The Fungus Read online

  Harry Adam Knight

  THE FUNGUS

  With an introduction by

  ROY KETTLE

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  The Fungus by Harry Adam Knight

  Originally published in Great Britain by Star in 1985

  First published in the United States by Franklin Watts in 1989

  First Valancourt Books edition 2018

  Copyright © 1985 by Harry Adam Knight

  Introduction copyright © 2013 by Roy Kettle

  Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

  http://www.valancourtbooks.com

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without prior written consent of the publisher, constitutes an infringement of the copyright law.

  Cover by M. S. Corley

  Set in Dante MT

  INTRODUCTION

  John Brosnan and I wrote The Fungus in 1985, the year that John was best man at Kathleen’s and my wedding. (His wedding present of a plaster bust of Prince Charles and Princess Diana marked “Roy and Kathleen” in black felt pen is still in our loft.) The Fungus was based on an idea by Kathleen who (thinking there was actually a level to which John and I wouldn’t sink) asked if anyone had ever written a novel based on a compost heap. It was, inevitably, about a genetically engineered fungus and things went terribly wrong. As you’ll see, my own very limited experiences with athlete’s foot form part of the opening sequence—though the other thorough research involved me actually buying a textbook called Fungus—and a lot of it is too horrible to summarise. More of The Fungus was written by me than some of our other collaborations, though there was a part of the draft I gave to John which he said that even he couldn’t pass on to a publisher. Thank God.

  The Fungus was our second novel together, after Slimer in 1983, though John had used the Harry Adam Knight pseudonym to write Carnosaur on his own in 1984. It was our most successful and genuinely well thought of horror novel, despite what seems to be much of the print run of the first British edition (which had a terrible cover) still lurking in the loft. Like all our horror books, it was published abroad—France (L’immonde invasion), Italy (Il Fungo), Poland (Fungus—who knew?)—but, most surprisingly, the U.S.A. And in hardback. This was entirely down to Charles Platt, who was working for Franklin Watts, perhaps on a freelance basis, and for some reason thought the book was worth their publishing. It also went on to a U.S. paperback sale (Death Spore) and another British edition with Gollancz, but with an even worse cover than the first. At least by then it had had the chance to accumulate through its various editions some cover quotes assiduously collected by the authors from their mates: Clive Barker—“I had a damned good time with this book”; Brian Aldiss—“I loved it and you will find it will grow on you”; every book cover’s friend, Kirkus Reviews—“Loud, scary sick fun. You will never again go near mushroom soup” and Ramsey Campbell, who actually appears to have read it—“A spectacularly gruesome nasty, written with inventiveness, grisly wit, and considerably more intelligence than almost all its competitors”. And, of course, “the new Stephen King” credited to Starburst Magazine where John had a column in which he carefully avoided mentioning his own involvement.

  On the website Vault of Evil, there is a page (as there is a page devoted to most horror books, I guess) on which a few people write enthusiastically about The Fungus in such terms as “The Fungus is a great read” and “at times little short of genius”. Modesty, on behalf of both John and myself, prevents me from quoting any of this, of course. No, wait.

  Both Slimer and Carnosaur went on to be made into movies—Proteus (1995) and Carnosaur (1993) (with two sequels). The Fungus was never made into a movie, but on a recent trip to Louisville, Kentucky, Kathleen and I were sitting having coffee listening to a street musician near the Seelbach Hotel, which had a ballroom that inspired a young Scott Fitzgerald into setting scenes in a similar hotel in The Great Gatsby, when I got an email. From Hollywood. From a producer interested in The Fungus. Not a famous or particularly successful Hollywood producer, but then it wasn’t a famous or particularly successful book, but, hey, maybe it would pay for our holiday or, at worst, the cup of coffee. And to think that we were sitting only a few yards from where Fitzgerald had got his inspiration. There must be something about great writers and Louisville. However, nothing came of it, but in any event this new edition would still be the best way to experience John’s and my work.

  John died in 2005. He’d been a close friend for 35 years. We had a lot of fun together, and I hope that you think we put some of it in The Fungus.

  Roy Kettle

  October 2013

  Fung’/us (-ngg-), n. (pl. -i pr. -ji, -uses). Mushroom, toad­stool, or allied plant including moulds; (Bot.) cryptogamous plant without chlorophyll feeding on organic matter, things of sudden growth; (Path.) spongy morbid growth or excresc­ence; skin disease of fish.

  —from The Concise Oxford Dictionary

  PART ONE

  THE SPREADING

  1

  London, Tuesday, 6.20 p.m.

  By the time Norman Layne arrived home he’d long forgotten the embarrassing collision with the attractive woman in Tottenham Court Road. There were other things preying on his mind now, ranging from the sweaty itch caused by the nylon shirt that Nora insisted was all they could afford, to the lingering fury he still felt towards the black youth who’d played his huge radio as though he owned the train.

  And there had been the humiliation of being called back to the ticket collector so that his pass could be checked even though he was always scrupulously honest about paying. But most of all he seethed at having wasted a whole afternoon in that cess-pit of London’s West End. He had been specifically told over the phone that Bradford and Simpkins had a forstner-bit brace tang which he urgently needed to continue his carpentry work. But when he got there they then told him they didn’t have it. He couldn’t understand it. He’d stood there speechless in front of the young and arrogant sales assistant and then realized he was suffering yet another of life’s endless, nasty tricks.

  Outside he had spat on the pavement in disgust, but then, to his amazement and indignation, he’d got a reprimand from a passing police constable who looked even younger than the sales assistant. Furious, he’d stalked off down Tottenham Court Road, reflecting bitterly that he’d almost been arrested for such a trivial thing while all around him the blacks were fouling up the streets with their noise, their dangerous roller skates, their bikes on the sidewalks and their strutting, swaggering dirty-mouthed ways.

  It was then that he’d collided with the tall, blonde woman. It was entirely his fault, he hadn’t been looking where he was going. And to add to his humiliation it was he who was knocked off his feet by the impact. He’d fallen hard on his backside and had sat there, the center of attention, for several moments while people had stepped around him with big smirks on their faces. Then the blonde woman had helped him up and apologized but he knew that behind her concerned expression and kind words she was laughing at him too. So he had given her one of his fiercest glares and hurried off down the street without saying anything to her.

  And now, finally, he was home. Not that that was much better, but at least it contained a haven where he could escape from all burdens that were his lot. He could even escape from the biggest burden of all—his wife Nora. She had done nothing less than ruin his life. That’s all there was to it. He could have been somebody now if she hadn’t always been dragging him back.

  To avoid her he went round to the rear of the house. At the back door he warily listened for sounds of activity in the kitchen; hearing none h
e quickly entered and scuttled on through into his workshop. He gave a deep sigh as he switched on the light and closed the door behind him. What meager enjoyment he got out of life was almost all in this room: the cared-for tools, the books of woodwork designs, the finished and half-finished projects, and the lengths of untouched timbers with their distinctive aroma.

  He felt a momentary spasm of annoyance that he could not continue with his main job, but there was so much else to do that the room soon exerted its uplifting magic on him and he found an equally satisfying alternate task: the extra-fine sanding of an unfinished cabinet. . . .

  He began to caress the already smooth wood with the fine paper. It was a soothing, almost sensual, feeling. He would never have made any sexual association with what he was doing—sex, in fact, had always been low on his list of priorities—but to any objective observer it would have been obvious that he was making love to the wood.

  As he rubbed, stroked, and caressed, the tensions of the day began to drain out of him. . . .

  Wednesday, 7.07 a.m.

  Nora Layne lay in bed wondering what on earth could have happened to her husband. She had dozed off very early the previous night, having treated herself to perhaps one sherry too many that afternoon while the old bastard had been out, and she’d slept right through the night. Yet she was positive Norman hadn’t been to bed at all—the covers weren’t in their usual tangle caused by his perpetual tossing and turning.

  This was odd because even though their relationship was one of mutual detestation, for some reason Norman still insisted on sleeping in the same bed with her. She guessed it was because he wanted to keep up appearances for the sake of the neighbors. Or God. Maybe it was God he was worried about. For years she’d had no idea what was going on in his head except that she played no part in it. Nor did she want to.

  So where had he spent the night? On the couch in the living room perhaps? But that was so horribly uncomfortable. He wouldn’t have got a wink of sleep.

  She smiled to herself at the thought. And now he was prob­ably already up and in his precious workroom waiting for her to get up and make breakfast. Well, she’d be damned if she’d rush to do that today. She was going to make the most of having the bed to herself for a change.

  The tension that she usually felt in the mornings was gone, and she was enjoying this momentary rebellion against the dead routine of so many years. A memory seeped into her mind of moments shared with Norman in weekend beds long ago, but it seemed so unlikely and so detached from reality that it soon seeped out again. Small bitter thoughts about her wasted life took its place and she relished the self-pity that accompanied them.

  After an hour or so she got up, put on the light-blue, once-fluffy slippers and her faded green dressing gown, and went down to the kitchen. It was empty and there was no sign of the filth that he left on the rare occasions he made his own breakfast. He hadn’t even made a cup of coffee.

  Puzzled now, she put a glass against the wall and pressed her ear to it. No sound came from the workroom on the other side. Had something happened to him?

  The idea didn’t alarm her. Life without Norm would be ideal as long as the finances were all right. She wasn’t sure about the finances. But if something had happened to him—if he’d had a stroke or a heart attack—she ought to find out as soon as possible. The sooner he was taken away the better. Before he started smelling. She’d heard that the smell of dead bodies was the hardest of all to get rid of in a room, even with the strongest air fresheners.

  Tentatively she touched the workroom door with her knuckles, harder when there was no reply. She had to go in then, there was nothing else for it. She hadn’t been in there since the time she tidied it and put his tools back in the wrong positions. How long ago had that been? She couldn’t remember.

  As she opened the door she tensed, ready to retreat at the slightest sound. But she heard nothing. There was, however, a strong musty smell. Emboldened, she stepped inside . . . and almost screamed.

  One entire side of the workroom was covered in a thick mold.

  Dry rot, she thought as she stared at it with horror. She loathed the stuff. It had been so expensive to put right in their first home. Norm had shown her the furry yellow and white fungus that had eaten up the floor supports and had then pushed her hand into it as a joke. She shuddered at the memory.

  But this growth was much bigger and thicker than the one she remembered. It must have been growing in here for years! The floor, walls and ceiling were coated with the soft, disgusting stuff. It had also grown over what must have been shelves and cupboards but were now shapeless forms under the mold. And the smell. It was so bad it almost made her gag.

  Why had Norm let it grow? Especially in here, his precious inner sanctum? Then it occurred to her that it might have grown very quickly. In fact it seemed the only likely explanation. Perhaps it had been growing under the floor boards or behind the wall for ages and had just suddenly broken through during the night. Yes, that would explain why Norm wasn’t here—he must have gone to get some stuff to deal with it. Some of that fluid that caught in the back of your throat and stank the house out for days.

  Well, this was his responsibility, she told herself, and the sooner he got rid of it the better. It was disgusting.

  She picked up a length of wood and thrust it angrily into one of the bigger mounds of fungus. Unexpectedly, a ripple ran through the growth, then the whole mound moved.

  Even worse, it spoke to her.

  “Nora,” it said in a thick, muffled voice. “Nora . . . It’s me!”

  And before she could react Norm reached out with two soft, slightly sticky arms and hugged her for the first time in years.

  2

  Tuesday, 6.15 p.m.

  Barbara had thoroughly enjoyed the movie and was sorry it had come to an end. She sat through the credits and was still sitting there when the lights came on, wondering where to go from the theater. She was just about to get up when a tall, attractive blonde woman sat down one seat away from her. Barbara immediately settled back into her own seat.

  Very tasty, she thought, very tasty indeed. She waited to see if the woman was on her own or if there was a man with her who’d paused to buy popcorn or something. But when the intermission ended she was still on her own, to Barbara’s relief.

  Throughout the intermission Barbara had kept her under discreet observation. Several times she’d been on the verge of speaking to her, but her usual shackles of anxiety held her back. She never could make the first move in these situations, no matter how much she wanted to. Her fear of rejection was too strong.

  So instead she fantasized as to how such a conversation might go, what delights it might lead to—not just for that night but for other nights to come. She desperately needed to get involved with someone else. It would give her the necessary strength to break up with Shirley. Things couldn’t go on the way they were for much longer. Yet she couldn’t just leave Shirley unless there was someone else to go to. She couldn’t stand being alone. Even life with Shirley was better than being alone.

  She glanced again at the blonde woman, admiring her fine profile. She looked a proud, strong-willed person. Barbara needed those qualities in a partner. Shirley had them, it was true, but she was also cruel. This woman wouldn’t be like that, she was sure.

  By the time the lights dimmed, Barbara had decided to sit through the program again. After all, the main feature, a comedy starring Richard Pryor, was very funny and, who knows, something might develop.

  During the coming attractions Barbara got up to go to the toilet. As she went past the blonde woman she prolonged the moment of contact with her knees for as long as she could, muttering a soft, “Sorry.” In her mind she had inflated that one word into a blatant invitation dripping with tonal suggestiveness, but the other woman said nothing.

  On the way back, after some heart-racing moments of anticipation in the toilet, she deliberately stumbled as she passed by. Pretending to lose her balance she tipp
ed towards the woman and for a delicious few seconds found herself embracing her. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said in a loud whisper as the woman took hold of her arm to assist her. “It’s quite all right,” said the woman in a cool, well-educated voice.

  Barbara continued on to her own seat. She’d wanted to sit in one of the empty seats on either side of the woman but that would have been too obvious in such a sparsely populated cinema. So instead, as the film progressed, she kept giving the woman long, lingering glances in the hope that she would catch a reciprocal one. She could still feel the touch of the woman’s strong fingers on her upper arm where she’d briefly held her. . . .

  But to Barbara’s intense disappointment the woman’s attention remained fixed firmly on the screen for the whole time. And when the lights came on she was up and gone before Barbara could even think.

  Barbara watched her disappear through an exit and sighed. Then, smiling sadly to herself, she got up and slowly left the theater. The evening’s fun and fantasies, she realized, were over. She now faced the prospect of going back to Shirley. Normally that would be bad enough but tonight it would be doubly worse because not only was she late but she was also wearing Shirley’s red silk blouse without permission.

  Shirley was absolutely impossible when it came to things like that. She was so possessive about her clothes and her belongings. And about Barbara, too.

  Barbara’s steps slowed as she pictured the scene when she got home. Oh shit, she thought, it’s almost as bad as living with a man.

  When she tried to open the front door to their Chiswick flat it stopped at the end of the safety chain. Damn, she thought, but then shouted as pleasantly as she could, “Shirley, darling! It’s me!”

  Shirley’s voice came out of the hall. “Who’s that?”