This was Fabian.

When had he died? Esme had said about a year ago. And yet the process of decay was still active. The musk had taken over the body, every last inch of it, every particle changed in some way, transforming it into a new and strangely beautiful object. Yes, beautiful! There was no other word for it. Here was the true night flesh. The flesh of the body becomes the soil that the fungus grows within, and the spores rise in flight, like insects, glow-flies, like the sparks of the soul cast free …

Hobbes touched the surface of the man’s body, not the flesh, but the substance the flesh had turned into. His fingers sank into the material, and he felt the fibres close around his fingers, holding them, trying to take them over, drawing them deeper inside. It was sickening. Quickly, he pulled his hand loose, and a cloud of spores rose to meet him. He breathed them in – he had no choice.

Now the woman standing next to Martin turned and looked at Hobbes. He recognized her as the woman in the photograph: Nadia. Her hair was a massed tangle of knotted strands, unwashed for many weeks so that a natural process had taken over. Her face was pitted at the cheeks, with the grey pallor of a long-term smoker. She smiled at the detective and nodded, yet her face gave nothing away. She seemed to be less affected by the spores, and the atmosphere of the cellar, as though she had grown used to it over time. But he saw now that her eyes were intense, staring, fixed on one spot: somewhere inside Hobbes’s skull. Unnerved, he moved back a little. His feet almost slipped from under him as he turned, and his mind reeled with a sudden wash of colour and form. Esme grabbed his arm and pulled him away. He lurched forward clumsily, banging into another devotee in his haste. Martin was suddenly close by, his eyes glazed, his mouth twisted into a grim line. And then the young man broke free of his spell, at least for a moment, and his face showed only fear, and anger, as he looked at his father.

Martin …

Hobbes could hardly hear his own voice, as he spoke.

Martin, come on. Son, let’s get out of here …

He reached out, and felt Martin’s hand in his, gently closing. He saw the dark-blue colour at the fingertips, the mark of the drug, as their fingers wove together. And Hobbes felt hope. They could walk out of here, father and son. It would be easy …

Nadia slapped at Martin’s face.

Hobbes heard the sound as a distant report, but the pain was close-up, visceral, shared equally between them.

Nadia loomed close. Her face was speckled with tiny blue patches, where her body had been further affected by the spores of musk. She was speaking, her words a guttural rush of syllables. Her hands raised like claws.