The Mushroom Diaries
heel of her high heeled shoes snapping. She tumbles forward. We laugh, the sight igniting the sadistic humour inside of us. I hadn’t been expecting that. One of life’s spontaneous moments taking place in front of us. You can never take anything too seriously, fate makes sure of that. One minute minding your own business, the next your life path bursts into that of others and there is nothing you can do to prevent it.
The conveyor belt reaches its destination and we step off. Laughing, joking, not a care in the world. The eye’s messages left encoded, unclosed, unimportant. Together we walk through the space age tunnels of this station. Together connected. Ignore the one disconnection, the eyes are the mirrors of the soul, ignore their message. Deep down we know what they mean, but keep smiling. Happiness will get us through this. I wipe my hand down my face.
III
The Northern line. Always the Northern line. It seems everywhere we go, every time we look, we’re in this maze of tunnels. Miles below the surface, furthest from the freedom of the open sky.
We were happy until our feet touched the entrance to the tunnels. Like two explorers setting foot into the Minotaur’s lair, eagerness replaced with apprehension. It was so quick, laughing our way through the bright lights and beautiful people, our feet making the undisguised but needed journey towards home, then suddenly it stopped. The lights here are dimmer, darkness creeps in the corners, the movement down here sluggish, lazy, bestial. The air’s different also, it’s like all happiness has been sucked out of it, little wonder then that this route is mapped by a black line. Tonight I’d rather be stuck on the depressing Bakerloo line than here. We try to smile, to kick up humour but it seems fake, forced. I look at Sam, that message is still there, contradicting his movements.
Slowly we make our way to the platform. I have no clue where we are. Maybe we’re still at Waterloo. I don’t have any recollection of jumping on a train. It’s just a black void slowly advancing, eliminating all previous memories, a night without past. A spacious emptiness. But wherever we are, our freedom lays hidden within this realm, so no matter how much we don’t want to, we have to progress forward and make no turnings back.
It’s like another world down here, a portal where two realms collide and merge. The world of man and the world of creature coexisting alongside each other. As we walk, the lights flicker, warp, casting quivering shadows across the walls as though above our heads are flaming medieval torches instead of florescent lights. We carry on moving, our feet making slow tentative steps. It’s dead, empty, silent. A pounding silence. Even the distant echoes of hundreds of footsteps has been absorbed by this atmosphere. I feel my heart beating in my chest, thudding, sending vibrations through my ribcage. My head turns to Sam, he’s looking at me. I know what he is going to say.
‘What the fuck?’ He said it.
‘I really don’t know what’s going on Sam.’ For once I’m lost, sinking out of control, out of reach with the final strands of reality. As I walk, out of the corners of my eyes the walls are made of rough stone, a crudely cut tunnel through the earth, the air feels even more different, staler, stagnant. A darkened world where all happiness and hope are glimmering suns in the distance, fading with every second.
We arrive at the platform. It feels like we have journeyed deep into the depths of our planet, the city above a different world, existing but elsewhere. The platform is dark, the darkest I’ve ever seen it. I know I’ve seen it before, it’s familiar even though its name escapes me still. These feelings are not déjà vu, they're fact. Yet here we are, stood in an alternative world. The platform looks abandoned, old, un-kept, dirty. The posters hanging limp and blandly on the walls, their paste aged and peeling. The lights flicker, their dull glare beaming down, a burnt orange filtered through dust particles, all glittering like stars across this dead galaxy.
We’re not alone in this world. The platform is populated by figures, creatures. Humanoid in form but disfigured by their otherworldliness. Life straight from the Dark Crystal. Living puppets designed by Brian Froud, modelled by Jim Henson. Here they exist, skulking in the shadows, hidden away and pursuing their own private lives. Stunted growth from the lack of sunlight, their salvation awaiting in a crystal shard.
We walk forward, looking at those who we share this air with. Ugly, elongated snouts; lifeless hair, limp, un-styled; tatty clothes, ill fitting and badly cared for. A stark contrast to the tall power-suited pampering we’d seen throughout this night. And there, lurking in the shadows at the end of the platform, alone and gaunt, the raven beaked Skeksis, its beady black eyes moving, constantly searching, a spy ensuring that no happiness is shared, monitoring over the mournful decay of a dying world. Its eyes turn suspiciously towards us, watching, scrutinising. Trying to decide what we are, who we are, and how we’ve been able to cross the fine barrier between their world and our own.
Our feet have come to a halt, our bodies telling us to progress no nearer, to stay here and keep our distance from the shadowy figure scowling at us. Evil, deceit and disgust ooze from it over to our still bodies. It doesn’t want us here, we’ve crossed over into a place we have no right to be in. The feelings it casts at us growing stronger, a pit-bull building up rage to attack a trespasser. All around the figures keep their eyes from looking at us, visibly pressing themselves further against the cold stone walls. Tension, oppression, anger. The dusty air so thick. The orange haze of light dimming, fading away. As soon as the darkness surrounds everything I know the figure will make its move. Sweep forward and attack. My eyes watch it. Hidden by the growing shadows it loses its shape, morphing its figure. It stands to its full height, un-hunching its back, the beak nowhere to be seen, just a shadow. Tall, gaunt, featureless. Around its feet thick shapeless forms of darkness stretch out like tendrils of smoke. Darker and darker the station grows, shadows stretching, lights flickering like static bursts. I’m drawn, pulled towards it. I want to run straight at it. Darkness my old friend.
‘Dominic,’ a sharp voice cutting over, snapping me to attention. A female voice. I look around, there’s nothing, no one who I know. Yet I know that voice.
‘You hear that?’ I ask Sam.
‘Hear what?’ He’s smiling, that message still in his eyes. His fingers are twitching, the thumb scraping the middle finger slowly, subconsciously. It stops.
‘Someone just called out my name.’
‘I didn’t hear it.’
‘This is too fucked.’ I look down the platform. The orange haze has returned to its initial dull glare. There's no figure standing in the shadows. There is nothing at all, just an empty space along an aged platform.
The train pulls in finally, its doors opening, offering us sanctuary. We step on, the only ones to do so. This train belongs to our world, not theirs. We take a seat and look over our shoulders at the figures outside the train. They continue as they always have, moving, going about their business. The train moves and we are pulled into the void between stations. The barrier has been re-crossed. The neon glow of the train warms us, the oppression melts away. In our empty carriage we burst out laughing.
IV
There’s a man sitting right opposite me with his girlfriend. With a whole carriage to choose from they chose to sit opposite us. They got on at Tottenham Court Road, and since then I have had to endure him. I try to keep my eyes to the floor, keep them away from his face and its spots, but it’s hard, they’re everywhere. Every centimetre of his features is filled with angry looking mounds, puss volcanoes waiting to erupt. If his face was to explode under the pressure of those spots it would be like Krakatoa all over again. Keep your head down and don’t stare, it’s rude to stare. My legs are twitching, bouncing up and down with impatience, too much energy to let loose. Right hand, thumb scratches the middle finger. To make matters worse, I need a fucking piss. Really need one and I don’t know if I can control it. I mean one minute nothing, the next I’m going to explode. In
stant, no build up. There’s a slight relief in the pressure. Dear God, don’t say I’m pissing myself. Look, no wet patch, sigh.
I look to Sam. He’s staring straight forward, thumb scratching his middle finger. Sensing me looking, he turns and smiles. A cold smile. Something’s wrong for him. It’s all falling into place, we’re not seeing the same. That was the message in the eyes.
I lean forward. I’ve done this all before. It’s way too familiar, the crushing feelings of déjà vu ever present now. Life stuck in a self repeating loop, no way to jump off this roundabout. We’ll get through this. I want to giggle, to laugh, but I know pizza face will take offence. I feel like a child. Roles reversed, Sam’s acting like me, and I’m acting like him. Sat on this fucking train I can see it. Always on a train, always underground. So many faces to have to contend with, so many faces you want to just laugh at. Normally I would, but I don’t fancy being kicked by the boots this guy is wearing.
Oh shit, have I pissed myself? Look, check, no. Breathe. So much to concentrate on. If I forget how to breathe then I’m fucked. Shit, just thinking that has made me watch my breath, and now I’m