‘Where is Martin?’

‘He’ll be with Fabian. I know he likes to visit at this hour of night.’

‘Show me.’

And they moved on, deeper into the tangle of objects. The blue light shimmered and more of the yellow dots floated by. Hobbes recognized them as the spores of the fungus. He covered his mouth but knew that was of little use: there were too many of them – the room was filled with their light. There was a strange otherworldly scent, nasty and rotten and ugly at its core, deep down; and overlying this – hiding it almost – a sweeter aroma, flowery, cloying, off-putting. Hobbes felt like he might retch, but fought against it, and the moment passed. And then, moving forward a few more steps, he saw an object he recognized, dangling on a string: a photograph taken at his own wedding, himself and Glenda, his bride of a few minutes only, standing together proudly, happily, their faces beaming with joy. And next to it, only a few feet away, swaying on its own piece of string, was his old wristwatch, with its silver case and blue face – a treasured object given to Hobbes by his father.

Martin had taken both objects, and placed them here in the cellar of the building.

And then he saw his son, standing with another person, a woman. Other people milled around this central space. Martin had not yet seen his father – his attention was elsewhere. Hobbes came up behind him. He wanted to speak, to call out, but was unable to move his lips properly. His limbs felt even heavier than before. The spores were most concentrated here, glowing with their own light. They made their way inside Hobbes’s body, into his bloodstream, casting their spell. He was locked in someone else’s dream. The objects danced and swayed around him, made of paper, metal, plastic, wood, bone, glass, all materials. The soft humming sound filled his head.

Hobbes reached out with his hand. It took all his effort to do so. And then he ceased even that movement, for he had seen the body that lay on the low table before him. It was a man, or the shape of a man. But the corpse was covered with a shifting pattern of colour. The horribly sweet scent rose from the mass of rotten flesh, or whatever it was. Hobbes couldn’t work it out, not at first. And then he took a step forward. He needed to be close to his son: that was all that mattered.

Martin had bent down at the low table, and was offering something to the body that lay there. Hobbes could see it more clearly now: the torso and limbs were modelled from a plant-like substance or, rather, a fungal substance. The musk had taken over the corpse completely, and the flesh was covered with it, head to foot. Even the face was moulded from the fibrous material. The features might almost be made out.