Slime

by John Halkin

  But it was all so far away.

  Far.

  When Jane went down to the harbour the next day they were talking about the missing boat. Overdue, they said. She detected the uncertainty in their voices. A spot of engine trouble, maybe; no more than that. It was old Jack Pine’s boat and he knew what he was doing all right. He could still make it back under his own steam.

  At that stage it didn’t occur to Jane to connect the story with jellyfish. Why should she? They certainly attacked people, but they could hardly cause a whole crew to abandon ship. She’d managed at last to get through to her marine biologist sister, Jocelyn, who’d said it was like being stung by nettles, no worse than that, not in these waters. In fact, that’s what they were sometimes called – sea nettles.

  When Jane had described finding the dead boy, and then what had happened to Tim and Arthur, she’d listened at first with obvious disbelief. Reading from her notebook, Jane then summarised all she’d observed of the characteristics and markings of the jellyfish, including the deposit of slime on the policeman’s gloves.

  ‘If you’re right, it’s a type I’ve not met before,’ Jocelyn conceded. ‘Not unlike Pelagia noctiluca, but the differences might be significant. If you could get me one, Jane…?’

  Was it worth bothering, Jane wondered. She’d covered the jellyfish story as far as she could, first the boy whose body they had stumbled across on the sand dunes, then that business with Tim and the punch-drunk thug, but when the morning papers had arrived she’d found only the usual disappointment: two paragraphs about Tim on an inside page; nothing about the boy. No byline for her, either. She might just as well not have bothered. Bad luck, of course, because the main story – a three-in-the-bed sex scandal involving a woman Cabinet Minister – had broken only the previous afternoon, and it pushed out everything else.

  Just her bloody luck!

  The men’s talk irritated her. She moved away from them, heading around the harbour wall until she reached the far side where she could be on her own. The seagulls swooped low over the dark, debris-strewn water, crying plaintively, occasionally quarrelling over some disgusting morsel. Grey clouds billowed over the narrow harbour mouth, threatening rain.

  It matched her mood, this sort of day.

  The truth was, she told herself, things were just not going her way any longer. If they ever had; perhaps she’d been conning herself all along. At university she’d been the leading light in student journalism; everyone in that generation knew the name Jane Lowe. When, in her third year, as a matter of form, she had gone along to see the careers advice people, it was understood immediately that her destiny lay in journalism. No question of anything else. Then came four years on her local paper, not a bad one either, serving a community of almost four hundred thousand and not afraid of taking up issues, running campaigns on subjects people really cared about, until rising costs and falling advertising revenue forced them to cut back.

  Ten redundancies, and her name high on the list. Well, she’d expected as much ever since Bill – highly professional Bill, the best news editor in the business – had finally come to his senses and refused to leave his wife for her; after that, it had been intolerable working on the same paper. She hadn’t blamed him either. He loved his wife, she had evidence of that, and was devoted to his three children; their own affair had blown up so fiercely, so intensely, who could tell if it would have lasted anyway? As for the redundancy list, he’d sought her out to try and explain that he hadn’t been responsible for including her name on it, but then he’d taken no steps to remove it either; wasn’t it better that way?

  Was it?

  She still wasn’t certain. More sensible, yes – but better?

  Then there had been the meetings to fight the redundancies, and confrontations with the editor whose tiredness was revealed in every line of his face, his skin grey with worry. The others had appointed her to be their spokesman, but her heart hadn’t been in it. She’d suspected, too, that the editor spoke the truth when he said there was little choice: either they accepted the cut-backs, the ten redundancies, and tried to make a go of it, or else the whole paper would go to the wall.

  Perhaps, without realising it, she’d been indoctrinated during those illicit weekends with Bill. Or perhaps she had just wanted to go.

  She’d freelance, she decided; she’d give it six months, and then see how far she’d got at the end of it. But half that time had now gone, and where was she? Two paragraphs with no byline in a national daily, some snippets sold to the magazines, a piece for her local radio station for which she was paid less than she’d spent on petrol to get the story…

  Apart from the feature article about Tim, but that was no more than a half-promise, a dropped hint that he might be able to include it in the new glossy magazine which had just hit the bookstalls. He being the editor, the one with the power of yea or nay. All she had to do was set it up, convince them she could produce the right kind of material, in which case they would arrange for a photographer to spend a day with her.

  Once glance was sufficient to show her what kind of magazine it was. This month – the Frankest, Most Revealing and Intimate Story of… X! His loves, his hates, the women in his life! All that crap. Bill would have told her bluntly not to do it, which was one very good reason why she was accepting the challenge.

  Fuck Bill!

  The magazine paid the highest rates in London.

  She could count on them including a picture of herself, as well as her name in bold type.

  It would mean a breakthrough for her, and that could lead to other assignments, other magazines, maybe even a column in one of the popular dailies, or a paperback commission.

  Naturally she hated the whole idea of probing into Tim’s private life – or anyone else’s for that matter – trying to uncover murky secrets in dark corners, but that one article alone would bring in enough to wipe out her overdraft, make the down-payment on central heating for her flat and put her car back on the road. But she didn’t yet have enough to go on. That jellyfish episode was an absolute gift – the only reason she’d telephoned Jocelyn was to make certain she got the details right – but she needed more on the girlfriend front, something that hadn’t yet reached the press cuttings libraries, even if she had to sleep with him herself.

  The thought amused her. That would be a scoop the magazine would be sure to buy. The Pillow Secrets of Tim Ewing, by One Who Knows! At least the research might be fun. She could send a copy to Bill to help his insomnia.

  Oh shit, none of this was what she’d set out to do when she’d decided to go into journalism, but what else was there? Somehow she had to earn a living. Of course she’d dreamed of seeing her name in the heavies, or writing political commentary for the weeklies, with some TV perhaps, or the occasional radio talk – but then, who hadn’t? All that was well out of her reach. It was the tightest closed shop in British journalism.

  No, to get her chance she’d do whatever was necessary, however distasteful. She was not going to fail. Nor did she intend to finish up like poor Bill – underpaid, worrying about his mortgage, wasting his genuine talents on a local paper that might any day go into liquidation. She was aiming at the top.

  Jellyfish or no jellyfish.

  If the nationals didn’t want the jellyfish story – well, that was that. End of chapter.

  As for getting a specimen for Jocelyn, she might take a stroll along the beach later on to see what she could find; if it didn’t rain, that was. Those dark storm clouds were gathering in fast, though with any luck they might pass over. In any case, she’d certainly not try to net one out of the harbour as Jocelyn had suggested. Use a shrimp net, she’d said! The mere sight of the rotting garbage those gulls were fishing out was enough to turn anyone’s stomach.

  ‘Thinking of jumping in? Things can’t be that bad!’

  ‘Tim!’ Startled, she swung around to see him approaching along the harbour wall, his arm in a sling. ‘But you’re in hospital!’

 
; ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’ He grinned at her. ‘I was wondering if it was you standing here. It’s getting so dark, I could hardly see. It’s going to pour down; we’ll get soaked if we stay here.’

  He put his free arm around her shoulders and they began to walk back. A keen wind was whipping up the water of the harbour, causing the halliards on the moored yachts to slap sharply against the metal masts.

  ‘I was coming to visit you later on,’ she said, cuddling up against him and hating herself for what she was trying to do. ‘To see the poor man on his sick bed. They told me when I phoned you would be in for another day.’

  ‘Doctor changed his mind, didn’t he?’

  ‘You pulled the wool,’ she accused him.

  ‘Told him I felt fine.’

  ‘Liar. Do you?’

  He laughed. His arm about her shoulders tightened. ‘Darling, if I’d known you were coming, I’d have donned my best silk pyjamas and stayed in bed. He let me out for a walk, that’s all. A breath of fresh air, no more. Made me promise I’d be back to let them take my temperature and tuck me up. He said even that was breaking every rule in the book.’

  From the direction of the harbour came the steady chugging of an engine. The coastguard was towing in a fishing smack, and to judge from the obvious excitement of the men on the far side Jane guessed this must be the missing boat. Yet there was something odd about it. At first she thought it must be the effect of the light, that dramatic amber tinge filtering through the storm clouds, but then suddenly she realised what it was.

  ‘Let’s run!’

  ‘Why?’ Tim protested, still laughing. ‘All right – but I’m supposed to be ill, remember?’

  She grabbed his uninjured hand and began a dash around the harbour wall, jumping over mooring ropes, skirting the bollards and lobster pots, the empty kerosene drums and fish boxes, never taking her eyes off that fishing boat.

  Had it not been so dark, she might never have noticed that strange, greenish sheen – but it was dark, more like evening than afternoon. In the nearby buildings people were switching on their lights; cars, too, were driving with their headlights on. At any moment now the storm was going to hit them.

  Most boats in the harbour looked perfectly normal; only the fishing boat glowed with that unnatural luminescence. A pale green light, though splashed with pink, came from the bows, the gunwales, the deck, the lower part of the wheelhouse. As they reached her to take a closer look, a coastguard on board threw a line; that, too, was gleaming faintly in the semi-darkness. It was caught by one of the knot of men gathered on the wall; he secured it, and then stared down at his hands, puzzled.

  ‘Whole boat’s covered in slime,’ Jane heard the coastguard grumbling. ‘An’ what’s left o’ the trawl, too, though there’s not much of it. Been eaten through, I’d say.’

  Jane glanced up at Tim and entwined her fingers between his, holding him tight.

  ‘Any sign o’ Jack Pine an’ the lads?’

  ‘Found his cap, but that’s about it. God knows what happened, ’cos I don’t.’

  ‘Someone’ll have to tell his missus.’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Don’t fancy that job.’

  It was sick, the whole thing, Jane thought bitterly. She remembered that incandescent slime on the policeman’s gloves after he had handled the jellyfish; it was obvious enough what had happened. Somehow those jellyfish had managed to board the boat, and then… well, it was too horrible even to consider.

  ‘But why?’ She spoke softly, as though not wishing to disturb the dead. They had to be dead. What chance could they possibly have had?

  From the expression on Tim’s face, it was evident that he shared her fears. He pointed to the lettering across the stern.

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it? The Medusa. You realise medusa is another name for jellyfish?’

  The storm broke.

  Jagged lightning snaked through the clouds, momentarily illuminating the boat, the harbour, their own shocked faces. Between the flashes the darkness seemed even more intense. Then the thunder followed, tearing through the air like sticks of high-explosive bombs, one after the next. Jane half-expected to find the houses behind her crumbling; she was hardly able to comprehend how they could remain undamaged.

  But it was a fitting end, she thought: like an act of 52 homage to the dead.

  They made no move to run for cover with the others but stayed as the lashing rain gradually cleansed the little fishing craft of its slime. The luminescence became fainter, patchier, but not until it had faded away completely did they turn to go.

  7

  They went back to the hotel first to dry out. Famous TV star though he was, Tim didn’t fancy returning to the hospital in his wet clothes to face the disapproval of the nurses.

  The rest of the crew had already left for London but he still had his room there: a large first-floor bedroom facing the sea with its own adjoining bathroom of feudal dimensions. The star bedroom, in fact. Jane had been put up in an attic somewhere tucked away among the maze of back staircases. She’d arranged her own accommodation and had been lucky getting into the same hotel at all. But she hadn’t grumbled; nor had she invited him to visit her.

  ‘Granted the jellyfish were trawled up in the net,’ Tim argued as they stood in the corridor outside his room, dripping water over the patterned carpet, ‘that still doesn’t explain how they got back into the sea, nor what happened to the crew.’

  ‘You’re not saying it wasn’t jellyfish?’

  ‘Out of water they’re stranded. Ask your sister.’

  ‘How else d’you account for the slime?’ she challenged him. ‘All over the boat.’

  He had no answer.

  ‘It had to come from jellyfish. There’s no other explanation.’ Her long brown hair clung damply around her face, emphasising her stubborn expression. ‘It had to.’ She sneezed.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Look, we’d better get out of these things and into a hot bath before we both catch cold.’

  She sneezed again.

  ‘We could use my bathroom,’ he suggested.

  ‘Together? Lud, sir – spare my blushes!’

  ‘Plenty of towels. And what’s left of a bottle of scotch.’

  ‘Well supplied, aren’t you?’ She laughed at him, keeping her distance. ‘I suppose you make a habit of bathing with strange ladies?’

  ‘When I can.’

  Another sneeze. ‘My love, a woman really needs to look her best before agreeing to share her bath. You must admit’ – sneeze – ‘that I don’t. However, I’ll be down for a drop of that whisky.’

  ‘I’ll leave my door on the latch.’

  ‘Do that.’

  With yet one more sneeze she left him and headed down the corridor towards the narrow door marked ‘Staff Only’ which he suspected led into a warren of service stairs.

  He waited until she’d gone before unlocking his own door. Inside, he made directly for the bathroom, his shoes squelching water with every step. With difficulty he kicked them off, then bent down to fit the plug in the big, old-fashioned bath. Clouds of steam filled the air as the water gushed from the twin taps, but it would be some time before his bath was ready.

  How those jellyfish had escaped from the boat was a mystery. It was possible of course that they’d been washed overboard by heavy seas; or, equally, that they’d evolved some method of moving when they were out of the water. It was a gruesome thought.

  Still turning it over in his mind he began to undress, though awkwardly. The bandages were still dry, which was something; in fact, other than some dampness around his collar the rain hadn’t succeeded in penetrating his anorak. But his trousers were soaked through and sticking to him. He had to peel them off like sloughing a discarded skin.

  He tested the water, turned off the taps, then padded through the bedroom to pour himself a generous slug of whisky before climbing into the bath. On his bed were two freshly-laundered shirts, each in its individual tran
sparent plastic envelope. He shook one out and used the envelope as a glove to protect his bandaged hand.

  Pity Jane had said no, he reflected as he stretched out in the water, surrendering to its luxurious warmth. Plenty of room for two. Three, even. Like the rest of the hotel, the bath was probably Edwardian – the age which had invented the original dirty weekend.

  Still, although Jane was disappointingly wrong about the bath, she was almost certainly right about the jellyfish. And that meant… He tried to work out exactly what it did mean. How many jellyfish had it needed to attack that boat? An army at least; far more than the three or four they’d so far met. They could be massing out there, waiting for the right moment to come ashore. It was at least possible.

  The ancient Greeks had known about medusae. They had given the name Medusa to the worst of the Gorgons whose hair was poisonous snakes; one glance at her face could turn a mere human into stone. One brush against the jellyfish tentacles could paralyse. Jane’s sister had suggested they might be some previously unknown form. He thought of the teenage boy. And Arthur. In each case they had covered the nose and mouth so that the victim could no longer breathe. Had that been deliberate? Part of their hunting technique? Tim remembered only too vividly what had happened while he struggled to save the thug’s life: those jellyfish stings were no mere self-protection; they had been actively hunting.

  With human beings as their prey.

  He shifted in the bath, accidentally brushing the pink face flannel off the edge of the soap tray; it dropped into the water, spreading itself, and floated gently down towards his legs. Some instinct made him grab it, crumpling it up savagely in his hand; then he stared at it, startled at his own reaction. It was only a piece of cloth, yet he’d broken into a sweat at the sight of it. Nerves, of course. The jellyfish were getting to him.

  ‘Can I come in?’ He heard Jane opening the outer door, her fingernails tapping a rhythm on one of its panels. ‘Oh, you’re in the bath still!’