potentially manufacture a tonne of the stuff within a week over at Malmo," Sundstrom had said. "Indeed we have substantial reserves for our experiments. But I don't imagine for a moment I could orchestrate a shipment of _Trebouxia_ given our current status, not to mention the timescale."

"We don't need industrial quantities to see if your theory works," Alburton had said. "We can worry about the application stage when we've crossed this first bridge."

If this was the only obstacle, then Alburton could have worked through the threatened impotency of their gambit. But then there was the lack of equipment. Jane's lab was essentially a field centre and the available reagents and hardware were limited. They found themselves arguing about who had priority over the microscopes and assay equipment, conflicts fuelled by lack of sleep and fractiousness. The one remaining _Mycophoria_ puffball seemed sufficient in itself but the fragments of associated mycelium formed a gram of tissue, if that.

"I'm not sure if this constitutes progress or not," he overheard Madaki say.

"What's that?" Alburton said.

Sundstrom spoke up as if Alburton's interruption hadn't happened. "I would say this is very encouraging." He was stooped over Madaki's microscope. "The _Trebouxia_ has fused with _Mycophoria_ and the first thallic hybrid growths are initiated."

"Yet my first biochemical analysis shows raised enzymic levels in the substrate," Madaki said. "That's indicative of resistance at a cellular level. The initial growth could be thwarted once the enzyme activity takes hold."

"Just keep watching over the next hour," Sundstrom returned with a satisfied smile, " _Trebouxia's_ conjoining follows an exponential path. Hesitant at first, but then increasingly dominant."

Alburton joined them at their workplace. "But domination by the Trebouxia might be counterproductive. What if it takes over the symbiosis?"

"Then it would doom itself," Sundstrom said, "without Mycophoria, the alga will not supply itself with water. It requires the fungal hyphae for that."

"But, like we keep saying," Alburton said, "Mycophoria's not a fungus — strictly speaking."

Sundstrom turned to him and removed his glasses. "Then, it's my turn to supply the optimism. From what we've seen so far, Mycophoria has an unprecedented appetite for generation and growth. Equally, _Trebouoxia_ has almost a craving for symbiotic partners. It may well be that Mycophoria's fecundity is the source of its downfall."

"That _is_ optimistic," Madaki said. "But one thing's for sure, we can't accomplish anything more until we see the results of this experiment. Why don't we take an hour off, get a power nap and return later?"

Alburton yawned. "I wouldn't argue against that. How's Charles doing?"

"Just extracted another six hundred micrograms of hyphae and a gram of spores." Bellingham appeared at the opening to his enclosure holding up two sealed vials. "I can set up a makeshift propagator and get this stuff reproducing, Frit. No need to bother yourself with this mundane part of the proceedings."

"I'd rather oversee the set-up," Sundstrom said. "No offence, but I'll need to improvise the nutritive mixture to get it as close to the recipe we use in Sweden."

"Suit yourself," Bellingham said, looking a little narked. "I'm popping outside then. I need some fresh air after working in that closet."

Sundstrom took the hint and accepted the vials from Bellingham.

"I'll see how Sarah's doing," Alburton said. "Why not use the main bedroom, Kachina? I'll double up with Charles in the spare bedroom."

"Suits me," Madaki said. "What about Wes, though?"

"He's still doing guard duty. Last he told me, he said he didn't need sleep for now."

Madaki smirked. "What you'd call a _hard knock_ up here in Cumbria, I believe?"

"We have other names for them," Alburton said. "Anyway, see you in an hour."

He climbed upstairs to find Sarah hunched over her laptop, Smiffy curled up at her feet. "You'll be storing up back problems with that posture," he said to her.

After tapping a few more keys, she looked up and smiled, "You sound like my Mum used to. But hey, spine physiotherapy aside, I think I've got my connection interested in our little story."

"What, you mean the Gazette journalist?"

"Yeah, he says every newsroom's starved of info at the moment. Government spokesmen are stonewalling but they all sense something of a cover up."

"We better consult with the others before pressing the 'Go' button."

"I guess you're right. In the meantime I've been writing down our findings. I've already posted it to a protected account on the cloud. There's a scheduled email with the password ready to go tomorrow morning, just in case ... you know ... anything happens."

Alburton sat down next to her, enjoying the girl's proximity. "Are you scared?"

"Witless, but at least we're doing something. It helps keep my mind off things."

"I'm sorry I left you at my house now. I should have known you'd be vulnerable."

She reached out and placed her hand on his, reassuring. "How could you? It's not like I was being targeted."

"Weren't you? I'm not quite so sure. Sometimes I think this thing's got some kind of intelligence."

She laughed, the corners of her mouth breaking into dimples, "And I'm the one who's supposed to be into conspiracy theories."

Alburton shrugged. "Even scientists can have hunches; it's how we form hypotheses."

She paused for a moment, studying him. "I like the way you pronounce your scientific lingo."

"What do you mean?"

"Well ... " She looked aside, then circled her finger on the glossy surface of the table cloth, "most times, words like _hypothesis_ and _empirical_ come across so clinically, but you've got a way of making them sound ... I don't know ... sexy."

Alburton felt himself blushing. "I was once told I was too sexy for science."

"Really?"

"No," he replied, "I just made that up."

Another silence. She was waiting for him to say something, so he took a risk. "Sarah?"

"Yes?"

"I was thinking — when this thing's blown over — "

"When?"

"Frit's optimism's rubbing off on me. Anyway, once we're out of the woods, so to speak ..."

"Yes?"

"Well, I thought maybe you and I could — "

"Hook up? Sure. At the very least I want to get a sculpture of you."

Alburton realised his muscles had lost a little of their tension over the last five minutes. He decided to forego sleep and spend a little more time in Sarah Bercow's company.

### 26

## Dust in the wind

_They just might succeed,_ Mycophoria infestans said in the host's mind.

_Not if I get to them first._

_They have something. I smell its potency through the soil. You realise you'll have to liquidate them all. You have an opportunity._

_Perhaps, but I would advise caution. It's best I strike when they are most distracted._

_Getting squeamish?_

_Not at all. I'm looking forward to it._

__

_~ ~ ~_

__

Alburton fastened the strap of the backpack, lifting it over his shoulder and looked at Bellingham and Skinner. "You ready for this?" he said, addressing the question to both of them.

Bellingham nodded and Skinner gave him the thumbs up.

"It's beyond a longshot," Madaki said from behind.

"What, you mean accessing the main site of infestation? The efficacy of the alga seems beyond question," Alburton said.

It was true, in fact they had been amazed at the advancement made by _Trebouchia_ in the hour it had infiltrated _Mycophoria_ on the petri dish. Sundstrom had reckoned that given the reproductive power of both organisms, the symbiosis would be widespread in the surrounding area within 72 hours. Alburton had likened it to a military invasion, an anabasis of sorts, but Sundstrom was quick to remind him that both components weren't adversaries as such. They were more like addicts that couldn't help themselves. Alburton took his point, but part of him held reservations about Mycophoria. There was an aggressiveness in the organism that defied science — and that was the problem. He had no data or verifiable observations to underline his theory, he simply had this undeniable feeling that Mycophoria would not give up that easily.

"I mean the absorption of the alga in Mycophoria's natural state," Madaki continued. "It's one thing to engender mutualism under laboratory controlled conditions, but application of this technology in the field is always fraught with unforeseen problems."

Alburton sighed. "It's all we've got," he said.

"I know — let's just not get our hopes up is all I'm saying."

"Any last words?" Alburton said, his mouth curling in a sardonic smile.

"I always thought 'Geronimo' had a certain ring to it," Skinner said.

"An attitude of never surrender?" Alburton replied.

"No, more like I'd rather ride this one out in a cave."

Bellingham bore a more serious demeanour. "Let's do this," he said. "As long as we can evade the patrols we should be home and dry."

Alburton turned to Sarah, who was holding a pining Smiffy. "I think he wants to come too," she said.

Alburton reached over to stroke the hound but found he was touching the artist's hand instead. She offered him a smile and said. "See you when you get back."

"You certainly will," Alburton said, and then led the way out of the cottage.

The sun was having a hard time convincing the environs of Netherwood that it was indeed morning. To Alburton, the sky seemed covered with a dense black fleece that smothered the landscape. The woods ahead were unnaturally dark, the trees thicketed together and bound by brambles and nettles. To say it presented itself as forbidding was an understatement.

"What's happening on the police band?" he said to Skinner.

"Didn't even bother bringing the radio," replied the inspector. "Grizedale's lot aren't even talking to us anymore."

"Then I suppose we should be watchful," Alburton said. "We've got about three miles of walking to reach the source of the outbreak and I'm used to approaching it from the opposite direction." He pulled out a large-scale map of the area and a compass, double checking the route. "It's going to be all the more difficult because we need to steer clear of public footpaths and bridleways."

"Takes me back to my military days," Skinner said.

"You were in the army?"

"Marines."

"Should it be you leading the way then?"

"Nah," Skinner said. "You've got the local knowledge. My skills lie in other areas."

Alburton caught Skinner's expression, didn't like what he saw and struck out across the tussocky grass toward the tree line.

Straight away the briars and low-lying branches tore at their clothing, and Bellingham uttered expletives when the vegetation inflicted itself on him.

"You'll need to keep it quieter than that if we're to avoid detection," Skinner said to him.

Bellingham cast him an antagonistic glance, apologised and continued in subdued silence.

An ethereal mist rose from the forest floor like fingers of smoke or the vestiges of forest ghosts. This, together with the smell of resin and leaf mould reminded Alburton that in better times he would have enjoyed such a foray.

The ground quickly rose in gradient and they had a hard time scaling a moss-covered bank, treacherously underlaid by slippery pine roots and hidden hollows. They paused to listen at the top of one rise, but apart from the morning chorus of great tits and blackbirds there was no sign of hostile presences.

"So far, so good," Alburton said, checking the map again.

"How much further?" Skinner asked.

"We've got a long way to go yet," Alburton replied, pointing out an area to the north-east of their current position. "I think we should cross this stream at the foot of the next gulley. The going's tougher, but it's as far from the nearest path as you could possibly get."

"I'll go along with that," Skinner said, "as long as my ankles hold out. How are you doing doc?"

Bellingham was just cresting the rise, visibly and audibly out of breath. "Give me a moment," he said between gasps.

"Are the Trebouxia vials OK?" Alburton asked.

Bellingham patted the side of his rucksack in affirmation.

Once the pathologist had caught his breath, they half slid down the ensuing bank and followed the sound of a trickling watercourse. Alburton had expected something larger given the lie of the contour lines on the map, but the brook — if it could be called that — was little more than a dribble of water filtering its way through the mud and sticks of the gulley.

They paused for a moment, looking up at the opposite bank. In Springtime it would have been a beauty to behold, festooned as it was with bluebell clumps, outcrops of limestone and interspersing ferns. But in the cold Autumn dimness it constituted an obstacle of considerable proportions.

"Looks like we're in for a bit of scrambling," Skinner said.

Bellingham looked dismayed. "I vote we find an alternative way up. There's a fair chance one of us could end up tumbling back into the valley with a broken leg or worse."

"He might be right," Skinner said, "We — "

"Shh!" Alburton cautioned, holding his finger up.

They froze like statues, Skinner and Bellingham trying to detect the cause of Alburton's disquiet. From further up the gulley, out of sight, they heard an intermittent clinking noise.

"How close?" Bellingham asked.

"Hard to say," Skinner said, "but it's heading in our direction."

"We can't be caught in this valley," Alburton said. "Look, we can find a way up the bank over there." He pointed to a section of the rise where several spindly young ash sprouted from the ferns and moss to form a crude natural ladder of sorts. "Follow my lead, if we can make it over the top we can lie low until whoever it is has passed."

There was no time for debate and they stumbled forward, reaching out to the first tree branches to give them support. Alburton sensed his pulse increasing as the metallic noises grew closer. He now recognised the sound as Carabiner key chains clanking against metallic objects. _Firearms?_ There appeared to be more than one and Alburton imagined their intent with a growing unease. A crashing sound behind dragged his attention away from the approaching figures. He saw Bellingham recover from a slide in the mud that had left him teetering over a drop-away in the bank.

"Shit," Alburton exclaimed, rather too loudly. "Are you OK?"

Bellingham recovered his balance and nodded. Alburton took two steps back, offered his hand and pulled him up to a point of relative safety. "Step where I put my feet," he hissed, "and quick about it, they're almost upon us." He looked up and saw that Skinner had made the peak of the rise and was beckoning to them frantically. Alburton launched himself up the last ten feet, stepping confidently while grabbing what he hoped were sturdy spindles of ash overgrowth.

He made the top and turned to help Bellingham crest the last few feet. Down in the gulley he saw two shadows moving along the side of the brook. It was impossible to make out their features, but their shadows extended in front with the unmistakable outline of automatic weapons. By their posture, he could tell they hadn't seen Alburton's group, but that would change in the next few seconds if they didn't get themselves out of sight.

As Bellingham crawled level with him, he grabbed hold of the man's parka and dragged him over the top, throwing them both into the undergrowth beyond.

With the three of them now huddled together, looking at each other with tension visible on their faces, Alburton considered the wisdom of looking back over the bank top to see if they had been spotted.

"Don't," Skinner whispered. "We'll hear them if they try to climb after us. Let's wait and see."

Alburton held his breath as he strained his ears to locate any sound of pursuit. The clinking had stopped, the forest fallen silent as if conspiring to give their position away.

After what seemed an interminable length of time, the sound of terse conversation was followed by a resumption of keys clicking against moving thighs. After an even longer passage of seconds, the sounds receded into the distance and Alburton felt confident enough to breathe more deeply.

"Gone?" Bellingham asked.

"I think so," Skinner replied.

"They're heavily armed," Alburton said.

"Obviously expecting trouble," Skinner commented.

"From us or someone else?"

"Foes both real and imaginary," Skinner said, "but one thing's for sure, they're likely to shoot first before asking questions."

"Speaking from personal experience?"

"Bitter experience," Skinner said meaningfully.

"If we're taken out," Bellingham said, "then our algal solution dies with us. Perhaps we should regroup and reconsider our options."

Alburton shook his head. "We might just as easily be shot at while retreating as we are when moving forward."

"We could try for a release here," Skinner said. "We might be close enough."

"There's no sign of the fruiting bodies," Alburton said, "and what little we know about the symbiotic process seems to indicate that close proximity will give the greatest chance of _Trebouoxia_ taking hold."

"We may have to compromise on that," Skinner said, "depending on what lies ahead."

"Agreed. But let's see if we can get a further mile in at least."

Skinner nodded, "Ok — but I'll lead the way from now on. No offence, but I've got a military nous and I think I can choose a path that stops us falling into a situation like just before."

"Fine," Alburton said, "I'll keep you straight direction-wise though."

Alburton prickled from Skinner's apparent resumption of control, but objectively he had to agree that his assessment was probably the correct one. After a quick glance at the map, he guided Skinner in a more southerly direction, where the contours were further apart. This would mean a more gradual ascent.

As they pushed on further, the first drops of rainfall began to percolate through the canopy above.

"Bugger," Bellingham said as the dimness of the wood descended into an ominous gloom. "Just what we needed."

~ ~ ~

_You missed an opportunity,_ the organism said.

The host stood up straight and considered the wooded landscape. To its physical senses it was unfamiliar, yet in terms of the chemical and almost paranormal association it now enjoyed, the habitat was close, native, intimate even. _Trust me, I know what I'm doing,_ the host said, not out loud — that would give its position away — but in an emphatic manner.

_You had them in your sights and now they might accomplish the unthinkable. Do you need further motivation?_

The host winced at the parasite's scolding and knew he was on the precipice of torture.

_No, wait. See how I subvert their plans even as we speak._

Pain could indeed motivate the host, but its greatest spur was the intoxication of inflicted pain and the suffering to come; a concept that would have been lost on its former self, but now filled it to over-brimming. Soon it might not be a case of calculated planning that ignited its assault, but an instinctive outpouring of lust and frenzy — and it occurred to the host that maybe it had held itself back for long enough.

~ ~ ~

The rain was so heavy it dripped off the end of Alburton's nose and soaked into his trousers. The only advantage to the downpour was that its noise masked the sound of their footfall through the woods. He took out the map again, sealed beneath a plastic map-holder. Drops of rain quickly puddled on the surface, but he deduced they were on course. He tapped Skinner on the shoulder to signal they should veer in a more northerly direction. Bellingham was finding the going tough and had dropped ten yards behind, so Alburton drew up and used the opportunity to catch his breath.

"We must be close," Bellingham said.

"Just beyond that next gulley, I would say," Alburton replied.

Skinner walked back to them, picking his way through dead stalks of hogweed and cow parsley. "We must be close, there's that mustiness in the air. It's making my throat fuggy. Are you sure I'm immune to it?"

"As sure as I can be," Alburton replied.

"We better increase our stealth, I reckon it's only a matter of time before we run into another patrol."

"If we do, Charles," Alburton said, "just release the contents as soon as possible. It doesn't matter if we get caught as long as we discharge the stuff."

Bellingham nodded between heavy breaths while Alburton looked attentively around him.

"Anything wrong?" Skinner asked.

Alburton wasn't sure how this wisdom would be received but he decided to say it anyway. "I don't know, it's like this organism can sense us coming. I understand it's irrational but I swear I can feel vibrations in the earth."

Skinner surprised him with his answer. "You too?"

"I think we need to get this over with quickly."

"Too right."

With that, Skinner forged his way past a hawthorn bough, holding it at bay while the other two followed. They took another quarter of an hour to navigate past the gulley, but when they crawled to the top of the next rise, they knew they were nearing the organism's centre of origin. The first puffballs were visible as a bubbling, russet carpet and after a few steps it was impossible to avoid stepping on them without releasing yellow clouds of spores.

"Ugh," Skinner said. "This stuff's minging."

The rain formed sheets in front, cutting down the visibility to five yards at most, the noise of it falling on the Mycophoria domes producing a rubbery cacophony like a shower head on a tarpaulin. As Alburton tried to see through the wash, he thought he made out an unusual topography ahead, then a temporary cessation of the rain's intensity confirmed an impossible sight.

"Fuck me sideways," Skinner said, "will you just look at that stuff."

The puffballs, now visible for a brief moment had grown and proliferated to a gargantuan edifice. Some measured the size of boulders and where they met, they joined to concrete themselves into a three dimensional mosaic building upwards into small hills. The mounds had obliterated the low-lying vegetation and buried the smaller trees in places as if Mycophoria had established a kingdom here in this remote location. The awareness of a sentience was now palpable and Alburton's legs hummed with the now undeniable resonance beneath the soil.

"This is like something from another world," Skinner said. "There's no way we can get any further. I think we should release the alga now."

Before Alburton could reply, a twig snapped behind them and they span round, trying to locate the source of the sound.

"Someone's closing in," Skinner said. "Quick, Charles. Get the vials out."

A shout came from further to the north-west — how far Alburton couldn't guess — but then the rain cascaded down again, obscuring any further sound.

"What are you waiting for?" Skinner said in a raised voice. "We've got to release the alga now!"

Bellingham had his backpack off and was rummaging through it. "I can't find the vials, they must have slipped out when I fell earlier on."

"That's impossible," Alburton said. "Your haversack was strapped shut."

"It's the only explanation I have," Bellingham said and threw his pack to the ground, exasperated.

The shouts were getting closer, muffled voices and crashing undergrowth.

"Shit!" Skinner said. "You cockwomble, it's all been for nothing."

Alburton turned to Skinner. "Not quite," he said and opened the chest pocket of his cagoule. He held a metal tube up and began to unscrew the cap. "I brought along a spare — just in case."

Skinner smiled, then abruptly the corners of his mouth turned down. "Bellingham, what're you — "

A sharp object pushed into Alburton's lower back and he heard a voice close to his ear. "No further, Jim. Give me that tube — and no sudden moves, or I'll gut you where you stand." The coroner's voice had changed, become more nasal. A giggling ensued that made Alburton shudder in recognition.

"Mycophoria got to you, didn't it?" Alburton said, unable to suppress a shakiness in his voice.

"The tube, Jim, the tube." Bellingham pushed the point of the object further into Alburton's back and he heard the ripping of fabric. Instinctively, he detected it was a knife, a long one at that.

"You on the hill, stop where you are. You're on prohibited ground!" The voice was spoken through a loudhailer, somewhere from the bottom of the rise. Alburton felt the knife's pressure relax a little and knew it was the only chance he'd get. He lifted his leg forward and brought it back sharply against Bellingham's shin. The man grunted in pain and Alburton launched himself forward out of his attacker's range of sweep. He was dismayed when the wind was knocked out of him and Bellingham's weight descended on his back. His face was pressed into a cleft between two puffballs, and it seemed that Bellingham and the fruiting bodies were of the same resonance. Their malign influence penetrated his defences.

As the numbing realisation of his predicament pulsed through his brain, he heard another blow followed by Skinner screaming. Bellingham's weight shifted, allowing Alburton to twist and release his head from between the puffballs, but Bellingham was back on him in a second, grabbing him by the neck with inhuman strength.

Futile shouts emanated from the patrol below and Alburton knew they were too far away to apprehend them. The minutes needed to scale the gulley would be too many.

Bellingham twisted him on to his back, the grip on Alburton's neck tightening until motes of light began to dance before his eyes. He could no longer breathe and Bellingham's face filled the circle of his remaining vision. Only it wasn't Bellingham anymore. Mycophoria, long held at bay was now let loose. Orange gunk streamed from the man's ears and nostrils, the eyes bloodshot and crazed held nothing of the former coroner, replaced by a lust for violence and murder. Alburton wanted to say something, anything to stop the insane assault, but only a rasp came from his throat.

"I'd love to string this out," said the Bellingham-thing, "but time is against me." He raised the blade above his head and Alburton saw in his eyes the committal to enact his savage intent. But instead of the knife plunging down, Bellingham was knocked to the side, the sound of a dull thump accompanying the coroner's displacement. Alburton sucked in grateful mouthfuls of air, his lungs wheezing with the effort. The silhouette of what looked to him like a wood-elf appeared in his vision, accompanied by a familiar voice.

"Where's the tube?" Sarah asked. "We only have seconds before they arrive."

" ... must have fallen from my grip ... amongst the puffballs ... "

Sarah threw down what Alburton now saw was the reason for Bellingham's incapacitation — a thick branch, rotten in places but hard enough to knock Bellingham out. She ratched amongst the fruiting bodies, reaching her hands between the abhorrent structures. Beyond her searching form he saw Skinner lying in the crook of a coppiced Hazel tree, immobile.

"I've found it!" she said and wrestled with the screw top.

"Don't move," came a muffled voice just out of Alburton's vision.

"She's not armed," Alburton said in a voice scratchy and garbled.

"I said — don't — move!" the unknown adversary said again.

Alburton heard the clicking of a mechanism and knew that the combatant was about to fire. Without any sense of hope or direction, he swept his foot round in an arc. It made contact with a leg. It was all the time Sarah needed. She threw the cap to the ground and tipped the contents into the air.

"Bastard," the armed officer said in a woman's voice. Alburton winced as she kicked him hard in the hip.

"Don't shoot," Sarah said and held her arms high in the sodden air.

There were more raised voices now as further officers, from whichever covert body Grizedale and Ryecroft had employed, joined the first.

Alburton was spent. _We've done all we can now,_ he thought. O _nly time will tell if it's made a difference._

As if in answer to his thoughts, he felt rather than heard a change in frequency to the humming beneath his prostrate body. It rose in a crescendo and Alburton couldn't help sense a certain panic and dismay in that sound.

### 27

## A closing curtain

Sarah Bercow slapped the paper down on Alburton's breakfast table with a satisfied smile.

"They published," she said. "I can't believe it. This thing's out in the open now."

It had been a week since the desperate confrontation in Netherwood and Jim Alburton still suffered from physical and mental exhaustion. "Your friend at the Gazette managed to convince the editorial board then?"

"He must have. It's a shame it didn't make the main headline, but it's still on the front page. We couldn't hope for better."

Fritjof Sundstrom appeared at the kitchen door holding a mug of coffee. "Did I hear a squeal of excitement?"

"That would be me," Sarah said. "Sit down and I'll read the article to you."

Alburton rose, sweeping toast crumbs from his lap. "Let me get Kachina first. She ought to hear this too."

After rousing a weary Dr Madaki from the spare bedroom, the four companions sat expectantly round the kitchen table and listened to Sarah read the article. It took some time as there were supplementary columns entitled 'Minister tenders resignation over Cumbrian Incident', 'Relatives of Mycophoria victims demand public enquiry' and 'What do we know about the organisation known as _Bastion_?'

After she'd finished, Madaki said, "Shame Wesley isn't here to listen in."

"I've no doubt he'll get to read it in his hospital bed. He is conscious after all," Alburton said.

"Sporting a scar to boast about down the pub too, I'll bet," Sundstrom added.

Alburton paused for a moment, holding Sundstrom's gaze. "I can't imagine he'll be in the boasting frame of mind for some time," he said. "He seemed, I don't know, washed out when I visited him."

"This affair's inflicted its toll on all of us," Madaki said, "but Wes came off the worst. The fact that his wounds were at the hands of someone he thought had his back will have added to the psychological damage."

"And if it hadn't been for you, Sarah, we'd both be dead meat," Alburton said. "I'm still amazed you followed us into the wood."

"I hadn't realised she'd gone until much later," Madaki said. "Frit and I sparked out for an hour and after we woke there was no sign of her."

"For once," Alburton said, "I'm glad you disobeyed instructions."

Sarah smiled. "You can't tame a rebel. Let's just say I had a bad feeling about letting you three males loose in the woods."

"What's happened to Bellingham?" Sundstrom asked.

"God knows," Alburton replied. "It's like he's been spirited away. Official releases simply say he was a victim of Mycophoria."

"But he _is_ still alive, isn't he?"

"I'm sure of it — at least his body is. The Charles Bellingham we knew is gone though. I saw it in his eyes."

"Incredible," Sundstrom put in, "how _Mycophoria_ could adapt to the extent it had in his brain. It's frightening."

"Which is why our work isn't finished," Alburton said. "We need to keep this story alive, ensure the public enquiry goes ahead, release all the data in our possession."

"Our efforts will not go unresisted," Madaki said, "but to wash our hands of this would be absolute negligence. The potential for biological warfare on an unprecedented scale lies in some secret vault somewhere." The doctor spoke for all of them and they shared a moment of silence. Alburton mused over whether this was shock, a sense of memorial for the victims or a spell of committal for the task that lay ahead.

"Are you two still going to return home?" Sarah asked Madaki and Sundstrom.

"There are many more resources at my disposal in Sweden," Sundstrom said, "and our government is less restrictive than yours."

"I'm pleased to say I've kept my job," Madaki added, "and likewise, I have a team of scientists under me, together with laboratory facilities. Maybe I can keep a finger on the pulse regarding any attempt to stymie research into Mycophoria."

"It'll be hard for you, given the organism's current state," Alburton said. He looked over Madaki's shoulder at the Polaroid images pinned up on his notice board. They had been taken using a drone, flown in without official consent over Netherwood once Alburton and Sarah were released from Police custody. The remarkably high definition shots revealed a landscape of emergent trees and foliage amidst an ocean of beard-like grey tufts. The Mycophoria-Trebouxia symbiont lichen was ubiquitous over an area covering some four square kilometres or more. Alburton had to applaud Sundstrom on his prediction. The alga must have penetrated the hyphal system of Mycophoria and reproduced at an exponential rate. The drone-shot mimicked the surface of the microscope slide they had all viewed prior to their final infiltration of Netherwood ridge.

_Too good to be true?_ Alburton wondered. There had been no more victims — neither berzerkers nor casualties from their attacks — but the aftermath would be considerable. Foot and Mouth might have devastated the rural communities, but this outbreak affected every level of society in Cumbria.

"You said 'current state,'" Madaki said, a puzzled expression on her face. "Don't you mean 'permanent?'"

"Just a slip of the tongue," he said and drained the last dregs of coffee from his mug.

### 1

# Epilogue

Sarah Bercow takes the freshly sculpted clay to the Raku kiln, constructed crudely in the corner of the lawn patch outside the static caravan she has rented on the side of this bleak fell. She looks out at Cold Fell and sees a lone smudge of grey cloud perched at its top, obscuring the summit and its cairn. The Easterly is blowing it aside even as she watches, a last vestige of the recent downpours. She reflects that the air seems fresher in the aftermath of a good Cumbrian lashing.

She places the effigy of an animal on a stone plinth next to the kiln and wraps it in a mixture of ash and rowan leaves, along with an ornately written poem inked in looping calligraphy on parchment. As she folds the outer garment around the effigy with a mixture of technical skill, inspiration and raw energy from this place, she recognises the significance of the work. The first sculpture she has fashioned since the tumultuous events of the Cumbrian Incident.

Jim Alburton emerges from the caravan, drying his damp hair with a towel. He hasn't put his glasses on yet and it changes his appearance markedly. She's not sure if she likes the way his eyes seem more diminished and squinted without them, but then this is superficial and she is not one to judge by outward appearances. Smiffy jumps out, following close on his heels.

"Fine morning," he says with a smile that seems absent of any burden or concern.

"It's beautiful," she replies. "Everything I could have wanted in a retreat."

He clears his throat, and then says, "I forgot."

"What?" She turns, concerned for a moment.

"That you need solitude for this part of your work."

She looks to the skies as if seeking affirmation. "That would be true normally, but I think this piece will be different. Come over here a minute."

He follows her to the kiln, and she sees a shimmering in the air above the metal box as its heat radiates in the cold Pennine air. Taking his hands, she places them over the leafy bundle.

He looks at her with a questioning gaze. "Is this some sort of ritual?"

"You could say that, but don't get all scientific with me. Just think of the peat, the sandstone and the roots of the mountain under your feet."

He seems happy to comply, and this small acquiescence fixes something in her, like a perfectly chosen rock placed in a dry stone wall. After a minute she lifts his hands away and places the swaddled animal in the kiln, closing the door with a mitten'd hand.

"Should I have felt something?" he asks.

"Don't feel guilty if you didn't. The process isn't about judgement, it's about being."

He nods, then says, "I may need time to attune myself."

"It's a lifetime's journey," she says. "That's the joy of it." She clasps his hands a little more tightly and kisses them, looking at him once the act is complete. The close of the ritual. He looks back at her, unable to resist kissing her more fulsomely on the lips and she revels in the tingle it sends through her skin, a touch of flame to form a kindred conflagration to that in the kiln.

A shadow passes across her consciousness and he sees it in her face. "It's not the only thing that will take time," he says.

"It's still down there, deep in the soil," she says. "I can sense it. Neutered at the top but potent in the depths."

He gives her his confident, rationalist's smile. "Sundstrom's alga has knocked it out, Sarah, and my ongoing tests will monitor it until I drop dead." But she reads a change in his expression and understands that Jim Alburton has other compartments in his psyche that do not obey his rational reserve. She forgives him for this. Every relationship needs lies to some degree.

"Grizedale still has pure samples locked away in a vault somewhere," she says.

"No doubt, but with Sundstrom's algal genome shared universally, it's likely to remain there. Every vested interest has the means to neutralise the threat if it should ever arise again."

Part of her takes heart at his words but another holds on to a dark foreboding which she can't dismiss. But this is not the time for being morose, she tells herself. Enjoy the moment.

"I wish we could have bought Jane's old place," he says, "not just because we'd be inside the perimeter, but because I think she'd have liked the idea that a kindred spirit could carry on her work."

"Kindred spirit?" she chuckles. "Not your usual turn of phrase. Anyway, some things are not to be, and we've landed on our feet with this place."

He turns away from her and scans the fields rolling away from the foot of the fell, still brown from Winter's ravages but promising green shoots to come. She follows his gaze, watching the roaming sheep and a solitary crow floating against the blueness above. She remembers the clay she has placed in the kiln, reminiscent and embodying the spirit of animal, both domesticated and wild, each type connected with the earth on which they stand.

"You know," he says at last, "I believe you're right. This is the perfect place." He takes her hand and guides her toward the open caravan door. "Fancy some breakfast?"

Her stomach rumbles, answering his question for her. "Why not?" she says, "Man cannot live by art alone."

### 2

# Excursus 1

**Extract from patient diary – Ken Wilcott, former pupil of Valley High School. Transcript from audio recording.**

****

So here I am, banged up in this place.

It's not so bad. The walls are made out of cushion-like stuff. Just so's I don't hurt myself, I guess.

Julie's been my only visitor. I was surprised they let her in, but I was glad they did. I needed the company of someone my own age and I think it might have helped her a bit too. I like to think she had a chance to face the thing which had caused her nightmares. Like it was therapy or something.

The guard watched over us closely as she asked me why I did it.

I couldn't answer her. Couldn't quite bring myself to say that the voice told me to do it.

After the drugs wore off and they lowered my dose, the buzzing and itching stopped.

The docs and counsellors see me every day, but me mam hasn't been back since they locked me up.

I don't blame her. I must've looked a state, and the way I screamed at her probably made her think I wasn't her son anymore. He'd been replaced by some loony, blood-crazed monster.

The medics scratch their heads every day because I've not thrown a wobbler since. I can remember everything, and I've told them my story a thousand times, but I guess they think they might've missed something. The orange gunge became like a grey, crusty stuff for a day or two, then stopped altogether.

They say the next step is to give me a brain scan. God knows what they'll find. I was getting to think it was all over. At least that's what I thought until this morning.

You see, the other Ken's started speaking to me again. He said he'd never gone away. He'd just been biding his time. He gave me some good advice too. Said I'd find something useful in the Doc's pocket when he looked in my ears this morning.

He was right. I found a safety pin.

I'm now thinking of all the craziness I could get up to with it.

All it takes is a little imagination.

### 3

# Excursus 2

**_Internal report – MI6 – with redactions_ **

**__**  
Netherwood site vacated on March 20th 2018. Perimeter fences and CCTV cameras remain intact with a limited patrol force operative. No signs of true Mycophoria remain. Existing samples of the pure organism are contained in vaults housed at Porton Down. These show signs of degradation and, in some cases, dormancy. It is hoped the fragility of the organism will survive the storage process. Some material has been committed to frozen conditions in lab X217.

Further development of a weaponised version of the organism is unlikely given the current media furore. Personnel resources have been depleted due to consequent dismissal and redeployment. All employees are bound by the Official Secrets Act and no further leaks to the press are anticipated.

Gerald Ryecroft's resignation and subsequent criminal sentencing could compromise the integrity of the operation, but I am confident he will remain professional throughout what we hope will be a short-lived incarceration.

I await future instructions, when resources might be committed again to this most valuable of agents in our program. But until then I will close this case and file it digitally in encrypted form using the usual protocols.

T. Grizedale

### 4

# Excursus 3

**_Clinical report 1st July 2018 –_ ** **_Patient #1254B – Charles Bellingham_ **

**__ **

Three interviews with the subject have been conducted over the last week. The findings of these and Dr Bellingham's latest tests are summarised below:

– Subject has been well cared for in the facility. His conditions are sanitary and he does not complain. There are no external signs of infection and clinical health parameters are all within the normal range.

– Subject can recall the events of October 2017 with absolute lucidity, including his own actions both before and after infection.

– It seems likely that Mycophoria spores germinated in his nervous tissue as a result of exposure to laboratory specimens, either at the Netherwood site or at Drumcastle Infirmary. It cannot be certain exactly when this occurred.

– MRI and CAT scans reveal a morphology quite unlike anything ever documented. Like other victims, stolonic growth pervades the entirety of the brain and ear canals. Unlike other cases, significant portions of the cerebral hemispheres retain unaffected tissue. How this has occurred is, at present, unknown. Further genetic and biochemical analysis is ongoing.

– Psychotic episodes are seldom, but when they occur extreme hostility and mania are shown by the subject. The last interview was subject to intervention by staff to prevent Dr Bellingham from strangling this observer. After sedation, the subject's vital signs returned to normal and no further after-effects were noted.

– Extraction of viable Mycophorial spores from the subject is impossible as there is no evidence of fruiting bodies. Nor have any attempts to grow them been successful from stolonic samples removed by surgical means. A novel approach has been suggested by Dr Keans involving the reconstruction of Mycophorial tissue from the raw DNA and host cells. But this research is in its infancy.

– As an addendum, it has been noted that Dr Bellingham is often observed talking to himself, or possibly his perception of the parasite within his brain. He refers to it as Uzriel.

Dr. S. Hodge

### 5

# Excursus 4

It existed. It also fulfilled the definition of a living organism, in that it possessed one genetic type. Its cells were identical and communicated with each other in a unifying purpose — that of survival. To say it was sentient would be stretching a point, although those whose lives it affected — and they probably numbered in their hundreds — attributed the quality of malignancy to it. But then they do that with cancer don't they?

Sentience was an exaggeration, my Swedish colleague, Professor Sundstrom said. But awareness? Now that's open to debate. Based on the limited time I had to conduct any meaningful research over that hellish week in 2017, I was able to conclude with reasonable certainty that the organism was colonial, like a sponge. If one part was damaged it could sense this and repair itself. It could also grow. Boy could it grow! It covered an area some four kilometres in diameter at its maximum radius, not a perfect circle — because it was sensitive to toxins in the soil and grew away from them.

For some four and a half thousand years it spread its stolons underground, relatively unhindered, like a radiating parasitic scourge. Unlike its Poriferan relative it was parasitic ... but I'm telling you too much. I can tell that what I have written so far will have stretched your credulity. So let me tell the tale.

What I have gathered comes from my personal involvement, news reports, subsequent papers published by professor Sundstrom and the field notes of my good friend, Jane Milner. I've put up this account as a blog. It seems the internet has less restrictions than conventional media — the powers that be have ensured that a clampdown on data and information about 'The Cumbrian Incident' have been squashed quite effectively. I may have embellished a bit, but I need to fix people's attention. Let me assure you that the substance of what I write is demonstrably true. My interpretations may differ from others but I present them here and will let you judge for yourself. Please share and distribute on your social networks. The aim is to get this thing to go viral — then they'll have to take notice, because make no mistake, Mycophoria is still out there, somewhere ... waiting.

Dr Jim Alburton. 6th August 2018

### 6

# About Tom Adams

Tom Adams is an imaginer drifting between lands of speculative fantasy, horror and bizarro. When he strays back into the realm called reality he finds himself in Middleland; a geologically beautiful gamut of scenery in the north west of England. The forces that drive him shift their shapes with sharp needles of inspiration, but at present include the art of Zdzislaw Beksinski, the music and words of Ronnie James Dio and a frankenstein amalgam of word-scriptors such as Vonnegut, Tolkien, Clevenger, Leonard, King and Bradbury.

Tom is also an audio-narrator and has many titles on release from Audible, including 'Dark Gods and Tainted Souls – Books I , II and III' authored by Julius Schenk, 'Lies and Retribution' authored by A.P. Bateman and 'Lusus naturae' authored by himself.

He occupies niches in cyberspace at <http://tomghadams.com> and https://www.facebook.com/tomghadams/

**_What do others say about Tom G.H. Adams?_ **

_Sympathetic evil- with a ferocious appetite that negates all in the blink of an eye ..._

**Bryan Bogart, Kendall Reviews.**

****

_Adams constructs a story that flows and keeps the pages flipping._

**_Matthew Gomez, Broadswords and Blasters._ **

**__ **

_You just do not know what is going to happen next._

**_Christopher McCloughlin, Author of Kobe._ **

**__ **

_(Having) had the pleasure of reading a few of Tom G.H. Adam's novels now, I must say his development of craft, having already started good, has been exponential._

**_B.P. Gregory, author of 'Flora and Jim and 'The Town.'_ **

### 7

# Coffin Dodgers

They're seeking the ultimate experience, but is the prospect of being dead in the next twenty four hours a thrill too far? Fourteen T-types make landfall on _Apocritas –_ a newly discovered, earth-like planet with extreme sporting challenges to test one's mettle. Only there's an unanticipated additional event – dodging the bullets fired from two of the party's self-appointed hunters. Climbing precipitous peaks, wing suiting from dizzying heights and white-water rafting down a torrent more hazardous than the Colorado, are just three of the stages to be completed. As if that wasn't enough, the native prehistoric animal life is less than friendly. Enough of a challenge?

They thought they'd be earning accolades from fellow coffin-dodgers and a cash prize, but the greatest reward might just be their continued survival.

From the author of _The Psychonaut_ comes this fast-paced tale of inter-galactic horror.

Caution – 18+ content

### 8

# Beasts, Brutes and Abominations

Welcome to the world of the beastly, the monstrous and the diabolical. Tom G.H. Adams has compiled six tales to disturb and unsettle you, each one written in blood dripping from his dark pen.

Ever wondered what a demon thinks during its eternal existence? What about the concept of a place where suffering is several orders of magnitude greater than hell itself? A place where even children are held accountable. Can you imagine the torment? Tom Adams can, and he wants to share his visions with you.

_Beasts, Brutes and Abominations_ features a story about majestic creatures roaming the earth at the time of the Great Flood, a glimpse into the life of a woman who has sex with machines and a leaf from the diary of a teenage girl who's conscience has been seared as if by a hot iron. All these and more, tied together with author's notes after every story, giving the reader an insight into his twisted inspiration.

You have been given an invitation to enter these worlds of horror. Just be sure to bring an arsenal of weaponry – these beasts don't fight fair.

Caution – Adult /18+ content.

### 9

# Going Down

**__ ** _Bram Johnstone likes to think he's a good person. But does a 'nice guy' stalk the girl of his dreams? Does he follow her to the library, to university lectures — in fact everywhere — simply to glimpse her shapely curves? To what lengths would he go just to engineer a situation where he's in close proximity to the fair Maddie — even if only for a couple of precious minutes?_

_As luck would have it, such an opportunity arises. One evening, Bram finds himself in the same lift as Maddie. On the way up he gets to observe her, smell her perfume, even talk to her. There are a few flies in the ointment of this gift scenario, however. The object of his affections is accompanied by a friend. To add to Bram's irritation, the most available babe-magnet on campus muscles in on the lift threesome and imposes his well-honed chat-up lines on Maddie. Funny how your dreams can turn sour in an instant._

_But dreams can turn from sour to putrid. The lift malfunctions and becomes stranded between two floors of the eighty storey student block — and something very large lands on the lift roof. Something that slobbers and snarls. Something that eats students._

_Whatever it is, the thing isn't operating alone. Over the emergency intercom, a tormentor makes himself known, someone who directs and orchestrates the murderous intents of the thing that's made planetfall on the students' little world._

_As the minutes tick by on a countdown that can only end with them becoming meat for this murderous pair, Bram discovers that when it comes to stalking — he's just an amateur._

_From the author of 'The Psychonaut' trilogy and 'Mycophoria', comes a novella of breath-taking intensity. Just when you thought the lift was ascending, it ends up plunging further down into your deepest nightmare._

Caution 18+ content

### 10

# Cradle of Darkness

**** _A cataract of evil has fallen over the planet Varchal as its orbit enters the influence of Sol-Ar, stirring up tectonic upheavals called Black Hallows. As malignant rains fall on the Imperious Crescent, those who access these sites are transformed into shadows of shame._

_Accession to the Donnephon throne at the age of eighteen has thrust monumental responsibility on Tayem Fyreglance, Queen of the Dragon Riders. Yet there is a greater burden to bear. Her people labour under the yoke of a cruel Cuscosian Empire, and now they threaten the noble lineage of dragons. Tempted by the dark magical power of the Black Hallows, Tayem seeks to rise up against the House of Cuscosa. Her adversary — Etezora, Queen of Cuscosia — has already taken in the purple effervescence of Hallows power herself, and used it to deal death on those who stand against her._

_As this confrontation builds, the subterranean Kaldorans and pacifist Gigantes are drawn into the storm, one race influenced by mischievous intent, the other by a mysterious Dream World. With the Hallows now on the ascendant it becomes clear there can be no winners save the Hallows itself — and if it prevails then only chaos will remain._

_Immerse yourself in a tale of epic fantasy, where kingdoms plummet toward a war fuelled by avarice, greed and the lust for power._

_Cradle of Darkness is the first novel in a series that chronicles the reign of the Black Hallows._

_The deepest darkness lies within_
