The Mushroom Diaries Read online

THE MUSHROOM DIARIES

  By Dominic Lyne

  Published by Degraded Discord, 2014

  an imprint of DPL Publishing

  www.dom-lyne.co.uk

  Text copyright © Dominic Lyne, 2009

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover design by Dominic Lyne © 2013

  All Rights Reserved.

  Table of Contents

  One: Fourteenth of May, Two Thousand and Six

  Two: Thirteenth of November, Two Thousand and Four

  Three: Fourteen of November, Two Thousand and Four

  Four: Fifteenth of November, Two Thousand and Four

  Five: Nineteenth of November, Two Thousand and Four

  Six: Sixth of July, Two Thousand and Five

  Seven: Sixth of December, Two Thousand and Four

  Eight: Fifteenth of October, Two Thousand and Six

  Nine: Thirtieth of December, Two Thousand and Four

  Ten: First of October, Two Thousand and Six

  Eleven: Fifteenth of January, Two Thousand and Five

  Twelve: Twenty-Fifth of November, Two Thousand and Six

  Thirteen: Fifth of September, Two Thousand and Five

  About the Author

  ONE

  Fourteenth of May

  Two Thousand and Six

  Sat in my room, on the bed curled up by the headboard. I’m surrounded by pages of notes, a collection of words scrawled over dog-eared paper. Cigarette in mouth, bottle of water on the side table, a pill of diazepam dissolving inside my stomach, its relaxing calm entering into the system, a slow river of peace flowing through my body.

  The cigarette on my lips hangs unlit. Hand rolled and held between that drying tender skin for half an hour. Its paper become one with flesh, merged by the dried moisture. As I pull it free, the tearing pain runs through my consciousness. The metallic taste of fresh blood slight on my tongue, red on the paper. Click, flame, inhale. My lungs fill with euphoric smoke. I close my eyes and imagine the smoke extending deep inside before being forced out through my nose. I exhale all that cancerous charm out into the atmosphere.

  I’ve got a task to do. I pick up the first page of scribbled text and let its concise words ignite memories deep within my head, forcing them to the surface in an explosion of glorious Technicolor. Sounds, colours and odours re-smelt for the first time in two years, phantom spectres of the past being relived inside the theatre of the mind. Two years is a long time, those years contain their own memories, their own drug tales, filed away, waiting patiently to be re-awakened like this one.

  I stop to allow the cloud of emotions to clear. The explosion brings with it traces of a future unknown to the memory. A future of lost love, of anger, dependency, the sound of voices forgotten. The vision clears; my mind a liquid crystal television. Clear, crisp. A replay of a programme. I take a drag of my cigarette and pick up my pen. Words flow. The novelisation of a personal screenplay. Sentence by sentence the story grows. Lives. Breathes. All those beautiful colours.

  TWO

  Thirteenth of November

  Two Thousand and Four

  I

  We’re stood inside one of the tunnels that make up Mornington Crescent tube station, one station among the galaxy of known and unknown platforms within this underground universe of man-made caverns. The ‘we’ for the record is Sam and I. Sam, my friend, my partner on this trip, my partner in everything I do. The centre of my world. Sam, my boyfriend. We’re just standing, waiting for a train. Any train. We don’t know where we are going, our voyage unmapped. Unknown. We plan to go wherever this fantasy takes us.

  We’ve been in this tube station for about a quarter of an hour. The empty containers that once contained the mushrooms lurk on another platform like plastic snail shells, empty once the life force has been pulled from it and devoured by a winged predator. Discarded. Forgotten. I look to my right. Sitting on a bench is this kid. Well, when I say kid I mean teenager. He just sits there, book in hand. I try to look at the book from this distance, try to focus on it. From what I see, its pages contain pictures, artwork interlaced with the black block shadows of text. The layout looks familiar. It reminds me of something I have seen before, its layout triggering memories, taking me back. A click, the correct answer slips out the dispenser. I turn to Sam. ‘I bet you that’s a Games Workshop book.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Just a feeling.’ I move towards the seated figure, feeling Sam follow closely behind me. It is indeed as I had guessed, confirmed also by the bag sat in-between his feet which reads Citadel Miniatures. Next to this bag is another, this one labelled Mega City Comics. I look over to Sam. His eyes are ablaze with glee as he stares at this bag as we walk by.

  ‘He’s got a Mega City Comics bag,’ he says, excitement oozing from every pore of each word spoken.

  ‘Yeah, so?’

  ‘Shall we go see if it’s still open?’

  ‘Why not,’ I say as we turn around and head out of the station. I look back and take in the figure one last time, watching as he jumps into the train that has just come to rest at the platform. For some reason he reminds me of myself six years ago. Me waiting to get the bus home with my bag from Games Workshop containing my Lizard Men figures, reading the comic strip in the Doctor Who magazine I’d only just bought from Startrader, the sci-fi shop with an ever changing name. All that however was a long time ago. Another town. Another lifetime. Snap to the present. Time is passing, each second more toxins entering the blood stream, rushing around like Great White sharks swimming in a sea of red; giant killer whales locked within the goldfish bowl of my body.

  I feel Sam’s hand grip around mine, fingers entwining as intimately as our bodies. He’s pulling, edging forward eagerly, a puppy dog on a lead for the first time. We walk, catch the lift whose doors lay open, swallowing us inside it with baited anticipation of use. Giggling, smiling. Happiness a bitter churning in our stomachs but tasted in our mouths. We stumble out onto the streets. Our legs walking back the way we had come when the mushrooms had sat in their containers, leading us forward to Mega City Comics.

  The street looks no different, only darker from the onset of night. How quickly night falls this time of year. Dull days and in the blink of an eye, dark nights. Long dark nights. Millions of night time stories and adventures taking place at the same time as ours. Independent of each other yet linked upon a subconscious level somehow.

  We move along swiftly, our bodies gliding upon the legs that are leading us to a destination of which we have no clue as to whether or not we could gain entry to. All we know is that we want to be there. Need to be there. We’re hyper, as we move our bodies never stray far from each other. That is how we are in the real world, so that is how we are now. Our shoulders brush frequently, when we giggle it works in tandem. We’re running on anticipation. Anticipation of the trip we can feel coming. The mushrooms slowly digesting inside our bellies, their magic being gradually released; a poison to the body but a vision to the brain. Transforming the world around us into whatever they see fit. The scenery is rushing past, a blur at the corner of our eye even though we are not running. We walk, we talk.

  ‘You know what I’d really love to do?’ I ask Sam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take a huge bite out of someone.’

  ‘You what?’ Sam turns to face me. He doesn’t stop moving, walking backwards, interest keen in his eyes.

  ‘Take a bite out of someone like you would a piece of meat.’ I smile, surely it makes sense?

  Sam’s laughter heightens. ‘What would you say to them afterwards?’

  ‘Mmm, you t
aste nutritious.’

  Laughter, hysterical laughter. Laughter that comes from deep within us, bubbling to the surface before it bursts from our mouths. Sam shakes his head. He turns around. After a few beats his head swings back. ‘You’re crazy,’ he says. ‘But guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d like to take a huge bite out of someone as well.’

  I rush forward and swing my arms around his neck, pulling him close before taking a pretend bite. ‘Mmm,’ I say. ‘You taste nutritious.’

  He giggles as he swings round, reversing the roles. I feel his breath against my neck. Warm. His teeth gently nudge my skin, a tingle of pleasure running through me. ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘You taste of shit and dirt.’ He pulls away with a giggle.

  A smile erupts on my face. ‘You fucking bitch,’ I shout after him as he jogs away. The smile burns deeper on my face as my brain performs a quick replay. I run to catch him up. I know I love him, I know he loves me.

  The game continues as we move. We get as close to people as we can and tell them they taste nutritious, or like shit and dirt. The words filter from our lips and merge with the noise of a city slowing down. ‘You taste nutritious. You taste delicious. You taste of dirt.’

  Our feet stop, jolting our minds back. We’re here. We arrived at the destination without even a thought of the direction we were heading. We walk towards the shop’s glow, a glow created by the lights shining through its windows, a glow that offers warmth