Harry Knight - The Fungus

“This one’s s alive too,” said Mason. “Staggered into the casualty department of Guy’s Hospital at 4 a.m.”

“It is some kind of fungus, isn’t it,” said Carter, peering at the growths.

“It looks like it. But I’ve tried massive doses of both nystatin and griseofulvin without any noticeable effect.”

Carter nodded. Those were the two antibiotics most effective against fungal infections. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Neither have I. I’m no expert on fungal infections but I thought I was familiar with most of the ones that can affect human beings, even the ones we don’t tend to get in Britain, like histoplasmosis and coccidioidomycosis , but this—this is outside my experience completely.”

An idea occurred to Carter. “It could be some new tropical strain that a visitor from, say, Africa or India has brought in. You'd better get in touch with the Institute of Tropical Medicine, they might be able to identify this.”

“I’ve already thought of that. My staff are making the calls now. They’re also trying to contact the head of the Mycology Department at London University so that we can have stuff analyzed by experts as soon as possible. But the most pressing problem—and the reason I called you—is to stop this stuff from spreading any further. This last victim was brought in from as far away as Hackney—” He indicated the final occupied bed.

Carter looked and saw a large, middle-aged black woman lying there. At first she seemed free of any fungal growths but then he noticed the long slits running down her limbs and torso. He looked at her face. Her eyes were open but the surface of the eyeballs was covered with a gray mold. He could see the same gray mold within the fissures in her skin. Fortunately she wasn’t breathing.

“Her whole body is riddled with fungus. There’s probably more of it than her now. One of the disturbing factors is that each of the four victims here appears to have been afflicted by a different type of fungus. I just don’t understand it.”

Carter said tonelessly, “Ladbroke Grove, Hackney, Borough—that’s a wide area already. Have there been any more reported cases?”

“I’m afraid so. So far we’ve had calls from the West Middlesex Hospital, the London Hospital and the Springfield Hospital. they’ve all got cases by the sound of it.”

“Springfield—that’s Upper Tooting.” The red area on Carter’s mental map of London grew even bigger. “And you say it’s very contagious, but exactly how contagious?”

“Extremely contagious,” answered Mason. “The two policemen who brought in the Euston Road victim are in another ward nearby. They’re both infected. The stuff is covering about twenty percent of their bodies and is spreading fast, despite all our attempts to kill it. Three ambulance men have also been stricken so far—and there’s this.”

Mason held up his right hand and opened the seals on the plastic glove. He pulled off the glove and Carter saw, on the back of Mason’s hand, a patch of yellow mold.

Flannery lurched in to Neary’s, trying to ignore the pain in his bruised legs. He was positive that one of the men lined up at the bar was going to be surprised to see him and he was right. Of the several faces that turned in his direction one of them registered a fleeting look of disbelief. The face belonged to Bresnihan.

Flannery joined him at the bar.

Casually, Flannery said, “Hello, Fiach. I suppose I have you to thank for last night.”

Bresnihan’s attempt to look innocent was as weak as English beer. “I don’t know what—” he began.

Flannery cut him off. “Don’t waste your breath, Fiach. You might need it to explain to that poor, mistreated wife of yours why you’ve come home carrying your balls in a paper bag instead of in your pea-sized scrotum. I know it was you who set me up with the provos. You told them that my questions about Mulvaney had something to do with them, right?”

Bresnihan hesitated, then gave a resigned nod. “How did you get away? I figured for sure you’d be a dead man by now.”

Flannery grinned. “It takes more than the IRA to stop Flannery, Fiach, my lad. You should know that.”

“Oh Christ!” shouted Barry Wilson, slamming his fist onto the typewriter and making the lamp with the loose connection flicker. It was no good. Much too melodramatic. Too far over the top. None of that ‘wry, sharp wit’ that the re-viewer in the Irish Times had astutely noticed in the last Flannery novel The Meaning of Liffey . It was more Mickey Spillane than Barry Wilson.

He frowned suddenly and cocked his head. Was that the doorbell? It was hard to tell with these damn earplugs but he’d become addicted to them as a working aid. It certainly couldn’t have been the phone because he’d taken it off the hook weeks ago.

He sincerely hoped it wasn’t the door bell. He didn’t want a single interruption until he’d finished all the work he had to do. Apart from meeting the deadline for this fourth Flannery book—which was less than a month away—he also had to write a treatment for the proposed Flannery TV series that RTE was “semi-keen” on doing. If the TV series happened his financial problems would be over. Though the Flannery novels had been a moderate success, and their popularity was still growing, money was still in short supply. The two children, Simon and Jessica, ate up most of it and the rest was spent on paying off this damp-ridden cottage here in County Wicklow.

He heard the sound again. It was the door bell. He swore to himself and looked at his watch. It was after midnight. Who the hell would be paying him a visit all the way up here at this time of night? Couldn’t be one of his neighbors. He’d made a point of alienating them all in order to ensure uninterrupted privacy.

He took out the earplugs and listened intently. The door bell rang again. This time it sounded as if someone were leaning on it. He got up and made his way out of the study and down the passage towards the front room.

Without turning on the light he crept across the floor, struggling to remember which of the boards creaked, and went to one of the front windows. Warily he peered out through a crack in the curtain—and got a shock.

He could see the outlines of three men outside. And all of them were carrying what looked like automatic weapons.

Alarmed, he backed away from the window. Men with guns. It could mean only one thing. The IRA. But what were they doing at his house?

At that moment there came a tremendous thump on the front door. Wilson’s heart seemed to miss a beat. Christ, they were breaking down the door!

He retreated from the front room, ran down the passage and back into his study. His mind raced as he frantically tried to think of a place to hide. There was no cellar, no attic—

The front door shuddered again.

A weapon! He had to find a weapon. But what was there? He had no rifle, no shotgun—then he noticed the letter opener lying on his desk. He snatched it up. Not sharp, but it was long and pointed.

Then he heard the front door splintering.

He turned off the study light and crawled quickly under his desk. He waited there, heart pounding like a jack hammer, clutching the letter opener.

Voices in the front room. He heard his name being called. Shit, so it was him they were after. It wasn’t some random attack or a case of mistaken identity. But why him? Why would the IRA be after him? Okay, so he’d poked fun at them in the Flannery books but surely he hadn’t upset them enough for them to take this sort of action.

Maybe they intended kidnapping him. Perhaps they thought he was a rich author and figured he could raise a huge ransom. Christ, they were going to be pissed off when they found out how little he was worth.