The Mushroom Man

The Mushroom Man.

By

John Vault.

SMASHWORDS EDITION.

***

PUBLISHED BY:

HiRisc Publications on Smashwords.

The Mushroom Man.

Copyright © 2011 by John Vault.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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HiRisc Publications has rated this work suitable for readers of 16 years or older.

It may contain frequent use of strong language, horror themes, violence or descriptions of a sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

***

For Bo, Pete, Denise, Muz, Cakey and all the other great friends that I've had to leave behind to pursue my dreams.

For the new friends that I'll make in the future and for the family that I hope to one day meet again at the end of it all…

Special thanks to Rose Delaney, Dublin 1931.

***

Chapter I

'That's how much we're paying for white buttons today Mister Pembroke.' The voice on the other end of the line stated matter-of-factly. Gerald paused slightly before answering.

'What do you mean, that's how much you're paying?' He asked. 'Isn't this supposed to be a negotiation?'

'All our other suppliers have already agreed to this price Mister Pembroke.' The voice answered as if stifling a yawn.

'And if I don't?' Gerald asked.

'Then we'll have to pass on this particular purchasing opportunity. I'm sorry.' The voice replied.

'I can't make a profit at that price.' Gerald pressed.

'Then you'll have to find another outlet on this occasion.' The voice answered. Gerald couldn't think of a response. He left the conversation hanging uncomfortably. 'Look,' the voice said finally, 'have a think about it and give us a call if you change your mind.' The line went dead.

'That's how much we're paying for white buttons today...' He mimicked, pulling faces at the phone. Bloody supermarket buyers don't give a shit about local producers and he had twenty five hundred kilos of Bispora waiting to go and nobody buying. It's all well and good the supermarkets offering a good price until you've turned all of your business over to producing specifically for them. Then they hand your 'account' over to some spotty Herbert whose sole purpose is to keep the costs down. That's when you're in their pocket, when you've already cast off your other options. Then they can dictate the price because they know that the stock won't wait once it's ready.

What they were offering now would barely pay the wages. He sighed deeply. He'd have to call them back of course but maybe if he waited an hour or two he'd get a different buyer on the line, then he wouldn't have to endure the wave of smug satisfaction that oozed out of the telephone handset.

He stood up, pushing his chair back, and walked out of his small office into the packing room. The place was buzzing. There were a few regular staff who knew the business, and several day rate people who were only needed every few weeks at harvest and packing time. Everyone seemed so cheerful and industrious. Gerald was almost envious of them.

When the mushroom farm had appeared on the market thirteen years ago he could hardly believe his luck. A ready made small business with good turnover, tucked away in a small picturesque hamlet that was brimming over with peace and quiet. There was even a little sign on the side of the narrow road at the entrance to the village. It was trimmed with small yellow roses and it said;

'Welcome to Luddensley Village, home of St. Marcia's spring.'

The sign had a picture on it showing a beautiful black haired girl in a flowing blue robe, rising out of the spring, complete with a halo and an enigmatic smile.

Old Bob Richardson had the right idea, Gerald mused. Take an ancient local legend and turn it into cash selling bottled spring water. No production costs to speak of, just keep filling the bottles. An endless supply of product that isn't available anywhere else in the world. You had to hand it to him, and people did. His bottling plant kept the village and the neighbouring town of Neerthorpe alive, and he put a lot of his substantial earnings straight back into the council coffers. A great bloke old Bob.

Luddensley village was a good place to get married and raise a family, and so he had. Well, except for the family part, that hadn't happened yet. But he and Marion were trying, that was the main thing.

Meeting Marion had been another stroke of luck. Fancy him copping off with Marion Richardson. Who'd have seen that one coming? She was from really old money. Her mother was a Baroness who's family had fallen on hard times until she'd trapped old Bob and taught him how to make connections with 'her people'. So Marion had had a public school education and a year at finishing school somewhere in France learning how to write cheques and insult shop assistants. She was clever, confident and sporty and she took care of her appearance. At thirty six she still turned heads whenever they went out together.

On the whole then, life was good. But he still had to pay the wages. Maybe he should just get it over with and call the buyers again. All these mushrooms weren't going to sell themselves after all.

The business had done well in his care. They had their own cloning facilities which meant that they didn't have to rely on spawn suppliers. They had an established first phase composting process, amply supplied by local farmers and stables, and a small barn fully kitted out for second phase composting. The growing out rooms were built inside another much bigger barn that could be compartmentalised and environmentally controlled, and up until about two years ago they'd had books full of regular customers.

Then the supermarkets sprang up in the next town and everything changed.

Neerthorpe town was growing rapidly, having been snapped up by property developers during the building boom. The supermarkets had managed to under cut him and taken all of his custom and then bought up all of his stock at a cripplingly low price. He'd barely kept his head above water since. But what else could he do?

The workers smiled at him as he walked across the packing area to the growing out rooms. Workers always smile at the boss but Gerald liked to think that deep down they actually meant it.

There was an airlock at the entrance to the growing out rooms. A small chamber with a disinfectant footbath and a pair of rubber boots for each authorised employee. They were in between flushes at the moment so most of the boots were stacked up in one corner because no-one needed them. Gerald found his pair, slipped them on, disinfected them in the foot bath, put on a lab coat and pushed open the door.

'Derek!' He called out to nowhere in particular, 'Derek, are you in here?'

The room was set out with aisles of coated steel shelving that were ten feet high and one metre apart. Each aisle was stacked with casing boxes. Gerald heard a muffled shout and set off in the approximate direction of its source. Eventually he found Derek, a tall, wiry man in his mid twenties with long dark pony tailed hair and a small goatee beard. Derek, looking studious, nodded a greeting as Gerald approached.

'I recon there's another flush left in these if we keep the place humid and cycle the temperature again Mister Pembroke.' He said quietly.

'Good.' Gerald replied. 'Believe me, we need the cash.'

'Same old rubbish from the buyers is it?' Derek mumbled.

'Worse than ever actually.' Gerald replied. 'Makes me wonder what they think they're going to do when they've driven all their suppliers out of business.'

Derek snorted his agreement.

'Gerald!' Marion's voice shrieked from the doorway. 'Gerald, where are you?'

'Over here darling.' Gerald called.'

They were approached by the clip clopping of high heels on the concrete floor. The sound grew louder, died away and then stopped completely.

'Well tell me where you are then you bloody idiot, I haven't got all day!' Marion squealed again. Gerald winced slightly. Derek merely grinned.

'Aisle seven darling.' Gerald announced. A few seconds later Marion turned into the aisle. More handsome than pretty, she had a wide jaw and pale narrow lips. Her eyes were somewhere between blue and green and showing a hint of wrinkling at the corners. Her fine platinum blonde hair, normally shoulder length, was tied back. She wore a white blouse and pale brown trousers and she strode toward the men as if nothing had ever gotten in the way in her entire life, ever. Gerald looked at her feet.

'Darling, we don't allow outdoor footwear in here. You know that.' He told her softly.

'I haven't got time for all that shit now Gerald.' She informed him, rolling her eyes. 'I've got to meet daddy in town, some kind of charity thing. You'll have to give me a lift.'

'Sorry. I'm a bit busy at the moment.' Gerald replied reaching into his trouser pocket for the car keys. 'You'll have to drive there yourself I'm afraid.' He held the keys out to her.

Marion stamped her foot. This wasn't good.

'Now we both agreed, didn't we Gerald, that I don't drive through town when I'm on the fucking rag!' Gerald winced again and Derek turned away. 'Not since that stupid old woman on the crossing forced me to run over her bloody dog!'

'But the buyers...' Gerald began.

Marion snatched the car keys and threw them at Derek who half cowered and half caught them.

'You.' She snapped. 'Follow me.' She turned on her heels and marched off. The thought that Derek might not obey never even crossed her mind.

Derek glanced at Gerald, who nodded solemnly. Derek shrugged and followed Marion out of the door. Gerald sighed deeply and wandered off in search of a mop and some disinfectant.

The road out from the farm was an uneven mixture of dried mud and crushed sandstone. It was slow going for the elderly Rover which had suspension so loose that it was like driving a boat even in the best of conditions.

'For God's sake man,' Marion groaned, 'put your foot down.'

Derek finally eased the car onto the relatively smooth B road and accelerated away. The road was lined with tall trees either side that dappled the afternoon sunlight as they drove. Once on its way the Rover ran smoothly and silently.

'What time do you have to be there?' Derek asked.

'Three.' Marion answered.

'But it's only five to two and it's only ten minutes into town. Why the rush?'

'Pull over.' Marion ordered.

'What?'

'Pull the bloody car over, here on the left, between the trees.'

Derek did as he was told. He eased the car to a halt and switched off the ignition.

'Thank God for that.' Marion snapped, unbuttoning her blouse.

Derek watched her for a moment until she pulled open her blouse revealing a pink lacy bra. She stopped and stared at him.

'Well?' She asked.

'I thought you were, well, you know, on the er...'

'What?' Marion gaped.

'On the er... on the rag.' Derek offered.

'Don't be fucking stupid.' Marion glared.

Derek shrugged, dropped his seat back and began unbuckling his belt.

***

Bob Richardson was trying to set up an international distribution chain for St Marcia's natural spring water. This meant dishing out all the usual rubbish to prospective foreign business partners. Some of the incentives on offer included top notch hotel accommodation, business meetings in exotic places, free alcohol and as many tall blonde lap dancers as a man's loins could possibly tolerate.

For the public face of negotiations however there was the mandatory tour of the bottling plant, and he was currently giving eleven severely hung over Japanese businessmen the sales pitch.

'Legend has it,' Bob began in blocky rhythm of a north Yorkshire accent, 'that nine hundred years ago there was a knight travelling alone through the woodlands above Luddensley.' He paused while the interpreter did his job on the barely interested group. 'Apparently he was severely injured, having barely survived some battle or other.' He paused again. 'He came across a small spring that surfaced amongst the birch cops up in the hills and after dismounting from his horse he decided to rest there. As he laid his gravely wounded body down in the soft grass his eyes were assailed by the glorious vision of a young woman who rose from the water with a golden chalice and urged him to drink from it.'

The interpreter rattled on at a seemingly impossible rate.

'All at once he felt the holy light of God flooding through his tired frame and lo, his wounds were healed.'

Everyone in the tour began nodding enthusiastically.

'Shortly thereafter he came upon a group of priests and told them of his vision. From his description they recognised the young woman as Saint Marcia, the patron saint of internal injuries.'

The interpreter stopped dead and stared at him. Bob nodded.

'Ever since then the spring has been known as St Marcia's Spring and people have flocked from far and wide to partake of the healing properties of the water.'

The Japanese applauded in unison.

'But of course,' Bob continued, 'they don't have to do that any more because with your help St Marcia's Spring water can be delivered to any local supermarket or shop world wide for one pound seventy a litre!'

The Japanese applauded again and followed Bob along an off-white corridor to the reception area.

Bob knew how to do business. Once this hopeless bunch was out of the door it was round two with the yanks. And as everyone knows, the yanks will buy anything, so once the doors were open into their market his already substantial empire would go into orbit. Six months from now he'd be having afternoon tea with Her Majesty the Queen and collecting an OBE for services to British industry, and all from a hole in the ground that nobody gave a shit about until the cash started rolling in. The local council had already granted him a ten year exclusive resource license, and so long as he kept up the donations, all tax deductible of course, he'd probably get a renewal after that. They were eating out of his hand and licking his nicotine stained fingers clean when they'd finished.

After a further ten minutes or so of forced smiles, and bowing like a chicken on speed, he watched the Japanese party mount the waiting coach and rumble out of the car park. He snorted to himself and then turned away heading for his office.

'Local legend.' he grunted softly. 'What a load of old shit.' He picked up his golf clubs. He had to meet his daughter Marion at three o'clock for a meeting of the Rotary club. Something about the upcoming bonfire night fireworks display. Then it was off for a round of golf and finally dropping in at the nineteenth hole for a quick one. He grinned to himself. Usually the term 'nineteenth hole' meant the golf club bar, but in his case it meant the barmaid Mandy. The woman was as thick as a brick but she had lips that could suck start a tractor. Life is good, he told himself as he walked out into the autumn sunshine.

***

It was one a.m. in the morning and Gerald was still awake. His mind raced as he lay in bed listening to Marion's gentle but rhythmic snore. He'd called the supermarket buyer back and he'd got the same one as before. The little shit had made out an order as if they were doing him a favour. Gerald shouldn't blame him of course; he was just carrying out policy. It was nothing personal. But Gerald took it personally, because he felt it personally.

He threw back the duvet and sat up on the edge of the bed. Marion snorted loudly but remained asleep. Gerald stared into the shadows for a while and then decided to get up and make himself a drink. He wandered downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. The kitchen sink was under the window, overlooking the growing rooms. As he filled the kettle he noticed that one of the lights had been left on. It was at the far end of the barn, opposite the door. This aroused his suspicion because there was no way that the person who'd turned the rest of the lights out could have failed to notice it.

It was just a light; he reminded himself, just one light. Leaving it on wasn't going to break the bank and since he was wearing nothing but an old pair of boxer shorts, he was hardly dressed to go tramping around the farm in the dead of night. He stared out across the yard, knowing that he was probably going to go out there anyway, because that was the kind of person he was.

The light flickered as he watched. Gerald stared harder. No, it hadn't flickered. There was someone in there. A thousand thoughts cascaded into his mind. Should he go out and confront whoever it was? Should he just call the police and let them deal with it? Maybe he should do both? He left the kitchen in search of a coat.

He trudged across the yard, mobile phone in hand, clutching an old overcoat around him. He'd decided that he wouldn't call the police just yet, in case he'd been mistaken. It's a twenty minute drive from the other side of Neerthorpe and they probably wouldn't appreciate a false alarm.

He walked around to the window, keeping well off to the side in case the intruder was in a position to see through it. As he approached he heard a light cough. He wasn't mistaken then. There was someone inside.

Gerald unlocked his phone. The screen lit up immediately casting a harsh and unwelcome glare into his face. He rebuked himself mentally for having potentially announced his presence. He stuffed it back into his pocket and rushed around to the door. He pushed it open, gently stepped inside and walked quietly through the semi-darkness. When he got to the far end he saw Derek working in silence.

'Derek?' Gerald called. Derek visibly jumped and then turned, red faced.

'Derek, what on earth are you doing here at this time of night?'

'I, er...' Derek answered.

Gerald looked past him at the work surface. There was a casing box, used for fruiting mushrooms. It was in full flush, but these weren't Bispora. These had long stringy, pale brown stalks and small elongated caps. They were more like toadstools.

'Oh no!' Gerald moaned, sagging visibly. 'You've got to be joking!'

'I, er...' Derek offered weakly. 'I mean, well...'

'Don't tell me we're bloody contaminated!' Derek groaned again.

'What?' Derek asked. 'Contaminated? No...'

'I told her!' Derek ranted. 'I bloody told her didn't I? You heard me. She's always doing it. I said no outdoor shoes in the growing out rooms and now look. We're bloody ruined!'

No.., Mister Pembroke.' Derek pleaded. 'We're not contaminated, honestly. I've been very careful, it's just that...' He sighed. 'Look, no-one's to blame but me.' He finally admitted. 'These are Liberty Caps.'

'What?' Gerald asked, still mildly irate. 'They're what?'

'Liberty Caps.' Derek repeated. 'Psilocybe semilanceata. '

'What?' Gerald asked again.

'Magic mushrooms.' Derek explained, staring at the floor.

***

'Oh come on Gerald.' Marion urged him. 'He's not doing any harm. I really don't see what all the fuss is about.'

The three of them were in the office. Gerald, posing as the authority figure, was sitting behind his desk. Derek sat opposite him and Marion was pacing back and forth from one side to the other attempting to convince Gerald not to sack him while at the same time trying to conceal the fact that her relationship with Derek was somewhat more than professional. This called for a degree of tact, a trait with which Marion was not normally associated.

'Yes darling.' Gerald replied. 'But if any degree of contamination occurs we'll be burning everything and starting again, and then of course there's the fact that he's using our business premises to manufacture a controlled substance. That's hardly going to go down well with the buyers now is it?'

'The buyers will never know,' Marion said, 'and anyway, since when do you owe them any degree of loyalty?'

'I don't owe them anything Marion.' Gerald sighed. 'My loyalty is to our employees, and without someone to buy our mushrooms we can't pay the wages.'

'Look, I'm really sorry Mister Pembroke.' Derek said, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. 'It's just that, well I really like working here, for all sorts of reasons.' He glanced up at Marion whose reddening face had the words, shut the fuck up, emblazoned across it. 'But, well, things being the way they are I haven't had a pay rise for the last two years and I'm starting to struggle a bit, so I decided to collect a few samples from the birch cops up by the spring and see if I could clone them to make an extra few quid. I've never done it before, honestly I...'

'See.' Marion interrupted, before the simpleton could drop them both in the shit. 'It's all your fault. The poor man's being forced into criminal activity because he doesn't make a decent living.'

'My fault!' Gerald gasped. 'How can it be my fault? I didn't go off picking magic mushrooms and then use someone else's property to cultivate them.'

'What property?' Marion scoffed. 'Twenty kilos of horse shit and a wooden box!' She threw her hands into the air in mock dramatics. 'Bring on the bailiffs,' she wailed, 'were all fucked!'

'That's not the point.' Gerald insisted. 'It's the credibility of the company that's being brought into question, and since when have you been so interested in anything that goes on around here anyway?'

'What do you mean?' Marion replied, suddenly feeling distinctly vulnerable.

'I mean, that people come and go from this company all the time and you've never given it a second thought in the past.' Gerald explained.

Marion wondered then if Gerald had ever noticed that the employee turnaround was comprised mainly of muscular young men in their twenties, all of which Marion herself had selected, seduced and then become bored of. She had also been instrumental, albeit unnoticed, in their subsequent departure. Six months ago she'd employed Derek following the usual pattern but had then decided to keep him, primarily because:

'He works hard at it.' She explained. 'At his job I mean. That's why he's done so well. He's gone from general labourer to grow room manager in a few months. Surely that's worth some consideration?'

Gerald stared at Derek for a while. Good people were hard to find, especially at the rates that he could afford to pay. But he had to look at the bigger picture.

'I'm sorry Derek,' Gerald said finally. 'I can't let you jeopardise everything that we have for the sake of a few extra pounds.'

'A hundred and fifty quid a kilo off season.' Derek stated as a last ditch attempt.

'What?'

'They're seasonal.' Derek continued. 'September and early October up in the cops where they used to keep all the sheep. Thousands of people go there picking every year. They're not worth anything then, but come late October when they've all gone, people are willing to pay for them. So I thought that if I could grow them all year round there'd be a constant demand and no-one need know anything about it.'

'And how much are you getting per casing?' Marion asked, urging him on.

'The last one, the one that you saw,' he said to Gerald, 'flushed at four and a half kilos, but that was a first attempt. I think we can make six with a bit of fine tuning.'

Nine hundred pounds per flush on one casing, Gerald thought to himself, he'd be lucky to get fifteen pounds for white buttons, and if they got two or three flushes and used all three hundred casings... He shook his head. What the hell was he thinking?

'Perhaps if we charge him for anything that he uses.' Marion suggested.

'Which won't be much.' Derek added.

'And perhaps if he split the profits, you know, to help pay the wages.' Marion pressed.

'Not a chance.' Gerald grimaced. 'I won't risk this company.'

'Then you can go down with it Gerald.' Marion snapped. 'Because if Derek leaves we've had it, and you know you can't afford to keep him on and he can't afford to work for free, so there has to be a compromise somewhere.'

Gerald fell silent. Marion was right of course, but he felt uncomfortable with it all the same.

'One casing.' He mumbled finally. 'You can have one casing and no more, and you'll pay for everything of ours that you use, including a share of lighting, electricity and lab equipment. And you will not allow your clandestine activities to impinge upon your work here. Do we understand each other?'

'Absolutely.' Derek nodded enthusiastically. 'You won't regret this Mister Pembroke.'

Gerald had a sneaking suspicion that he would.

'Well done darling.' Marion beamed, leaning over the desk to plant a firm kiss on Gerald's cheek. 'Sanity prevails.' She strode out of the office closing the door behind her.

'A hundred and fifty a kilo! Really?' Gerald asked.

'Maybe more in high summer, from the right people.' Derek shrugged.

'So who do you sell them to?' Gerald asked.

'Well I haven't got a market set up yet because this is the first attempt but I'll be selling to friends mainly. Keeping it all on the quiet.' Derek replied.

'Oh, right. Well let me know how it goes. I need to be aware of what you're doing at all times, okay?'

Derek stood up, and with a parting nod, left the office.

Gerald stared at the door for a few seconds.

'A hundred and fifty quid a kilo...' He muttered.

***

Chapter II

The morning of November the sixth saw Bob Richardson out on the golf course. It was a fine and crisply cold day. He pressed his tee into the stiffened soil and popped a day-glo yellow ball onto it. He selected a driver from his bag and addressed the ball.

'Bit of a strange do last night David.' Bob began, cracking the ball in a smooth arc through the cloudless sky.

'What?' David 'Topper' Turpin asked, following the path of the ball with watery blue eyes.

'The Rotary club firework display.' Bob explained, as Topper loaded his own tee. 'Seemed to be a lot of odd behaviour going on. I mean, you expect some degree of excitement, what with the fireworks and all that, but it was like half the people there were on something.'

'Oh, I doubt that Bob.' Topper replied, sending his ball along almost the exact trajectory that Bob's had recently followed. 'We check everyone on the way into the grounds for alcohol. After all we don't want 'em drinking their own grog when they can be paying twice as much to buy ours now do we?'

Both men grabbed their golf trolleys and set off at a soft pace along the fairway.

'Maybe it wasn't booze.' Bob suggested. 'What about drugs? Maybe they were all stoned.'

'Well in that case,' Topper suggested, 'what we'd lost on the beer sales we'd have made up on the hot dogs and burgers. You can't stop eating when you're on that stuff mate.'

'As well we know David.' Bob laughed. 'But half of the food had to be thrown away. If anything they were eating less than expected. Could they have been on something else?'

'Not sure about that Bob.' Topper lied. 'Booze and pot are about the limits of my experience.' The truth was that if anything else had been available on the streets over the last few days he'd have known about it because he funded most, if not all of the drug dealerships for a fifty mile radius, and the only man who'd ever interfere with his business would be the one who'd just decided that he didn't need his fucking eyes any more. Topper addressed his shot and cocked the club.

'Might be worth having a word with the local constabulary. See if they know anything.' Bob mused aloud.

'Might be.' Topper miss-swung. The ball veered off to the right.

'You're slicing well today David.' Bob grinned.

Slicing yes, Topper thought to himself, he was good at that.

***

Business was fucking booming. It was ten thirty pm and he was harvesting a third flush of liberty caps. He'd passed out the first flush to his mates for the sake of experimentation and ever since then demand had gone viral. The second flush was already sold before it arrived and most of it went out for sale at the Neerthorpe firework display. By all accounts the fireworks weren't even needed. People were inventing their own.

He had a mate, the goal keeper on his social five a side soccer team who was a doctor of chemistry or something. Derek had offered a sample for a gas chromatography test. These shrooms were strong. Effing strong. Like ten times stronger than they should have been. He'd immediately put the price up by a hundred a kilo and it had made no difference to demand. Derek was exhilarated and at the same time fearful. When something goes this well people notice, and in this business it's inevitably the wrong sort of people. So far he'd managed to convince all of his customers that he was bringing the shrooms in from somewhere else but it wouldn't be long before some bright spark put two and two together.

He left two likely looking samples behind for spore printing. In all probability he'd been lucky. This crop was super strong and it was probably a fluke. It's in the nature of fungi to rapidly mutate due to their bizarre reproductive cycle and so if