Hobbes climbed the stairs. Enough of this place. He poured himself a glass of water at the kitchen sink. And he looked through the grimy window at the back garden. Without thinking he went out through the kitchen doorway. Dusk had settled heavily on London. He walked across the remains of the lawn to the overgrown section. Here he bent down, to part the damp stems and branches. The fungus was still there, now joined by a smaller partner. Yes, it was the same as the one he’d seen in Richmond Park, growing on or around the body of the dog. The same Rorschach-style markings: black on cream. This one was growing from the rich dark wet soil, attended by its colony of ants. Hobbes reached down, grabbed a section of the plant and pulled at it. There was a resistance at first, a determination to remain in place. He could almost think that a human hand beneath the soil was mirroring his action, and this made him shudder. But he pulled harder, dragging the fungus free of the soil, or nearly so. It was attached to something buried in the earth. Hobbes dug deeper, moving the soil away with his bare hands. The fungus crumbled under his touch. It sounded like blisters of soft skin popping open. There was a cloud of yellow dust in the air: the particles got into his nostrils and he almost sneezed. His eyes were watering. And now he saw what the fungus was attached to …

It was a bird. Just a common blackbird, as far as he could tell. Long dead. But only a small part of its body had been reduced to bone. The bulk was still composed of flesh, or mutated flesh: the fungus was growing all over this section. As with the dog in the park, the rate of decay had been slowed. Somehow the fungus had made its home in the flesh of the bird, and was changing the creature, transforming it into something new and strange.

Hobbes stood up. He had a section of the fungus in his hand.

It stank. It was just horrible. Top notes: sweetness. Base note: rot.

Some kind of sap on his fingertips, dark, putrid.

Dirt under his nails, and soft pulp.

It was sticky.

But he didn’t care. Not just then.

The garden was held perfectly silent in that moment.

There was a haze in the air.

A thin yellow mist.

Perhaps the spores of the fungus, glistening …

He felt them on his face, on his skin.

The blackbird lay on the ground, already half hidden as the plants slowly curled back over it, forming a canopy.

The garden shed was visible through the tangle of branches.

Hobbes turned to face the house.

He felt light-headed.

The dress danced before him across the lawn, a flutter of blue in a human shape, empty, empty of life. And then gone, drifting away.

He saw the rear of the house through a kind of thin yellow-grey mist. His eyes moved from one window to another, as he thought of David Kepple’s story, how his grandfather had scared him with rumours of a hidden room. Could such a thing be true? Would he have to bring a sledgehammer next time, and attack the walls, seeking a hidey-hole?