Slime

by John Halkin

  ‘I imagine you resent me taking over. All of you.’ The hostile expression returned to her eyes, that same expression to which he’d grown accustomed over the past couple of days. ‘Perhaps because I’m a woman, I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be an idiot! We’ve had a woman directing this show ever since the first episode. No, it’s something else, isn’t it? You don’t think you’re up to it. You’re all nerves.’

  Jacqui stood up and buttoned her jacket. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better. I hardly expected abuse from you when I came here.’

  ‘There you go again!’ As he raised himself on one elbow he felt a dull ache nagging at the base of his skull. ‘Who is abusing you? Not me.’

  ‘Tim, lie down.’ For once she sounded genuinely concerned. ‘You have a fever, d’you realise that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take it easy, now.’

  ‘A slight one, perhaps,’ he conceded.

  He allowed her to fluff up his pillow. As his head sank back on to it, the ache shifted. The last thing he wanted was to be ill, he thought wearily, closing his eyes to cut out the light. Yet what if, in addition to paralysing its victims, the poison in those tentacles had some long-term effect?

  ‘All right, I admit I’ve been nervous,’ said Jacqui abruptly, although keeping her voice down. ‘Gulliver is an important series, after all.’

  ‘Wish I thought so,’ he mumbled drowsily.

  ‘Oh, it is!’ she insisted. Then she laughed. ‘In the ratings, anyway, but I know what you mean. I’m surprised you think so as well. And relieved.’

  ‘The money’s good.’

  ‘The show entertains a lot of people. I know. I’m not knocking it, Tim. It’s not what I was nervous about, anyway.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Something personal, that’s all. I can’t tell you.’ She placed a cool hand on his forehead. ‘You do have a fever. Perhaps we should talk tomorrow instead. Except I’m going back to London first thing.’

  ‘Then you’ll want to ask your questions now,’ he decided. His eyes felt hot; his mouth dry. ‘OK, let’s get on with it.’

  Step by step he went over the events at the harbour, starting at the point when the thug had accidentally rolled into the water. About the fight he said nothing – that was no business of anyone else’s – but he recounted how he had jumped in himself once he had realised that the man was not even trying to take hold of the lifebelt.

  Then he described the jellyfish. How they had appeared. The sting. The numbness that followed. Opening his eyes, he noticed how pale Jacqui had become as she sat there taking notes.

  ‘Over his face?’ she demanded, her ball-point pen poised. From her manner it seemed she was almost challenging him to deny it. ‘You’re sure?’

  Tim nodded, then winced as the headache hit back at him. He watched her writing it down.

  ‘Like that boy yesterday,’ she commented, her eyes sombre. ‘Two within a couple of days of each other. That can’t be accidental, can it?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Before she could answer, the dark-haired nurse came back into the room wheeling a telephone trolley. ‘Call for you!’ she said brightly, bending down to plug it in. ‘Your wife.’ Then she giggled: ‘Your real wife, I mean. Don’t you get confused sometimes?’

  ‘Not allowed to.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Jacqui announced. She pushed her notebook back into her bag and stood up. ‘Look after him, nurse. We need him.’

  The nurse smiled brightly and handed him the phone.

  ‘Hello? Sue?’

  ‘Tim – I heard on the radio you were in hospital.’ Her voice sounded distant and oddly metallic. ‘What happened? They said you were trying to save someone’s life. Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘I’m fine. One of the extras got drunk and fell in the harbour, that’s all. Like an idiot, Gubbins jumped in after him.’ He kept quiet about the jellyfish; what was the point? ‘The quack wants me to stay in overnight, but there’s nothing to worry about. My hand’s in bandages, and I’ve had a couple o’ jabs…’

  They talked for a minute or two only, then Sue said she had to rush, she was due on stage at any moment, but she’d call again the following day.

  ‘I love you,’ she added.

  It was the way they’d always ended their phone calls, but it no longer sounded convincing.

  ‘Love you,’ he repeated automatically.

  Two days later he was still in hospital.

  ‘Having a nice rest, are we?’ the nurse asked unfailingly whenever she came into his room and found his bed strewn with the scripts he was studying.

  ‘Glorious,’ he’d reply wryly.

  It had been that way since the first morning. The doctor had done his rounds. Within five minutes of his leaving, a large registered envelope had arrived containing scripts for the next couple of episodes. On the compliments slip included with them, the series producer Anne Robart had even penned a note of sympathy in her own fair hand.

  He’d been turning over the pages, glancing through his own part, when she followed up this gesture with a telephone call to ask how he was and when they might expect him to be fit for work again. A week, he guessed; it was for the doctor to say. She took a moment to digest this information, then commented that they’d have had to re-shoot the sandhills sequence anyway. The rushes were lousy, and there was also some problem with the film stock. He’d guessed there was something.

  ‘Unlucky all round, then.’ What else could he say? ‘I felt at the time that scene wasn’t right. Not Jacqui’s fault. She was fine.’

  ‘Did I suggest it was her fault?’

  Her tone was cool. Where work was concerned, lovely Anne had never welcomed other people’s opinions, particularly not actors’. Her career had been meteoric: university, followed by three or four years in TV as a script editor, then elevated to the dizzy height of producer. It had left her with unshakable self-confidence. She had never directed, and never wanted to; never, in fact, had any close contact with the acting profession on whose skills she ultimately relied.

  After an uncomfortable pause, she added: ‘We’re changing the script to explain why your hand is in bandages in this episode.’

  ‘My arm’s in a sling.’

  ‘A sling?’ She sounded surprised. ‘Even better. OK, Tim, we’ll get revised pages to you as soon as we can. A sling – that’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Glad you think so.’

  Thirty seconds later the next call came through: his agent. Should have been in touch earlier – the excuses oozed at him through the earpiece – but he’d been away in Edinburgh, such a lovely city, didn’t Tim think so? It was only just this morning he’d learned about the accident. Not too serious though, was it? No. No, he hoped not. That’s right. Oh well, they happen, these things, don’t they? Yes. But what did he think, might he be up and about in time to do a voice-over next Friday, or would it be safer to say no? It was Squeezy Mints again, and they were so keen. If he could possibly make it…?

  ‘Providing I’m not filming,’ Tim yawned.

  ‘You will look after yourself, won’t you? It really was an awful shock when I heard.’

  A couple of hours later Jackson came on the line. Jackson Philips, executive producer, the Man Next to God, moaning commiserations. He hoped the shooting would not be held up too long. The new series was already scheduled in several countries, not that the translations were his worry, thank the Lord, but the Germans were such sticklers for dates. Already they were agitating.

  ‘That’s right!’ Tim assured the nurse each time she enquired. ‘A lovely rest. Best few days I’ve had for years.’

  6

  ‘Hold the torch steady, will you?’

  Dave Pine cursed as he wrestled with the recalcitrant nut. He’d already wasted three days stripping the diesel engine down, checking every part, and thought he’d cured the fault, at least for the time being, but once back at sea it had resumed its o
ld tricks, coughing and spluttering when it should have been purring with pleasure at the straight run. To make matters worse, the wind had perked up, causing the little boat now to roll, now to pitch, sending his spanners sliding over the bottom boards.

  But at last he got it fixed and straightened up, grinning in the dark at his cousin Colin. ‘Right, let’s try her, though I don’t promise anything!’

  He pressed the starter. The engine wheezed into life.

  ‘What was it?’ his father called from the tiny wheelhouse where they had installed their secondhand sonar.

  ‘Old age, Dad!’ Dave shouted back cheerfully. ‘Engine’s arthritic, if you ask me!’

  So was the whole boat, he thought, in which all three of them had sunk their savings. He lowered a bucket into the sea for water to wash some of the oil off his hands. There were times when he really felt they were crazy even trying to make a go of it. All the cards were stacked against them. Still, he had to look on the bright side. The name was right, at least: the Medusa. He liked that.

  She had been on her last legs when they had found her. They bought her for next to nothing, reckoning they could patch her up and get her to sea again. With some small-scale traditional fishing – his father’s idea – they could supply the hotels. Anything they couldn’t sell, they would eat themselves and so cut down on food bills. In season, there would be day trips around the bay for holidaymakers. They had it all worked out.

  It was his father who was the fisherman. Dave himself had worked at an engineering factory in Sheffield until it closed down. Rather than stick around there – his marriage had broken up and he was glad of the chance to get shot of it – he’d decided to come and throw in his lot with this zany venture. In any case, he’d never been the type to sit on his backside all day. As for his cousin, Colin Broad – well, he’d burned his fingers in more risky business enterprises than most and nothing could keep him away. At the moment he was manager of a caravan site farther along the coast, but his wife could take that over whenever he was away at sea, and make a better job of it too, probably.

  But his father came from a long line of fisherfolk and made sure everyone realised it, especially holidaymakers from the big towns. He was a well-known sight, leaning against the sea wall in his navy-blue jersey and peaked cap, always ready to accept a pint of beer. Not that he couldn’t afford to buy his own; he did it for the challenge. ‘Pines have fished off this coast since time immemorial,’ he would tell them, puffing at his pipe and laughing behind their backs. What he didn’t say was that he had joined the Royal Navy on the outbreak of war in 1939, been torpedoed, picked up after two weeks in an open boat, risen through the ranks – Able Seaman, Leading Seaman, Petty Officer, Chief Petty Officer, Warrant Officer – until finally they had pensioned him off as a full Lieutenant RN.

  They lived with those photographs framed on the wall at home: one for each step in his career. One for each uniform. Tropicals, fore-and-aft, the lot. Quite a career that had been.

  Twelve, he was, when he first went out with his fisherman father – Dave’s grandfather, long since dead – on a boat not unlike this one, and they had landed their catch the following morning for the women of the family to sell at the quayside. By the time he reached sixteen he was a full member of the crew and might have spent the rest of his life fishing if it hadn’t been for the war.

  He was the driving force behind this enterprise; and its philosopher, too.

  ‘The days o’ the large-scale fact’ries wi’ thousands o’ jobs are dead,’ he’d say, sucking on his pipe. ‘We’ve got to get back to bein’ small, so we can see the beginnin’ an’ end o’ things. Same wi’ fishin’. All those big trawlers laid up, an’ others that should be. Fact’ry ships, too. The seas are well nigh empty o’ cod… herrin’… even mackerel these days. Family fishin’ never did that.’

  The sound of the engine dropped suddenly. In the unnatural quiet, Dave could hear the doppler ping of the sonar, faster than the human pulse.

  ‘Bloody hell, Dave – we’ve hit a shoal!’ his father called excitedly. ‘Never seen anythin’ like it!’

  They shot the net over the side, all three of them working together as a team – trust Lt Jack Pine RN to drill them so thoroughly that they could have gone through the motions in their sleep. Not all his Senior Service routines had worn off yet, and they were glad of it. The net was his own design, too. It was a small mid-water trawl whose weight with a full catch was just about within the power limits of the Medusa – so long as the engine didn’t start playing up again.

  It was not until they began to winch the net up that they noticed something was wrong. Colin was the first to draw attention to it as he stared down over the side of the boat.

  ‘Odd bloody fish,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with ’em?’

  ‘Shinin’ like a bloody Christmas tree.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’

  ‘Have a look for yourself.’

  He was right too, Dave realised as he joined him. The trawl was just about breaking surface and whatever was in it – certainly it didn’t look like fish – was glowing eerily, as though covered with luminous paint.

  ‘What d’you think, Dad?’

  ‘Blowed if I know. Winch her up a bit higher an’ let’s take a closer look.’

  ‘Have you seen anything like it before?’ Colin asked.

  ‘Not in these waters.’

  They went back to the winch. Whatever it was, thought Dave, it meant saying goodbye to that bumper catch of illegal herring he’d been hoping for, something that would have fetched a good price, with a few on the side for themselves. He’d been kidding himself he could almost smell the gutted fish lying side by side in their big frying pan back home, or in the oven dish, dressed with spices…

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ his father exclaimed suddenly, his voice sharp. ‘Dave – belay that winchin’!’

  They could now see that the net was packed full of some slimy, gleaming substance which gave off a light of such intensity that it was as though they had a giant lamp suspended there in mid-air from the derrick. On his father’s instructions – his voice now hard and crisp, honed by a lifetime of giving orders – they eased the derrick around to bring the net closer to the side.

  ‘Jellyfish!’ His father gave vent to his disgust. ‘Looks like we’ve trawled in half the ocean’s jellyfish. Bloody hell.’

  There must have been hundreds of them in the net, which bulged obscenely. Through its wide mesh protruded a mass of waving tentacles and other appendages. His father was leaning forward to examine them more closely when the boat gave a sudden lurch – the sea was still lively – causing the net to swing towards his face.

  ‘Colin – let go the net, for Chrissake!’ Dave yelled as he saw his father reeling back in pain.

  Before he could get to him, his father had stumbled, twisting around in a vain attempt to regain his balance, and then staggered helplessly forward until his face once again brushed the net. Dave felt sick as he realised how those seeking tentacles welcomed him.

  Somehow he managed to drag him clear. Only just in time, too, for the net unexpectedly dropped a couple of feet, ending up astride the gunwale.

  ‘Bloody winch has jammed!’ Colin shouted. ‘Line’s fouled!’

  Before his eyes, first one, then another, strand of the mesh parted and a jellyfish oozed out through the enlarged gap. It dropped on to his gumboot, covering the toe. He kicked it clear, but then a second jellyfish appeared… then a third… and a fourth.

  ‘Colin – hurry, damn you! They’re eating through the net!’

  ‘We’ll have to cut it! No other way!’

  He managed to get his father over to the starboard side where he slumped on to the engine casing, scarcely conscious, mumbling incoherently something about his eyes. Thick red weals covered his entire face which was already swollen out of all recognition.

  But there was no time to tend him further. They had to cut the trawl free before they were co
mpletely swamped by the jellyfish. By now the deck was carpeted with them, all glowing with a greenish-pinkish light, so strong it might have been daylight. With every step, his boots slithered over them, unable to grip.

  On the wheelhouse wall they carried an axe, but there was no way he could reach it. Instead, he thumbed open his clasp knife and was about to join Colin when he saw him fall, his hands thrown up to protect his face. The boat was still rolling and, as he tried to reach him, Dave’s feet gave way beneath him, sliding over those treacherous jellyfish which were as slippery as ice over cobbles. Oh, God, his name was on this one…

  He found himself sprawling headlong among them.

  He felt them shifting beneath him.

  He experienced the first stings caressing his neck, followed by that sharp, exquisite pain which sent spasms of fear zipping through him.

  In his hand he still held the open clasp knife. He tried to use it to fight back, stabbing into any jellyfish within reach until the blade point stuck in the worn timbers of the deck and had to be tugged out again before he could cut into the next. Ripping through that hard, muscle-like tissue was such a pleasurable sensation. They’d not find it so easy, taking him.

  Then a flick from the tentacles flashed across his knuckles like a charge of high-voltage electricity, shooting through his hand to drain the strength out of it.

  One attacked his throat.

  Another explored his inner ear before stinging, and the agony sent his mind spinning off down dark corridors.

  Oh, he’d been there before – yes, he recognised it: that scalpel-cut of a girl’s broken promises, all he’d conned himself into believing she had sincerely meant, that whole unspoken relationship – far more than words – which had been so real while it lasted; and then the bitterness of their parting, and the longing for everything to end.

  But no end came, not yet: only a growing numbness, only the realisation of how hopeless it all was, how there could be no solution, ever.

  That scream – was that Colin? Still alive?