by John Halkin
Tim’s grip on his champagne glass tightened until it shattered between his fingers.
Dorothea buried her face against his shoulder, her whole body shaking. ‘Oh, God, how could they?’
Why he’d accepted the invitation to come to this party Tim no longer knew. He hated these crazy Chelsea parties at the best of times. This one was given by a visiting American film star who had just tried to revive his slipping fortunes by doing a guest appearance for the company; he might have known it would be more obnoxious even than usual. The star was at the microphone now, saying his few ill-chosen words and trying to coax his guests to begin dancing around the jellyfish tank. They’d not be switching the lights on again, he slurred in those world-famous syrupy tones; no, they’d let the jellyfish provide the illumination. So dance, everybody, dance! Or did you ass-holes just come here for the free drink?
To their credit, most of the guests kept well clear of the tank, though a couple of drunken sots began to toss in some of the empty champagne bottles, laying bets on how many times they could score a direct hit on a jellyfish.
It was sick, Tim thought in disgust.
Bloody sick.
‘You’re bleeding,’ Dorothea observed, noticing his hand.
He produced a white handkerchief which she wrapped over the wound. Her fingers were long and skilful, and he saw she’d given up painting her nails jellyfish red.
‘Careless of me,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘Both hands in bandages.’
‘What?’
His words were drowned again by the band and the restless chatter around them. A yard or two away a girl was having hysterics, screaming that she wanted to leave, she couldn’t stand jellyfish, everyone knew that, and she’d never forgive Charlie for bringing her here. On the far side of the room he spotted three other members of the Gulliver cast. They’d found themselves a haven near the drinks table and looked set for the night.
‘Careless of me!’ he yelled to Dorothea. ‘For Chrissake, let’s get some fresh air.’
Holding her close to him, he pushed through the crowd to the nearest door which opened into an alleyway at the side of the building. Outside they found it easier to breathe, despite the rotting garbage from overflowing dustbins.
‘Phew! That’s better!’ she exclaimed, smiling at him. She put her empty glass on a window ledge. ‘Not many here from Gulliver. It’s a dead loss.’
‘Not even Jacqui,’ he agreed.
‘Oh, Jacqui warned me she couldn’t make it. She and her soulmate are having a miserable time in their flat, dividing all the belongings between them. You heard they’d broken up?’
He nodded.
Tall, willowy Dorothea, he was thinking: the girl with the oval face and that cool Cheltenham manner who had seemed, when he first met her, such an improbable person to find on film location. She kept Jacqui in order and anyone in the crew who tried it on with her soon regretted it.
‘What’s he like?’ Tim asked.
‘Who?’ An incredulous little smile appeared around her lips.
‘The man Jacqui was living with.’
‘You don’t know?’ She laughed outright. ‘Oh, Tim – surely?’
‘No.’
‘Thought everyone knew. Jacqui’s gay. I only met the soulmate once. She’s quite nice but rather fat. Head of the English Department in a comprehensive. I was afraid she’d make a pass at me.’
‘And did she?’
‘What do you think?’ she retorted, teasing him. She looked towards the open door and the mob milling around inside, their faces sea-green in that jellyfish luminosity. ‘Want to go back in?’
He shook his head. ‘Do you?’
For a moment she gazed at him speculatively, then kissed him on the lips, making the most of it. ‘With two hands in bandages you’re quite defenceless and in my power,’ she mocked. The other couples in the alleyway took no notice of them. ‘It’s back to jellyfish on Friday, isn’t it? That lot in there are doing their End-of-the-World bit all right. I think, for you and me, the best plan would be to find a bed somewhere. My place?’
‘OK. Your place.’
Bloody hell, why not? he thought savagely. Sue passed fleetingly through his mind, but where was she now? And tomorrow they might all be dead.
Another couple emerged from the jellyfish madness of the party, both clutching champagne glasses. ‘So I said to her,’ the first man squeaked excitedly to his bearded companion, ‘I said, darling, tell me – how did you get into that dress, or is it sprayed on? She was furious. Can’t think why!’
Dorothea winked at Tim, then cuddled up to him, putting her hand through his arm.
‘First thing I’m going to do when we get there,’ she said in her most practical producer’s assistant voice, ‘is take a look at that cut in case you got any glass in it.’
18
As Roberta waited down in the village by the bus-stop, she regretted ever having mentioned to Frank that Jocelyn would be away all day. Not only was the rain trickling uncomfortably down the back of her neck; she also felt she was betraying Jocelyn who hated the very thought of strangers poking their noses into her lab when she wasn’t around.
Whatever Frank said, Roberta liked her job as a laboratory assistant. It was interesting; and, at nineteen, it gave her much more responsibility than she’d be likely to find in any other work. With her three A-levels, one of them in zoology, she could have gone on to university but chose not to. It had always been the lab practicals which had attracted her, not swotting over books.
She looked at her watch. The bus was late and the tree she was standing under didn’t offer much in the way of shelter. Well, a spot of rain wouldn’t harm anybody, though she could imagine what Frank would be saying by the time they had got soaked walking up the hill. She hoped at least he’d have sense enough to wear a raincoat, though she doubted it.
Why she bothered with him she didn’t know. He’d nagged at her for weeks to let him see inside the laboratory and she’d always refused till now. He’d glance around, make a few silly comments, touch things he shouldn’t, without even the vaguest idea of what he was looking at. Science and Frank didn’t live on the same planet. Perhaps that was what had drawn her to him in the first place: he was so different.
They had met at the sixth-form college where they had both been students. He was a tall, gangling, spotty boy with long untidy hair and a wild sense of fantasy, whereas she was down to earth, practical, and not too certain what he was on about half the time. He dressed like a tramp; she kept herself neat, nothing outrageous, and liked her vaguely-blonde hair cut short, which was more convenient for swimming. She’d taken Frank swimming once: he’d floundered about in the shallow end spouting poetry, and narrowly missed drowning. Now he was in his first year at university studying English literature, though as far as she could judge most of his time was spent consuming beer or moaning to a battered old guitar while waiting for the pubs to re-open. It wasn’t what she’d call work.
At last the bus wheezed round the corner and drew up in front of her, shuddering as the engine ticked over. The automatic door opened. Frank was the only passenger to get off.
‘Oh, Frank, you idiot! You’re going to get drenched!’
‘Wasn’t raining when I came out.’ He made it sound like an accusation, as if she’d turned the rain on. ‘Not to worry. Here – shove this under your mac. Keep it dry till we get there. Is it far?’
He peeled off his pullover and bundled it up for her, leaving himself bare from the waist up. His white, thin torso began to take on a blue tinge as the cold rain lashed it.
‘Oh, you are a fool!’ She laughed despite herself. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘O death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling!’ he chanted, putting an arm around her shoulder as they set off up the road. ‘Term’s over – d’you know?’
‘Does that make a difference?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘To you?’
From the village to the drive leading to the conv
erted farmhouse was the best part of a mile. The rain showed no sign of easing; even in her raincoat, hat and wellies, Roberta felt uncomfortably wet by the time they got there. As for Frank, maybe it had been a good idea after all for him to take off his pullover: at least it would be something dry for him to put on. His baggy Oxfam trousers and cracked shoes were soaked through.
As they skirted the house, making for the laboratory huts in the field beyond, she caught a glimpse of Jane at a window and waved to her. Jane waved back, smiling.
Odd the way she hates jellyfish, Roberta thought as they left the drive and began to tramp along the soggy path towards the first hut. Nobody could like them, that was obvious, but Jane felt a real personal hatred towards them.
‘Now you’re not to touch anything, Frank,’ she warned him. ‘Promise me?’
‘Of course. You know me.’
‘That’s why I want you to promise. Specially those little dishes and jars on the bench – it’s all part of her work and she doesn’t like anyone disturbing it. So you won’t, will you?’
‘Am I allowed to breathe?’
‘Oh, don’t be daft, Frank. This is serious.’
‘What about those television people tomorrow? Bet they’ll upset everything.’
‘She’ll make sure they don’t,’ she snorted, amused. ‘You don’t know her!’
Before opening the door, Roberta tried to scrape some of the mud off her wellies against the wooden steps. Then she led the way into the little partitioned-off vestibule.
‘Shoes off!’ she ordered briskly. ‘If the place gets messed up, I’m the one who has to clean it. I’ll find you some slippers inside. She uses her husband’s old mules when her feet get tired.’
Hanging up her dripping raincoat, she went through into the laboratory itself. The moment she was inside she sensed something unusual about the place. She looked around. Everything seemed to be in order, though there was not much light and the rain kept up a steady drumming on the roof. Imagination playing tricks, she told herself. Who would want to break in here? Even a tramp would be put off by those big notices outside warning of poisonous jellyfish.
She pressed the light switches; immediately, the tubes began to flicker into life.
‘You’ll find the slippers down there by the bench,’ she pointed out, deciding she’d better check the water temperatures, just in case. ‘But don’t – ’
‘ – touch anything!’ he mimicked, laughing. ‘You’re an old fusspot, Robbie – d’you know?’
‘Huh! And put your pullover on before you catch cold.’
She found a biro and the temperature log, then started at the end tank. The reading was normal. She was just noting it down, with the time and date, when she heard a clatter from the far side of the hut.
‘Robbie…’ Frank’s voice sounded strained; then it rose to a sudden sharpness. ‘Roberta! Aren’t they supposed to stay in the tanks?’
‘Frank, what have you –?’ she began, swinging around furiously, convinced he’d knocked something down. He was so clumsy.
But then she stopped. From one of the tanks the dark plastic cover had fallen down. A large jellyfish was hanging across the corner of the tank, having heaved itself up from inside. Frank stood a couple of yards away, staring at it nervously.
‘I wasn’t anywhere near it,’ he said defensively, not moving from the spot. ‘Honest, Robbie.’
Roberta tried to speak calmly. ‘We’ll have to push it back in, that’s all, and get the cover fixed again. You’d better stand clear.’
Her mouth tasted sour as she seized the long-handled squeegee and advanced on the jellyfish. It was a large one, gleaming pink and red, looking as though nothing could shift it.
‘I’ll help.’
‘No!’
‘I’ll pick up the cover,’ he insisted.
Cautiously she raised the squeegee until it was just beneath the lower flap of the jellyfish. The tentacles began slowly to explore it. It made her sick to look at them. She adjusted her grip on the handle, then eased the jellyfish up the glass, hoping to topple it back into the water.
At first it did not react, but then – as though instinctively it realised what she was about to do – it hunched itself up into an arch. When it straightened out, the whole jellyfish straddled the squeegee. She staggered under its weight.
‘Hold it over the water!’ Frank cried.
‘I’m trying to!’ she snapped back. ‘Stay out of the way, Frank! Oh, damn!’
He ignored her rebuke and took some of the weight. Together they managed to move it well over the open tank. They tried shaking the long handle and twisting it, but whatever they did the jellyfish still remained attached to the squeegee.
‘I’ll get something. Hold on.’
‘On the bench – one of those sticks!’ she gasped, in a cold sweat. ‘Or the tongs, they’d be better.’
What if they failed, she wondered; what if the jellyfish got out and they couldn’t control them? She’d seen the way they fastened on to the butcher’s meat Jocelyn sometimes gave them, and how difficult it was to retrieve the meat afterwards to scrape off the juices for analysis.
‘Frank – hurry!’
Just as he came back with the tongs she heard a slight grating noise. Before her eyes, the cover of the neighbouring tank began to move, sliding over the framework. It fell clattering to the floor. To her horror she saw that the two jellyfish occupying the tank were both out of the water, emerging over the top, seemingly glorying in their triumph. Had they, she wondered, pushed the lid away? Together?
Frank spotted them at the same time. He tried to prevent the nearest one escaping by grabbing hold of it with the long brass tongs, but had difficulty getting a firm grip on the slimy thing.
‘No!’ she shouted, trying to warn him. ‘Frank!’
She was too late. The second jellyfish – quite a small one – oozed over the edge of the aquarium frame and dropped to the floor, landing over Frank’s bare foot. There was nothing Roberta could do to prevent it. She stood helplessly, still holding on to the squeegee.
He spun around, doubling in agony, and the tongs smashed through the glass of the tank. Water poured out. That wouldn’t have mattered too much, but the jellyfish he’d been trying to restrain wriggled free and slipped down his arm to settle over his ribs.
‘Frank! Oh, Frank!’
She pushed the squeegee, with the first jellyfish still wrapped around it, deep into the tank, then dropped to her hands and knees to help him. No, that was no good, she thought, biting her lip; mustn’t touch them with bare hands. Gloves… she needed gloves… Pair on the bench, wasn’t there? Jocelyn’s rubber gloves?
Frank was writhing on the floor with the two jellyfish spread obscenely across his skin, their speckled pink-and-red bodies pulsating as though they were busy sucking his life blood. To get to the bench she found herself forced to step over him.
She seized the gloves, but they tore as she tried to tug them on. In desperation, with hot tears in her eyes, she decided merely to wrap them round her hands and hope for the best. If only she could pull those jellyfish away from him, then drag him outside perhaps…
But in that first tank, the big jellyfish – ‘Grandad’, Jocelyn affectionately called him! – was already partly over the top again, having used the squeegee handle as a ramp; and half-way across the laboratory, the cover of yet a third tank slithered and bounced to the floor. Then a fourth.
She screamed, unable to help herself. They were coming at her from every side, leaving her no way of escape. As for Frank – oh, poor Frank, what harm did he ever do anyone? – he lay quite still now, flat on his back, his arms apart as if in a gesture of total surrender. And still those jellyfish fed on him.
Yet how could she leave him there?
Shouldn’t she tug him clear somehow, if only to save his body from mutilation – out of respect? She bent over him, the torn rubber of the gloves stretched around her hands, knowing she couldn’t let it happen like that. It wa
s her fault, wasn’t it? If she’d never brought him here in the first place, none of this would have happened. He’d still be alive, still strumming his guitar… spouting his poetry…
She had a duty: yes, that was it. A duty.
Her face set with grim determination, obsessed with the idea that she had to save his body despite the fact that he was obviously dead, she bent down to slip her fingers beneath the jellyfish feeding on his stomach. Its grip was firmer than she imagined, but somehow she managed to tear it away.
A shudder of despair shook her as she saw the mess of raw flesh and exposed guts where it had been squatting. In horror, she dropped it – taking no notice of where it landed – and stumbled away. No, that wasn’t Frank… it couldn’t be Frank… in a minute or less, was that all that was left of him?
She wanted to vomit but nothing came; she merely choked on her own revulsion.
More covers came tumbling off the aquaria as she staggered towards the telephone at the end of the hut. Every few seconds she heard yet another slopping sound as more jellyfish escaped from their tanks. She had to get help. People ought to be warned.
Already the pains were shooting up her leg as she dialled 3 for the house. Clinging to a shelf in an effort to stay on her feet, she listened impatiently to the brr-brrr, brr-brrr, brr-brrr at the other end. At last someone answered.
‘Help me… please…’ she gasped, feeling her legs giving way as a fresh bout of that excruciating pain spread up to her hips. ‘Jellyfish are… out… Need… help…’
‘Who is it? Is that Roberta?’
Jane stared in exasperation at the phone in her hand. The line had gone dead. Was it serious, or some sort of practical joke? To make sure, she dialled the laboratory herself, only to hear a steady high-pitched sound. It made no sense at all.
Yet if the call were genuine…?
She opened the back door and stood uncertainly on the step, but as far as she could see through the rain both laboratory huts seemed perfectly normal. The lights were on in no. 1 hut. No sign of any break in the telephone cables linking it with the house. Yet she felt she was somehow responsible, Joss and Robin both being out for the day – although Roberta was really in charge down there.