by John Halkin
Tim let it all rip. Whatever he’d prepared went out of his head. In its place came words which he had never intended to speak. Sincere words which weren’t deliberately conceived to shock the viewers, yet probably would. This was one issue he could not bring himself to fudge; the stakes were too high. He had to get the message over.
The camera was starting on him, he knew.
‘Early today the unexpected happened,’ he began soberly. ‘The coasts of Britain were attacked by hordes of jellyfish. No one can tell us why they have come here, only that they are extremely dangerous. They attack human beings wherever they meet them. Not only human beings, but animals as well. Perhaps you think I’m exaggerating when I talk of jellyfish hordes, but just take a look at this beach… ’
He turned slightly, cueing the camera man to widen the shot.
‘… and ask yourself: have you ever seen so many jellyfish before? In one place? There’s no denying they look attractive – but whatever you do, never touch them. It’s best to stay well clear of them, and keep your children away from them as well. These jellyfish can kill. On dry land as well as in the water.
‘I said we don’t know why they’ve come here, yet one thing is certain. They look on us – you and me – as food. In the past, our ancestors were hunters who went after wild animals in order to feed their families. Today our fishermen still go out on their trawlers to catch fish for our tables. In much the same way these creatures hunt us. Don’t expect any mercy from them. Don’t expect anything – except danger.’
For a few moments he remained quite still, clutching the stick mike in his one good hand. Even before he glanced down he was aware that the jellyfish had edged their way across the sand and were now within an inch or two of his boots.
‘Tim!’ It was Jacqui shouting, and waving to him urgently. ‘Get moving! That was fine but you’ve got to get back!’
A jellyfish immediately in front of him moved again, an obvious ripple appearing across it. It straightened out, now partly covering the toe of his boot. Once more it gathered itself up, the section still on the sand tucking closer, and once more it propelled itself forward until it lay draped over his foot.
He attempted to shake it off, but its hold was too secure. At last he managed to peel it away by using the side of his left boot as a scraper, though by that time another was already waiting to take its place.
‘Tim! Ti-i-im!’
Jacqui was sounding desperate, yet how could he go back to the lorry while the jellyfish were crowding on to his boots? He had to get them off; no point in moving till he’d rid himself of them – was there? He couldn’t go like this, not with…
Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny area of rationality remained. You’re being obsessional, it told him. Best get on your way.
Yet there were jellyfish on both boots now. What was worse, one was clearly creeping over another, using it as a sort of stepping stone from which it could drape itself around his ankle. Tim stared down at them as if hypnotised.
‘Tim – hold on!’
What was she doing? He gazed over towards the lorry – that was Jacqui climbing out, wasn’t it? Jumping down. Oh no, she mustn’t… no…
‘No, Jacqui, don’t!’ he yelled with the full force of his lungs. ‘Go back!’
He started forward, ignoring the jellyfish over his feet, knowing only that he had to get to her. They left him no path, they had crowded so close. He had no hesitation about stepping on them, but they were so slippery that he several times almost lost his footing. His mind was cold now, fully recovered from that minor attack of – what had it been? A form of hysteria? Some jellyfish he kicked aside, forcing his boot into the soft sand beneath them, but a few clung to him. He could feel their weight, and the pressure of their disgusting bodies against his lower legs.
But it was effective. By one means or another, he cleared a path through them, shouting warnings to Jacqui to stay where she was. For some reason he still clung to the microphone, though he’d have done better to abandon it; jellyfish straddled the heavy lead – every couple of feet, it seemed – but he tugged it clear, toppling them over on to their backs.
‘Tim – your legs!’ Jacqui exclaimed, horrified. ‘Stand still a minute and let me…’
She didn’t finish the sentence, but set to work right away with the long-handled hoe she was wielding. Jellyfish clung like scales to his flying boots; the uppermost were already beginning to explore his jeans. Luckily they moved only very slowly, but in another few minutes they’d have reached his knees.
On the sand around her lay the remains of those she’d already slaughtered. Or perhaps ‘slaughtered’ was the wrong word, he thought; they still seemed very much alive despite having been cut to pieces with the hoe. He remembered Sue’s desperation in the little general stores as she tried to kill that first specimen they’d collected. It won’t die! He could almost hear her voice.
Oh, God, Sue…
‘Here, you take the mike. I can manage.’
He spoke more roughly than he’d intended, but Jacqui seemed to understand. She took the mike, handing him the hoe.
‘One more on your left boot,’ she pointed out, coiling the mike lead and passing it up to the sound assistant who had stayed on the lorry with the rest of the crew, out of harm’s way.
‘Watch out!’ he cried instinctively as he saw a tentacle wavering near her riding boot.
She stepped back and he severed it with a downward thrust of the hoe. The jellyfish itself lay partly trapped beneath the lorry’s rear wheel; one side of it was squashed to a pulp, yet the section which remained was still dangerous.
Carefully, he checked his own boots, and then hers, but they seemed to be clear. The trouble was, wherever they put their feet they could not help treading on fragments of the jellyfish she’d dismembered, while only two or three feet away lay the others.
‘Oh, for Chrissake, let’s get out of here!’ he rasped, suddenly convinced there was no way they could win, whatever they tried.
The driver had manoeuvred the lorry to a position where it was safe – temporarily, at any rate – for them to lower the tailboard and scramble up, helped by Wally and the rest of the crew. As they reached down to grab him, Tim’s bandaged hand set up an agonised aching again.
Another bloody reminder, he thought glumly. He gazed across the beach towards the spot where he’d stood for his commentary. Of the route he’d taken on the way back no trace was left. The jellyfish had re-grouped, with more of them now gathering around the lorry.
When Jacqui called out to the driver that they could go, no one felt more relieved than he did.
They had dinner in the hotel restaurant, the whole crew together. Conversation was intermittent. No one felt particularly lively, though they made the usual jokes, trying to fill the awkward silences. For once the meal was quite good – roast lamb with mint sauce and fresh vegetables done in the traditional Welsh manner – and the wine he’d chosen bucked them all up. ‘On me,’ he’d insisted, and no one had argued. But no sooner had their talk begun to take off than it flickered out and died again as each one fell back into private thoughts.
About jellyfish, of course: Tim could see it in their expressions. That morning’s experiences had shocked everyone out of complacency. Death could come at any time – well, that had always been the case, but this manner of death seemed so much worse.
The police had been waiting for them on their return to the promenade where they had left their cars, and Tim had expected trouble. Instead, a tired-looking uniformed inspector merely told them to move on; if they went anywhere near the beach again, lorry or no lorry, he’d arrest them for obstruction; the police had enough on their hands without having to deal with their kind.
White tape and crowd barriers appeared, cutting off all access to the beach. Balding men in baggy grey suits turned up – Council officials, someone said – and stood around discussing what should be done, until a brisk, middle-aged woman drove up in a Volvo to take c
harge. She was seen consulting with the officials, then with the police, and then with the officials again, but whatever conclusion she reached, it was not divulged to the public.
By late afternoon when the tide was coming in again, still nothing had happened. It seemed almost as if, Jacqui suggested, they were hoping the sea would carry the jellyfish away again, so sparing the bureaucrats the pain of having to reach a decision.
But no one at their table expected that to happen. The general consensus was that the jellyfish were here to stay.
‘They knew what they wanted,’ said Terry gloomily, ‘and they were determined to get it, too. Nothing’d coax me to that bloody beach again.’
The party began to break up. Dorothea and Jamie talked of trying the local disco; the others went off in search of a pub, although Jacqui opted out, saying she’d work to do on the next Gulliver script. Unless Alan Brewer changed his mind after seeing the rushes, they’d finished their part of the documentary; it was now up to him.
‘So back to Gulliver,’ Wally grunted. ‘At least that’s sane.’
‘What about the stuff in the sandhills?’ Terry challenged her suspiciously.
‘We’ve changed that location,’ she said. ‘The rest of the Gulliver unit gets here tomorrow and we’re going up into the hills. We’ll shoot it up there.’
Instead of the thug making his getaway in a boat, she explained, they’d be using a helicopter. It was all laid on – she’d spoken by phone both to Anne, the producer, and to Jackson Philips: no problem. A different extra, of course; not Arthur.
‘We’ll be off, then,’ said Wally. ‘Another hour, and they’ll be closing.’
Left alone, Tim and Jacqui remained sitting in the restaurant for a few more minutes until the waiter began pointedly to clear everything away from their table. Tim suggested a drink at the bar but she shook her head, saying she really did have to work. But outside his door she hesitated.
‘Did you say you had a bottle of scotch?’
‘That’s right.’
He slipped the key in the lock and held the door open for her. In the centre of the room she paused for a moment, then went directly to the window. The curtains had not yet been drawn. She stood there gazing out while he fetched a couple of glasses from the bathroom.
‘Tim.’
Her voice sounded timid.
He joined her. The tide had already turned, but the water had so far retreated no more than a few feet. In normal circumstances it would have been too dark to see anything, but tonight all was brilliantly illuminated. Both the surface of the sea and the strip of shore it had just vacated glowed as intensely as if it were daylight.
‘Jellyfish,’ she said, shivering. ‘It’s eerie.’
‘Have your drink.’
He poured generously, then brought the glasses over to the window. When she took hers, she raised it level with her lips, waiting for him to say something. A toast.
‘Death to all jellyfish?’
She nodded. ‘Death to all jellyfish!’ she repeated solemnly, and drank. ‘Oh, I feel I should pour a libation or something, but I can’t think which god.’
‘Nor can I. Are there any?’
‘Oh yes, there must be!’ She gulped at her drink again, then leaned against him, seeking the comfort of his arm about her. ‘I wonder,’ she mused, ‘how many of us will still be alive at the end of all this?’
‘It’s only on the coast,’ he reminded her gently. ‘Away from the coast people don’t even know what we’re talking about.’
‘So far.’
She looked up at him, her mouth puckering, and he bent to kiss her. Suddenly, her arm was around his neck and she was pulling his head down to hers, working urgently with her lips, her tongue twisting into him, then withdrawing, teasing, inviting, and searching for him again with an insatiable hunger.
Then, pushing him away, she looked at him earnestly… almost speculatively.
‘What are we going to do about you?’ she asked. But she did not wait for an answer. ‘More to the point, why are we still wearing these clothes?’
Turning back into the room, she emptied her glass, put it down on the chest of drawers, and marched over to the switch by the door. They didn’t need that yellowing ceiling lamp with its tatty shade. With that off, the full effect of the jellyfish phosphorescence became apparent. It flooded the room with a mysterious greenish light, like sunlight filtered through leaves.
Jacqui was standing on the far side of the bed with her back towards him. She was going to be coy, he thought, but he was wrong. He saw her take off her shoes and peel down her tights, but then she faced him again.
‘You are slow!’ she mocked him when she noticed he’d hardly started to undress. ‘Or d’you want me to help?’
As she spoke, she lazily drew her sweater over her head. When it was off, she shook her head a couple of times in quick succession as if to encourage her short, wavy hair to fall back into place, but it remained as untidy as usual. Her breasts were small but very definitely there; well-shaped, and with brown button-nipples to crown them.
Her movements were slow as she fumbled with the zip-fastener on her skirt. Gradually she zipped it down, her eyes teasing him: she played it like a musical instrument; every little rasping sound it made became an erotic mating call. At last she unhooked the waistband and allowed the skirt to slip down to her ankles. She stood there naked, her skin green-tinged by that haunting light.
‘Approve?’
‘Oh, yes! Who wouldn’t?’ He went to her. As they kissed, he ran his hand softly over her back. Then, holding her at arm’s length, he said: ‘Green suits you.’
‘Green?’ She caught sight of herself in the full-length wardrobe mirror and laughed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’
‘Goes with your eyes.’
In bed, she became suddenly tense. Whatever he tried – caressing her, kissing her – she accepted almost impatiently. She clutched at him, her arms tightening about him as she rolled over on to her back, frowning and biting her lips as he eased into her. He felt excluded. It was his body she was accepting, but merely as an instrument; not him at all. He was no longer even there for her.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten!’ she breathed intensely, but not to him. ‘I’d forgotten.’
Afterwards, she cuddled up to him, becoming aware of him again, but now more relaxed than he had ever known her. Then, without moving, she murmured something about another drink; he disentangled himself to replenish both glasses. They sat up in bed side by side, drinking. His hand wandered over her breasts, lingering as they responded.
‘It’s just as well we’re shooting that Gulliver episode again,’ she said dreamily. ‘I made a mess of those first couple of days. Knew it at the time, too.’
‘You were very nervous.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you be?’ she blurted out. ‘If the person you’d lived with for two years had suddenly gone off with someone else?’
‘So that was it?’
‘Yes, that was bloody it!’ A quick smile. ‘I’m glad I’ve told you.’
Like Sue, he thought. The same sodding story. Only Sue had chosen the double bed as her confessional. She’d wanted to make love again before issuing her notice to quit. Bitch. He wondered what she was doing at that moment. Back from the theatre probably, and cosily tucked up under the blankets with – what was the bugger’s name?
‘Your friend…’ He hesitated. ‘I mean, did he…?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Her fingers moved slowly downwards, exploring under the bedclothes until they found him. ‘Tactile pleasures,’ she murmured as he responded to her touch. ‘That’s all that matters really when you think about it. Not love or affection, all that crap, but just whether you’re good in bed.’
‘You sound bitter.’
‘I’ll show you whether I’m bitter or not.’
She kicked the bedclothes aside.
It must have been some two hours later when they heard the sound of engines and men’s v
oices shouting from the direction of the shore. They went over to the window to look out, their arms about each other, still naked. Three lorries were moving in line across the beach. At first it was not clear what was the purpose of this manoeuvre. Then they turned.
‘They’re spraying the beach!’ Jacqui said. ‘That’s what it looks like.’
‘Much good that’ll do. Pesticide, I imagine. Something like that.’
But he was wrong – how wrong became immediately apparent once the lorries had withdrawn up the slipway and moved well clear of the promenade. He heard a pistol shot, hardly more than a dull phut, and a Very light travelled low over the beach, hitting the sand about half-way towards the sea. A sheet of flame burst out angrily and with a sudden whoosh the entire beach was on fire.
‘Bloody hell!’ Jacqui held on to him, shuddering. ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that to any living thing, not even jellyfish. They’re being burned alive, for Chrissake!’
Tim held her close, but said nothing. Vividly he recalled his own feeling when he was still down there among them, knowing they were crawling over him and remembering what they had done to that woman in the shop, to Arthur and the other victims, and what they could have done to him. He felt glad they were burning. Relieved.
Over the beach hung thick black smoke which at first was fully visible as the fire raged, its light taking over from the burning jellyfish; but then at last the flames died down, and the dark smoke merged almost imperceptibly with the night sky until it completely disappeared.
The stench remained, seeping into the room through the gaps around the ill-fitting sash windows. A sweet-sour smell of charred tissue.
‘Consumed by fire.’
Unconsciously he spoke the words aloud, but Jacqui took no notice. She was pointing to the roadway some distance from the beach: a dark patch, well away from the nearest street lamp. The lorries were parked there. Although nothing could be seen of their superstructure, the wheels and the lower part of each chassis were clearly visible, glowing with an intense greenish-yellowy light.
‘Slime,’ she said.