Despite his acute discomfort he pulled himself together as he entered the public bar and began the task of getting people to drink up with his customary diplomacy:
“Come on, you drunken buggers! Haven’t you got homes to go to?” he bellowed.
He loved to play the tough landlord and, although the regulars knew it was all a game, the tourists and other drop-ins always looked satisfyingly alarmed when his red-faced, pot-bellied form appeared suddenly in their midst breathing fumes and yelling insults at them. It was always a great way to end the day.
And as a point of principle, when everyone was gone he always helped to clean up. He knew he was often more of a hindrance than a help by that stage of the night but the staff didn’t mind. He was quite a good employer as landlords go. Even the girls didn’t get too upset when he rubbed his belly against them “accidentally on purpose-like,” as he told his friends. They knew he was just having some harmless fun, that there was nothing more to it.
Tonight, however, he didn’t feel like rubbing his painfully distended belly against anyone, no matter how young, soft and female they might be. In fact he didn’t even feel up to helping the staff, he just wanted to collapse. And so, after a brief clear-up in the Lounge, which consisted mainly of wiping the table where the attractive blonde had been sitting and picking up her glass, which still contained several mouthfuls of wine, he said goodnight to his staff and headed upstairs to bed.
As he climbed the stairs his belly rumbled and he let out a tremendous fart. He was already regretting not being able to resist swallowing the remains of the blonde’s red wine before washing the glass. On top of the dozen or so pints of Bottom Draught he’d consumed that evening the small amount of wine could turn out to be the alcoholic straw that broke the camel’s back.
He sat down heavily on the big, sagging double-bed, tugged off his shoes then collapsed backward, not bothering to undress. As he drifted quickly off to sleep he thought briefly of Marianne, as he always did at this time, even though it had been eight years since his late wife had shared the double-bed with him. There had been no one else since then.
During the night, as he slept, the live yeasts in the beer that filled his stomach and intestine underwent a remarkable molecular change.
Yeast, the only fungus that grows by budding rather than by producing the long tendrils called hyphae, is also the fastest growing fungus with the theoretical ability to increase a thousand fold in 24 hours. The transformed yeasts in Eric’s stomach, however, were now capable of growing at a hundred times that rate.
Which is what they were proceeding to do.
Feeding first on the sugar in the contents of Eric’s stomach the yeasts budded and grew at a phenomenal speed, producing more alcohol as a waste product as well as a considerable amount of carbon dioxide gas.
Then, when the transformed yeast fungi had exhausted the supply of sugar within his stomach they began to break down the cells of the stomach wall and the intestinal linings. If Eric had been awake it would have felt as if his internal organs were on fire but, mercifully for him, the large amount of extra alcohol created by the yeast had already put him into deep unconsciousness.
Then, slowly at first but then much more quickly, Eric Gifford began to ferment.
And as he fermented his body expanded.
Just after 4 a.m. Eric’s staff were woken by a muffled but powerful explosion which seemed to come from their employer’s bedroom. All five of them gathered in the passageway outside his room. They banged on the door and called out his name but there was no response. Finally the bravest among them opened the door. Immediately a horrifically strong yeasty stench poured out of the room, making them gag.
Choking, two of them reluctantly entered the room and switched on the light. The others crowded around the doorway.
To begin with none of them could comprehend what they were looking at. Then one of the girls screamed and ran down the passageway.
Eric Gifford’s head, one of his arms, and both of his legs still lay on the bed but the rest of him was spread fairly thickly over the ceiling, walls and floors.
And in the depression in the bed created by his 250-pound bulk over the years lay a bubbling and seething white mass.
Naseem and his brother Dinesh had managed to clear the last customer out of the restaurant by 2.00 a.m. and were now helping Maheed, their uncle, clean up in the kitchen.
Naseem was exhausted. He disliked working these long hours but it was the only way he’d be able to save enough money to return to Delhi for good. His other uncle, Makund, who owned the restaurant, as well as two others, was not an easy man to work for but he paid well if you worked hard.
His brother Dinesh was humming a new Indian pop song as he finished scouring the stove. Naseem regarded him wearily, envying him his energy and his continual high spirits.
Dinesh was a mystery to him in many ways. For one thing he seemed quite content to stay on in England and had hopes of opening up a restaurant of his own. To Naseem the idea of spending the rest of his working life in this depressing, gray country and waiting on its increasingly surly and ill-mannered inhabitants was profoundly depressing.
He remembered the two men he’d served earlier that night, the fat one and the thin one, and scowled. “Pigs,” he muttered. “Why do we get so many pigs in this place?”
Dinesh laughed. “Because it is place that makes pig food.” He gestured at the food scrap container which was full up again. Naseem sighed and went and picked it up. “The pigs that eat this are probably better behaved than the ones who sit in the restaurant.”
He carried the bin out the back door and into the alley. He was just about to empty the smaller bin into the bigger one when he paused and blinked several times. But the apparition refused to go away.
The big cylindrical bin was covered with huge growths that looked like giant toadstools. They were about 18 inches high and a foot wide. They were sprouting out of the top of the bin and down its side like frozen beer foam.
Naseem stared at them in amazement. They hadn’t been there when he’d last emptied the kitchen scraps—when? Less than three hours ago?
He called to the others. The tone of his voice brought them out at a run. They reacted to the sight in the same way he did.
After a long pause Dinesh said, “What is that stuff? Where did it all come from?”
Naseem shook his head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t here before. It’s grown very suddenly.”
They both looked to the older man for enlightment, hoping that their uncle had encountered something like this in the past. But he seemed as astonished as they were. “They’re like mushrooms. Like giant mushrooms,” he said slowly.
“More like toadstools,” said Naseem doubtfully. “Toadstools can grow this big, can’t they?”
Dinesh disappeared into the kitchen and returned wielding a broom. “We must destroy them.”
“No, wait,” said Naseem, stepping in front of him. “Perhaps we should call the Health men. Those things are not normal.”
“The Health men would close us down,” said their uncle. “And my brother would have our skins. We cannot tell anyone about this.” He nodded to Dinesh. “Go on, get rid of them.”
Dinesh pushed past Naseem and began to energetically attack the growths with the broom. As the broom struck them the larger fungi burst with a dry popping sound, releasing a faintly luminous cloud of green powder. Very soon the whole alley was filled with the dust and all three men were covered with it.