4

Barry Wilson was furious.

It had been several hours since he’d been bundled into the helicopter but still no one had explained to him the reason behind his compulsory visit to Belfast. Of course he could only take their word for it that he was in Belfast. It had still been dark when they touched down and all he’d seen were a few drab, military-­looking buildings around the landing area.

Now he was sitting alone in an almost bare room that smelled strongly of disinfectant. There were a few hard-­backed chairs scattered around, one of which he was sitting on, and a table covered in a green felt cloth. Behind it there was a blackboard and a large map of the British Isles. It was like being in a seedy school room.

Wilson jumped as the door opened behind him. He looked round and saw two officers enter the room. One was a little older than him, probably 36 or 37, the other in late middle age. He was relieved to see they were just carrying clipboards and didn’t appear to be armed.

“Hello Mr. Wilson,” said the older one. “Sorry to keep you waiting but you can imagine how things are here at the moment.” They sat down at the table and stared at him. There was curiosity and expectancy in their gaze, and also a touch of desperation. Wilson saw that the younger man, who sat very stiffly, looked particularly anxious. He also had a tic in his right cheek.

Wilson said, “It’s Doctor, not Mister. And no, I can’t imagine how things are here at the moment. All I know is that I was kidnapped at gunpoint. My house was broken into and is probably still open to looters, children and cats pissing over the family heirlooms. I want an apology, an explanation, compensation and a quick trip home. Not necessarily in that order.”

The older officer sighed. Then, “First let us introduce ourselves. My name is Major Peterson. This is Captain O’Connell.” The thin-­featured younger officer gave Wilson a curt nod. The Major continued, “I understand from Lieutenant Smythe-­Robertson that you claim you are unaware of recent events?” He obviously found this difficult to believe.

“That’s right, and I’m still unaware of recent events, whatever they may be. I kept asking your Lieutenant Smith what the hell was going on but he didn’t tell me anything apart from a bad-­taste joke about London.”

O’Connell leaned forward, his pale, sharp face looking even more haggard than earlier. “You really don’t know what’s going on over there?”

Wilson shook his head with annoyance. “For the hundredth time, no I don’t.”

“What in God’s name have you been doing for the past two weeks?” demanded Peterson.

“I’ve been alone in my cottage writing. As you must know I’m a writer. I write the Flannery books.” He paused very briefly for the signs of recognition every writer hopes for but very rarely receives. Here he got none at all. “Flannery is an Irish private detective,” he explained sulkily.

“For two weeks!” It sounded to Wilson as though the Major’s astonishment was more to do with the length of time that anyone in his right mind would spend writing than at the self-­imposed solitude.

“It actually takes a little longer than that to write a book,” said Wilson. “I was racing to finish it off after a visit from my children. I can’t do any work at all when they’re around. I need total isolation and no interruptions. It’s the way I work—in concentrated bursts.”

“No newspapers? No television?” asked Peterson.

“No.”

“What about phone calls? Visits from your neighbors?”

“I took the phone off the hook and my neighbors and I don’t speak to each other as a rule.”

“Extraordinary,” murmured Peterson.

“And now can you tell me what all the panic’s about? I presume it’s not World War III, otherwise we’d all be glowing in the dark by now.”

“No, it’s not World War III, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson. “But before I explain there are some questions I must ask you.” He glanced at his clipboard. “You are married to Dr. Jane Wilson, are you not?”

Wilson was taken aback by the introduction of his estranged wife into this bizarre conversation. “Yes,” he said. “Why?”

Peterson ignored his question. “And she was a mycologist working at the Institute of Tropical Biology in London?”

Wilson didn’t care for his use of the word “was.” He began to get a queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. “That officer was joking, wasn’t he? When he said that London no longer existed?”

Peterson and O’Connell exchanged a look. The younger officer’s face was now completely white. Wilson’s anxiety increased. Something had happened in London. Something horrendous. But if it wasn’t a nuclear war what was it? Some sort of nuclear accident? Or had we dropped one of our own H-­Bombs on it by mistake? It was probably the Americans’ fault—they were always having accidents with their bloody bombs and missiles, dropping them all over the place. “Broken Arrows” they called them.

“Look, you’ve got to tell me!” he demanded. “My children are in London.”

Peterson held up a hand. “The officer was exaggerating. London still exists. It’s just that . . . well, it’s been changed.”

O’Connell suddenly bent forward and put his hands over his mouth. His shoulders began to shake and he made a dry retching sound. Wilson didn’t know if he was crying or about to throw up.

Major Peterson regarded O’Connell with a pained expression. “Perhaps you should leave, Captain. I can handle this.”

With a visible effort O’Connell straightened and regained his composure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. “I’m fine, sir. Really. I’ll be all right.”

Peterson turned back to Wilson. “About your wife,” he began.

Wilson cut him short. “Why the hell do you keep going on about Jane? One moment we’re talking about some disaster that’s befallen London and the next you’re back asking questions about my wife! What’s she got to do with any of this?”

“Believe me, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson, “she has a lot to do with it. Now please let me continue with my questions. I assure you they are all relevant to the situation which I will explain to you shortly.”

Wilson sighed impatiently. It was like something out of Kafka. “Go on,” he said.

“Your wife is regarded as one of the top experts in the field of mycology, correct?”

“Yes. Whenever and wherever in the world people get together to discuss fungi my wife’s name is invariably mentioned in tones of awe. What of it?”

“And you’re a mycologist too, I understand?”

“I used to be,” Wilson corrected him. “I decided I’d made what is called a career error. I gave it all up to become a writer. Besides, one scientific genius in the family is enough.” He couldn’t keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice.

“But you kept in touch with what your wife was doing?” asked Peterson. “In her research, I mean.”

Wilson nodded. “Couldn’t avoid it. All she ever talks about.”

“And what was she doing?”

“Trying to breed a new species of mushroom. Big mushrooms that would grow quickly and be about ten times richer in protein than the ordinary sort. She has visions of solving the world food shortage with the things. Never thinks small, my wife.”

“Do you know the exact method she was using to create these big mushrooms?” asked O’Connell eagerly.

Wilson frowned. “Well, I don’t know the exact details of her current line of research. I’m not that interested anymore so I haven’t bothered to ask. But I know she’s been tinkering about with the chemical structure of the mushroom enzymes.”

The two officers exchanged another glance. Then Peterson wrote something down on his clipboard. “That’s a start anyway,” he said.

Increasingly puzzled, Wilson said, “Look, you’re talking as if she actually succeeded with these mushrooms. Has she?”

“Oh, she’s succeeded all right,” said Peterson dryly. “And she may indeed solve the world food problem, but not in the way she envisaged.”

“Will you please tell me what you’re talking about?!” demanded Wilson.

O’Connell gestured at the map of Britain on the wall. “Dr. Wilson, most of southern England, as well as other areas of the mainland, is infested with fungi. The stuff is growing on everything, including people. Millions have died already. And they’re the lucky ones.” His voice dried up and he shook his head helplessly, unable to continue.

Wilson stared at him, then at Peterson. The expression in their eyes told him it was no joke. His mind reeled as the enormity of O’Connell’s words sank in. “But . . .” he began, and stopped. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally all he managed was a lame, “It’s incredible.”

“It certainly is,” agreed Peterson. “When it started it was as if the world had gone mad. No one could explain what was happening. The fungus just began sprouting all over the place for no apparent reason. Then the boffins came up with a theory. Something was reacting with all the different species of fungi it came in contact with, causing them to grow and mutate at a tremendous speed. You’re the expert, Dr. Wilson. Just how many species of fungi are there?”

In a daze, Wilson said, “Nobody knows for sure. The fungal kingdom is a huge one. There are probably over 100,000 recognized species and a lot we haven’t discovered yet. They range from microscopic fungi, molds, lichens, and yeasts to fungi like toadstools, puff-­balls, and stink­horns . . .”

“Well every single species of fungi within the affected area is going berserk,” said Peterson. “And the area of contagion is expanding very fast. It’s predicted it will cover all of England, Scotland and Wales within two months.”

“Jesus,” whispered Wilson. “My kids . . . what about London?”

“I’ll be blunt, Dr. Wilson. Things are bad there. Very bad. That’s where the plague began. The city is now cut off completely from the outside world. We have no communication with anyone in it. Apparently one type of fungus has developed a taste for electronics. All the phone, radio, and telecommunications equipment in London has rotted away, along with a lot of other materials. Anyway it’s doubtful if anyone in London is still capable of rational conversation now—the last radio transmissions from the place were pure gibberish.”

Wilson was thinking of Simon and Jessica and kicking himself that he hadn’t let them stay on longer in Ireland as they’d wanted to. No, he’d sent them packing back to Jane’s parents in Highgate so he could get back to work on his bloody book! Christ, had his damn selfishness sent them to their deaths? No! He couldn’t let himself believe that. They had to be still alive. Surely not everyone in London had been affected? With difficulty he forced his attention back to what Peterson had just said. “Gibberish? What do you mean? What exactly is the situation in London?”

O’Connell answered, “The fungus affects its victims in different ways. Some species simply kill people—they grow all over them and riddle their bodies with their roots . . .”

“Hyphae,” corrected Wilson automatically.

O’Connell glared at him and continued. “The victims are literally eaten away. And some are killed from within. The fungi grows inside their bodies and then breaks out.”

“We had a case of that right here on the base,” said Peterson. He grimaced. “Horrible business.”

“But there’s one species of fungus, or perhaps more than one, that doesn’t kill its victim,” O’Connell went on. “Or at least not right away. It acts like a kind of parasite. It feeds on its victims but at the same time it keeps them alive.”

“You mean a symbiotic relationship develops?” asked Wilson, the scientist in him becoming intrigued in spite of himself. “How exactly?”

“The fungus changes its victim in some way. Metabolically. So that they’re no longer . . . human. They end up not minding the ghastly stuff growing on them, in them.” His voice dried up again and he stared into space.

“You’ll have to excuse Captain O’Connell,” said Peterson uneasily. “He, uh, lost his wife that way.”

“I shot her,” said O’Connell in a dead voice. “I had to.” Suddenly he leaped to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at Wilson. “And it’s your bloody wife who’s the cause of all this!” he shouted. “Your fucking woman with her fucking experiments!”

“Take it easy, Captain,” said Peterson, grabbing him by the arm. “Calm down, just calm down. I know it’s difficult for you but it’s difficult for all of us.”

The anger faded from O’Connell’s face, leaving a blank void that was even more disturbing to Wilson. He sat slowly down again, like a puppet being lowered on strings.

Wilson said desperately, “How do you know that Jane had anything to do with this? Why can’t it be the result of some natural phenomenon?”

“You’re a scientist, Dr. Wilson,” said Peterson. “Can you think of any natural reason why every species of fungus should suddenly behave in this way?”

Wilson had to admit he couldn’t. “But I don’t see why it’s necessarily linked with my wife’s research.”

“Your wife’s laboratory was pin-­pointed as the source of the infection by an investigator with the Public Health Department, a Dr. Bruce Carter. He did a heroic job. He kept his investigation going even after conditions became totally chaotic in London—and after he’d contracted a fungus infection himself. He got a radio message out four days ago, shortly before all communication with London ceased. He was absolutely positive about his findings.” Peterson leaned forward and stared hard at Wilson. “Some sort of genetically engineered organism had been let loose in the environment. And that something had come from your wife’s laboratory.”

Wilson felt a terrible sense of despair settle over him. He gave a deep sigh. “What exactly got out?”

“We don’t know yet,” answered Peterson. “The boffins have been analyzing samples of the fungi ever since the outbreak began, but they haven’t been able to isolate the agent responsible for the mutations. I’ve been told it’s like trying to find the proverbial needle in the haystack. Your information that your wife was working in the area of enzymes should narrow down the hunt, but it’s still possible they won’t isolate the cause before the stuff spreads across all of England . . . and beyond.”

Wilson frowned. “But surely—if Jane really is responsible—all you have to do is send someone to her lab to get her notes and records. They would tell you everything you needed to know.”

“We tried that. Three days ago. A group of volunteers flew by helicopter into London. Wearing anti-­contamination gear they were winched down onto the roof of the Institute of Tropical Biology. They located your wife’s lab but it had been stripped clean of all its records.”

“But who would have . . . ?” Wilson began.

“Who else but your wife?” said O’Connell coldly. “No one else knew.”

“That doesn’t sound like anything Jane would do,” Wilson protested. “If she realized what had happened she would have told the authorities everything they needed to know about her work. She wouldn’t have tried to conceal what she’d done.”

“Who knows her current state of mind?” said Peterson with a shrug. “The knowledge that she is responsible for such a massive catastrophe may have proved too much for her. Or—and I’m sorry to have to say this—she may have fallen victim to one of the symbiotic fungi.”

Wilson winced. “What about her home? Has anyone checked that?”

“Yes. The search team flew there from the Institute. They reported no sign of either your wife or her papers. Soon afterward they were attacked by a mob. The helicopter crew lost all contact and had to return without them.”

“Jesus,” muttered Wilson and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. It had become hot and stuffy in the bleak room. “What kind of mob?”

“We don’t know. Possibly consisting of people driven mad by their fungal infections, but we can’t be sure.”

Wilson was silent. It seemed incredible that London had been transformed into some kind of nightmare world in such a short space of time.

Peterson cleared his throat uncomfortably and said, “So that’s why we need you.”

“Need me?” he asked, startled. “Why?”

“We want you to go to London, Dr. Wilson. We want you to find your wife, if she’s still alive. If she’s not we want you to locate her notes.”

Wilson stared at him in horror. “Go to London? After what you’ve been telling me? No way.”

“Dr. Wilson, no one knows your wife better than you do. You have the best chance of all of finding her. You’re also a mycologist—you’ll know what to look for among her notes. You are, I’m afraid, indispensable to this mission. And pray you’re successful. We are under increasing pressure from other countries—France in particular—to authorize the use of nuclear weapons on the mainland. They want H-­Bombs dropped not only on the affected areas but on every part of England, Scotland and Wales to stop the fungus completely.”

“I don’t care! I’m not going and that’s final!” cried Wilson.

Contemptuously O’Connell said, “You don’t understand, Doctor, you have no choice in the matter. The Acting Prime Minister has already decided you are going.” He glanced at his watch. “In less than eight hours, as a matter of fact.”