by John Halkin
Last night in bed again – everything going the way it should, everything fine until suddenly… Left up in the air, that was the only way to describe it. It shouldn’t matter, she knew that, but it did. Afterwards they’d both lain there silently, brooding.
A piercing scream from the girl cyclist on the river bank jerked Sue out of her thoughts.
‘Help him! Oh, help him, somebody! Help, please!’
The boy had been up to his knees in the water, laughing and protesting as she tried to stop him climbing up again. She’d given him a little push, causing him to stagger back, losing his footing. Then her own laughter suddenly became a scream of horror.
Sue dashed to the fence and scrambled over. Can’t be jellyfish, she told herself anxiously; not in fresh water. The girl was beside herself and about to jump in after him. Sue grabbed her and sent her sprawling across the grass.
‘Not with those bare legs, you idiot!’ she bawled at her. The girl wore flimsy shorts, covering practically nothing. ‘Get hold of a boathook or a broom – anything!’
She looked at the boy thrashing about in the water and gasping for breath. If he wasn’t fished out soon he’d drown, and yet –
No jellyfish, though, none that she could see. She’d have to take the risk. Luckily she had boots on, with her jeans tucked inside them; that was some protection at least. But still she hesitated. For days after that business with Mrs Wakeham in the shop she dreamed of jellyfish. Night after night she’d woken up in a sweat. What if one had swum this far upriver and was lurking somewhere among the underwater weeds?
Behind her she heard the girl sobbing.
‘Where’s that boathook?’ Sue snapped at her. ‘Go and fetch something! Don’t be so bloody useless!’
Whether that had any effect or not, she didn’t wait to find out. Carefully she lowered herself into the river, clutching at the fragile twigs of a nearby bush until she was sure of her footing. With the water well above her knees, lapping at her crotch, she waded towards the boy. His struggles were getting weaker, as though his limbs were seizing up.
What she saw made her swallow with apprehension. They were jellyfish, no doubt about it, but not the big speckled kind she’d met before. These were tiny, some no more than half an inch across, others smaller: thirty of them at least, maybe more. They swarmed over his legs, quite unhurried, as though they knew time was on their side.
Already red weals had appeared on the boy’s skin wherever their tentacles had made contact, but the jellyfish themselves were quite colourless in the water. Almost transparent, in fact. Sue gaped at them, uncertain what to do next.
‘Can you manage, Sue?’ Mark was calling to her. ‘D’you need a hand?’
The boy was drifting with the current. She waded after him, grasping him by the hair to hold his face above water. He was still conscious, she noticed; his lips were moving, yet he seemed quite incapable of helping himself.
‘I’ll get him to the bank, then you pull him out!’ she shouted back, trying to suppress the fear in her voice. She’d just seen yet more red weals – on his neck, this time. ‘Put something on your hands. Gloves, or something!’
‘Why?’
‘Jellyfish!’
Sue made slowly for the bank, tugging the boy along by his hair and praying that those miniature jellyfish would content themselves with just the one victim. Her hands, already reddening from the cold water, seemed terribly vulnerable. She had to fight down an urge to leave the boy to his fate and get out of that river as quickly as she could before they started investigating her.
Mark came splashing towards her. ‘You can’t do this by yourself – Bloody hell!’
He’d noticed the jellyfish. The colour drained out of his lean, angular face; its lines sharpened, betraying his age. He stood there as though hypnotised.
‘Mark, what’s the point of both of us risking it?’ she started to argue wearily, but she gave up.
He’d already hooked his fingers under the boy’s belt and was heading for the bank where Adrian and Tony – good old Adrian and Tony, the only two to come to the hotel bar rather than crowd into that smelly scrumpy pub with the rest of the Much Ado cast – were kneeling on the grassy edge, waiting to pull him out. Sue clambered on to the bank to help.
The girl cyclist merely looked on helplessly, dazed with terror.
A light flashed several times. At first Sue took no notice. Mark was still in the water, trying to ease the boy’s bare legs over the hefty stones used to strengthen the bank.
‘Mark, get out of the water!’ she yelled at him fiercely. At any moment those jellyfish were going to shift over on to his skin, she was sure of it. ‘For God’s sake, Mark! Oh, no!’
Already they were attaching themselves to the backs of his hands… moving up to his wrists…
With a heave, Mark threw himself on to the bank, rolling over away from the river, his face twisting with pain. Again that light flashed, and this time Sue realised what it was. Furiously she swung around to find a girl she’d never seen before calmly taking photographs.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
‘Press.’ Quite calmly, the girl took one more, then stuffed the miniature camera into her jacket pocket. ‘You’re Sue, aren’t you? I came here to interview you. What’s going on?’
‘What does it look like?’ Bitterly, Sue began to examine Mark’s hands. The baby jellyfish were scattered over his skin like freckles – a dozen or more, the largest being about the size of a five-pence coin. ‘Oh, why don’t you call an ambulance or something?’
She felt dizzy with exhaustion.
‘The barman’s already phoned.’ The girl bent over Mark who was muttering incoherently that his hands were dead, he’d no feeling in them. ‘They’re a bit small. Are you quite sure they’re jellyfish?’
Sue had a vague impression of two men running towards them from the hotel. Somewhere very far in the background an ambulance siren wailed, approaching. Her hands were smarting intolerably, as though she’d dropped acid on them. She felt herself swaying, her eyes losing focus.
Focus? Was Tim filming?
She’d seen his documentary on TV, him standing there in that sea of jellyfish. She’d wanted to scream then. To scream now, out loud. But she held it back, refusing to give way. There’d been a girl reporter with him that first time, hadn’t there?
‘Of course I’m… bloody… sure…’
With a great effort, she managed to get the words out before she fainted.
Jane drove back to Somerset that afternoon with two Kilner fruit-bottling jars on the seat beside her. Each contained a dozen or more baby jellyfish swimming in river water, knocking futilely against the glass. She’d fished them out herself, buying a kid’s fishing net on the end of a stick for the purpose. All in all, she felt, she’d accomplished quite a bit on her journey to Totnes.
She had her story; in fact, more than she’d dared expect. Tim’s wife living with another actor, a divorce in the offing… That was a scoop in itself, and the boobs-and-bums merchant who edited the magazine would love her for it, bless his cotton socks. Two actors from the company had filled her in on a few details while they waited at the hospital for news.
All three casualties were to be kept in overnight. The young cyclist – just twenty-one years old and recently engaged, she discovered – was still unconscious when Jane left the hospital. Surgeons had already extracted thousands of the little hair-like tentacles which had penetrated his skin and then broken off. Hardly any part of his body was free of them. With Mark the damage was less extensive: only his hands and forearms seemed to have been affected, although an off-duty nurse Jane had chatted up afterwards had said the doctors were uncertain what effect that amount of poison might have on the nervous system.
As she reached the motorway Jane wondered whether or not to phone Tim about Sue being in hospital, but she decided against. It was better he shouldn’t know she’d been anywhere near the place. Sue was suffering from shock
more than anything else. A good night’s rest and a sedative was all she needed, one of the doctors had announced. But then Sue had been lucky in having no more than four or five jellyfish on her hands, sticking flat against her skin like little round patches. Jane had tugged on her driving gloves and already held one between her finger and thumb, trying to squeeze it to death, when the barman came with a bottle of Johnnie Walker which he sloshed generously over Sue’s hands. One by one, the tiny jellyfish curled up and fell away.
‘Only way to deal with the buggers!’ he declared cheerfully. ‘Pour some spirit over ’em! They don’t like that. Meths is just as good. Don’t ask me why. Stings ’em, I imagine.’
When she got home, Jane passed the tip on to Jocelyn who merely grunted and said it was worth remembering. She held the Kilner jars up to the light, unable to take her eyes off the baby jellyfish. Oh yes, these were probably the young of the red-and-pink speckled variety they were investigating, she confirmed enthusiastically. There were of course a number of medusae which never grew any larger than these, but from what Jane had told her…
‘How do they give birth?’ Jane asked bluntly. ‘I mean, do they lay eggs or are they…?’
‘Or are they viviparous?’ Her sister finished the question for her. ‘No, what happens is this. I showed you the genitals – those little U-shaped organs. Each jellyfish can produce both eggs and spermatozoa, but they can’t fertilise themselves. A jellyfish releases a cloud of spermatozoa into the water. This is ingested by other jellyfish with their food – through the mouth. The fertilised eggs become planula larvae and when they’re released – after a time – they attach themselves to some suitable surface such as a rock. Something firm.’
‘How big are they?’ asked Jane.
‘You’d not see them without a magnifying glass.’
‘So they could be swallowed – say, by a fish? Or a bird?’
‘Or a bird that eats fish.’
‘And stay alive?’
‘Possibly. But they’re not jellyfish yet. Once the planula finds a suitable home, it becomes a polyp. And that feeds in much the same way. It has tentacles, and so on, though of course it doesn’t swim around freely. It’s fixed to the rock.’
‘So where do jellyfish come in?’
‘The next stage.’ From the note of excitement in Jocelyn’s voice Jane realised once again how fascinated her sister was with this whole underwater world. ‘The stem grows and becomes segmented. It’s like a pile of plates. Each segment breaks away and becomes a tiny jellyfish.’
Again she held up the jar to look at them.
‘That river where you found these,’ she added soberly, ‘must have quite a number of polyps around the rocks. The only question is – how did they get there?’
For some time they went over the possibilities. That part of the river was well above the reach of the tide, although it was still conceivable that a few jellyfish had swum upstream against the current. It was the explanation Jocelyn favoured. Jane had doubts, and so did Robin who argued that, if that were the case, why had no one seen them?
After an early supper, Jocelyn excused herself and went down to her laboratory bearing the two jars of baby jellyfish. Jane tried to telephone Alan Brewer but was unable to get through. She could not rid her mind of the thought that some planula larvae might well be carried in bird droppings, which meant that any pond, stream, lake or reservoir anywhere in the country could sooner or later breed a population of jellyfish. That might be fantasy of course, but people ought to be warned.
Once again she dialled Alan Brewer’s numbers, both home and office, but there was still no answer. She had to content herself with leaving a message at the office switchboard for him to call back. The best approach, she thought as she went upstairs to her room to write up her notes, was to suggest they should send a camera crew to film the ‘babies’.
And Tim could come down at the same time to do the commentary.
Jane completed her notes, then attempted to start work on her article, but somehow she wasn’t in the mood for it. From her window, which was at the rear of the house, she could see the laboratory lights burning. Jocelyn was probably still working, and Robin had long since gone to bed. She thought of going downstairs to watch television, but decided in favour of a book in bed. Within ten minutes she was asleep.
She woke up with a start. There were sounds in the house – she heard a floorboard creak – but the lights were still on in the laboratory. It was two o’clock, just past.
Another creak.
Jocelyn?
Swinging her legs out of bed, she opened her door. The bathroom light was on; someone was moving about in there, clumsily. A sudden apprehension gripped her: what if Jocelyn had put her hand in the tank with those little ones and was trying to deal with it herself without telling anyone? She could be like that. Stubborn.
Jane padded, barefoot, across the landing. Just to make sure, she told herself; she’d never get back to sleep if she didn’t check.
‘Hello – you up?’ Robin stood there, dressed only in striped pyjama bottoms, fumbling in the over-packed bathroom cabinet. ‘Seem to have made a mess of my bandage. It’s coming loose.’
‘You’ll never do that by yourself,’ she told him, examining the ravelled bandage looped around his hand. ‘Sit down on the bath. I’ll see what I can do. Are there any safety pins?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘I thought it was Joss I heard. Is she still down there?’
‘Must be.’
‘You did get this in a mess. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with it.’
She had to undo most of the bandage before she could begin to rewind it more securely around the dressing. As she bent over his hand, concentrating, she became aware of something troubling him.
‘Jane,’ he said softly, ‘you’re not wearing very much, are you?’
‘Nor are you!’ she retorted. In exasperation she unwound the last couple of turns around his thumb and tried again.
Only then did she realise what he meant. Her flimsy nightdress drooped in front of her while she worked. She might as well have been standing there naked. But what the hell. By now his own equipment was hardly hiding itself in the undergrowth.
‘Put your fingers on the end of the bandage and make sure it doesn’t move,’ she said brusquely, straightening up. ‘I’ll find some sticking plaster.’
It took a moment or two, but eventually she discovered a half-used roll of sticking plaster at the back of the cabinet and was able to finish the job.
‘Best I can do. I’m no nurse.’
‘Thanks.’ Obviously embarrassed, he hitched his pyjama trousers around a little in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his interest. ‘Would’ve asked Joss, only she’s still working. You’ve seen the lights, I suppose?’
‘What lights?’
‘Come, I’ll show you.’
At the end of the landing was a frosted window which opened to the side of the farmhouse. Robin raised the sash. The scene was incredible. In daylight it was an attractive, picture-postcard view obliquely across the Bristol Channel towards the Welsh coast. But that night it was bathed in a brilliant, greenish light emanating from the sea itself and from a narrow stretch of the shore on either side.
Jane gasped, involuntarily stepping back against him.
‘Oh, my God, it’s frightening!’
‘It’s beautiful,’ he disagreed, holding her. ‘Take it all in. We may never see the like of it again. The earth and every common sight to me did seem apparelled in celestial light…’
‘Jellyfish.’ She didn’t move, but pressed herself back against his chest, feeling the hairs against her skin. In that moment she just couldn’t face the idea of being alone. ‘It’s not celestial. It’s the light of hell.’
His hand moved, sliding beneath her nightdress to caress her breast. She allowed it to stay there, closed her eyes… But when she opened them again the light was as intense as ever. Not a ship was in sight. Not
so much as a fishing smack. The entire expanse of the Bristol Channel had been taken over by the enemy.
Robin’s grip tightened, holding her closer as a deep shudder passed through her. She longed for him to stay with her, but it wouldn’t do. Twisting gently in his arms, she raised her face and kissed him on the lips: a firm, decisive kiss before she broke away from him.
‘No, love. Jocelyn’s my sister.’
‘And my wife – or she was before she married those jellyfish.’
‘Oh, you poor thing!’ she mocked him.
‘You started it,’ he pleaded, though she could see a laugh behind his eyes. He wasn’t stupid.
‘Unintentionally,’ she agreed. ‘Now I’m stopping it. Husbands are fair game. Brothers-in-law are out of bounds. OK?’
‘For the time being. Goodnight, sweet Jane!’
‘More bloody poetry!’ She went back to her room, but paused at the door. ‘Robin – seriously – d’you think we should phone down to Joss to check if she’s OK?’
‘She’d never forgive me. I did it once. She was furious. Accused me of interfering with her work.’ He hesitated, the uncertainty obvious on his face. ‘I know this is different, but last time it took a week before we got on an even keel again. She really is brilliant, you know, your sister. Best marine biologist in the country, her colleagues tell me. No, I think we’ll let her get on with it.’
17
‘No fresh fish I’m afraid, sir,’ the lugubrious waiter apologised deferentially, his biro poised. ‘I can recommend the squid.’
An old retainer type, Tim thought, slightly amazed, as he examined the menu. Probably he’d worked at this club most of his life and knew every member by name.
A handsome club it was, too, in the best crusted port tradition. In clubs such as this the fate of nations had been decided. Its rooms had high ceilings and noble proportions, with valuable old oil paintings on the walls. Within earshot of Big Ben when the windows were open. From its extensive terrace he and Alan Brewer had just been watching the marines in action with flame throwers along the mud banks of the Thames until everyone was driven indoors by the stench of sizzling jellyfish.