by John Halkin
Best go down to have a look.
Behind the kitchen door was one of Joss’s old raincoats with a hood. Jane swung it over her shoulders and hurried down over the muddy path. Cold rainwater splashed over her flat open sandals, chilling her feet. Up here on the hill was the only place she now felt safe from jellyfish. Night after night they watched the weird illumination of the Bristol Channel, sometimes appearing to move in shifting patterns, sometimes unnaturally still. Nothing could be seen at the moment through the rain and mist; in any case, in daytime the scene tended to look quite normal from this distance, although every day the line of jellyfish moved farther inland. Yard by yard. Mile by mile. Portishead, Clevedon, Weston-super-Mare, Burnham-on-Sea – that whole coast was now empty of people.
Yet Joss still hated the idea of burning the jellyfish alive. She was deep in her study of their digestive system, occasionally muttering something about finding a suitable poison – a medusicide, as she called it – or surveying the natural enemies of the jellyfish in the hope that one would turn up to save the situation. Sharks? Whales? Pug-nosed dogfish?
‘They need to be culled, not exterminated,’ she would repeat stubbornly after even Robin had failed to convince her that they were faced with a major emergency. ‘We humans have already killed off too many species.’
Robin’s rejoinder was always the same: ‘We’ll be extinct ourselves if we don’t soon find some way of dealing with them.’
But she took no notice. She’d disappear to the laboratory and not emerge again for hours. She’d turned the whole set-up over to jellyfish, clearing everything else out: no. 1 hut was for those she called ‘adult’ jellyfish; no. 2 – dubbed the ‘nursery’ – was for polyps and baby medusae.
Jane squelched up the wooden steps to no. 1, her sandals soggy. ‘Hello! Roberta!’ she called out as she pushed open the door. ‘Are you there?’
She saw the wet raincoat hanging in the vestibule, with Roberta’s green wellingtons and a pair of men’s shoes. There was no answer, but she automatically kicked off her own sandals and took off her mac before going into the laboratory itself. No reason why, except she felt more comfortable that way and she would never dream of messing up Jocelyn’s lab for her.
‘Roberta! It’s me – Jane!’
The door was locked, or so she thought at first before she realised there was some obstruction behind it, near the bottom.
‘Roberta! Are you all right?’
She put her weight against the door, her apprehension growing, and it began to give way. Whatever the obstacle was, she was gradually able to push it back until she could squeeze through herself. At that stage it was not the jellyfish she feared, for they were all safely in their tanks from which she was convinced they couldn’t possibly escape. No, if anything had gone wrong, there must be some other cause: an intruder, perhaps.
‘Oh, no. What –?’ The obstacle behind the door was Roberta’s body, lying face down on the floor with the telephone beside her, its cord torn out of the wall. ‘Roberta, I came when I could. What happened?’
The moment Jane touched the girl’s shoulder she rolled over, her head lolling to one side. Covering one cheek and part of her throat was the most evil-looking jellyfish she had yet seen, its speckled pink-and-red body bloated out of all recognition.
Jane screamed, starting back. Her heel slipped on some hard, gristly substance on the floor. In disgust she pulled away from it, a quick reflex action, just in time to avoid its exploring tentacles. Her screams echoed round the hut, throwing themselves back at her, building up her panic until she was staggering about blindly, not knowing which way to turn. In every direction she saw jellyfish, some lying – pulsating – in the gangways between the rows of tanks, others perched on the edges of the tanks as if waiting to launch themselves on anyone coming within reach. Near the bench lay the body of the boy she’d seen earlier with Roberta. He was naked from the waist up, with at least four jellyfish gorging themselves on him.
‘Must get out.’ She spoke aloud in her panic. ‘Out…’
But Roberta’s body blocked the door again. The jellyfish were too close to get near it, and her own bare feet too vulnerable. Distraught, she looked around for some weapon – anything which might help her – and noticed the fire extinguisher clipped to the wall beside the door. To reach it, she had to tread between two jellyfish, each a couple of feet across, barring the way like Scylla and Charybdis in the ancient legends.
She tried to get a grip on herself: this had to be done carefully, for the space between the stretch of those tentacles on either side was very narrow. First one foot, mud-spattered and cold; the tentacles flickered out towards it, but without success. Then the next… choosing her spot carefully… wavering a little… unsure of her balance…
The fire extinguisher was in her hands, and it seemed like a miracle. She freed the nozzle, tugged out the restraining pin and pressed the lever. The carbon dioxide spurted out, covering the nearest jellyfish with freezing snow which caused them to curl up, writhing, before subsiding into inactivity.
But her feet were also hit by that extreme cold. She tried to take a step away, directing the flow now at the jellyfish guzzling on Roberta’s poor body; it was like walking on raw, jagged stumps and she fell sprawling towards the first tanks. For one second only she looked up – winded – and was aware of the jellyfish perched on the shelf immediately above her.
Then it dropped over her face, muffling her shrieks of terror. She tried to tear it away with her hands, but the agony shot through her fingertips, tingling through both arms. Another spasm ran through her like a stream of hot lead, down her throat, her windpipe, her lungs, and… oh, God – no! Her nipples burned with that unimaginable pain.
Oh, Bill… Tim…
Tim’s coming tomorrow… oh, Tim, I left it too late…
‘Bill – All right, go to your fucking wife! What do I care?
I do.
Admit it, Jane, you do care – admit it.
Saw your wife, Tim. No hope there. She’s gone. Stuck in the same shit, aren’t you? Same old bloody shit.
19
A church hall had been requisitioned for the press briefing prior to the combined services offensive against the jellyfish invasion. It was crowded.
Tim sat on the front row with Jane’s sister, Jocelyn, her face pale and intense. From the dark, haggard look in her eyes it was obvious she’d not slept at all in the two days since Jane’s mutilated body was found in her laboratory together with those of her assistant Roberta and one of Robin’s students. When they heard the news, the Ministry had suggested filming elsewhere, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘No, of course not!’ she’d protested, close to tears, when they telephoned her. ‘We must warn people! It’s so horrible! It’s the nursery you want, isn’t it? The babies? I haven’t killed them yet.’
So they’d driven down there with the usual crew. Jacqui, deep in her own problems and looking equally in need of a night’s sleep, had glanced cynically from Tim to Dorothea as though she knew. If she did, it must have been Dorothea herself who had told her. But none of that mattered any more. His own mind was on Jane: he must have spoken to her only ten minutes before it happened. She’d confessed everything about Totnes and seemed surprised he didn’t already know Sue was in hospital.
He’d rung the hospital right away, but they said she’d left. Just left, the girl had insisted; then he’d tried all the Totnes numbers in his diary, without success. Maybe she’d gone off somewhere: who could tell? More likely still avoiding him.
When they arrived in Somerset, Jocelyn had led them past the hut where Jane had died. It was closed and locked. She made no comment on it, but took them directly into the nursery – the second hut – where she showed them all they needed to see. Only the brisk, brittle manner in which she gave her explanations betrayed how close to the edge she must be.
Afterwards, once Jacqui and the crew had left, she talked about Jane’s death. And Roberta, of whom sh
e’d become very fond. The boy – she said – she hardly knew, although Robin spoke highly of him. She blamed herself bitterly for all that had happened, insisting that she should have foreseen it.
‘This army operation you’re going on,’ she added before he left. ‘I want to come with you. I can see now Robin was right, it’s them or us. Though I still don’t agree with burning.’
‘It’s the most effective way so far.’
‘It doesn’t touch those still in the sea, which is the majority. I’ve moved on from digestion and their food intake. I’m starting experiments on their nervous system.’
Tim thought of the nerve gas grenade but said nothing – as ordered. From what they had told him, it had slaughtered everything within reach.
‘I’ll put it to them,’ he agreed, ‘though I can’t promise what their answer will be. I’m not even allowed to take the crew on this one. Any pictures – assuming there are some – will come from army cameramen.’
The army refused her request, as he’d expected. If it was important, they said, she could accompany the press party who would be kept well to the rear out of the danger zone, although kept up to date with regular reports from the press relations people. Tim himself was in a different category, they pointed out. He was the Ministry’s responsibility and they were under direct orders to take him.
He pleaded, claiming he could do his own job a lot better if he could take her with him as a specialist adviser. When they still refused, he telephoned the Ministry. Grudgingly they agreed to back his request, with the result that she was to accompany him.
The press briefing was chaired by Colonel Smythe, a tall balding man dressed informally in a knitted army jersey reinforced with leather patches, including a couple on his shoulders bearing the insignia of his rank. He put over his message with a cool, matter-of-fact competence.
Beside him as he spoke was a large-scale map of the Dorset coast pinned to a blackboard on an easel.
‘This part of the coast,’ he explained, tapping the area with his pointer, ‘is occupied by jellyfish up to five or six miles inland, although the actual depth of penetration varies of course from place to place. At eleven hundred hours, army units will move forward on a wide front, exterminating such jellyfish as we find and – ah – reclaiming the land. All men have been issued with safety clothing, and you’ll be given an opportunity to examine a specimen suit. The method of extermination will be fire. I should like to stress this. We are going in for what can only be called a scorched earth policy. Crops, grassland and woods will, I’m afraid, all suffer to a greater or lesser extent. We need to make sure we destroy all possible places of concealment and kill every single jellyfish in the area. On the other hand, the men have been instructed to avoid causing damage to houses and other property whenever possible.
‘Now, I’ll take questions in a few minutes, but first I’d like to introduce my colleague from the Royal Navy who is here to tell you about their side of the operation. Captain Binns.’
Tim noticed how closely Jocelyn was following every word of the military men’s statements, although she must have been familiar with the details already from the regular flow of reports and summaries which arrived with each post.
Several shoals of jellyfish were approaching the coast of Britain from different directions, Captain Binns stated drily, betraying no emotion on the subject. RAF Nimrods were keeping them under constant observation.
According to computations by Navy experts, one such shoal was expected to arrive off south Dorset within the hour. Once within a given distance from the shore, aircraft of the Fleet Air Arm would launch an attack with depth charges. A count would then be kept of how many jellyfish were left on the beaches by the ebb-tide.
Before sitting down, Captain Binns emphasised that the basic intention was to test the suitability of such tactics. Any success or failure had to be judged in this light.
A barrage of questions followed these two statements and it was still going on when the sergeant on duty at the side door nodded to Tim to indicate that their transport had arrived. Tim took Jocelyn’s arm and guided her outside. They found a staff car waiting.
A young officer, also wearing one of those knitted jerseys, saluted as they approached.
‘Dr Jocelyn Meadows? And Mr Ewing? I’m Major Burton. I’ve been detailed to look after you.’
‘Thank you, major,’ said Jocelyn. ‘We’ll try not to be too much of a nuisance.’
The major’s blond hair, pale blue eyes and smooth cheeks probably made him seem much younger than he really was, Tim reflected as they shook hands. Boxer’s hands, with a firm, no-nonsense grip.
‘We’ll take you first to the command post where we have some safety clothing for you to change into,’ he explained as they got into the car. ‘Then we’ll go forward and join one of the platoons for a while to give you an idea of what it’s like on the ground. I’m told you’ve both had some direct experience of jellyfish.’
‘You could say that,’ Tim agreed.
‘In that case, you don’t need me to tell you how dangerous they can be. We don’t expect any casualties – the men are well protected – but we do of course have medical units standing by. Very well, driver. Let’s go.’
‘Sir!’
As the car moved off, gathering speed along the country roads, Tim felt irritated that it had not been thought necessary to introduce the driver. Privates or officers – jellyfish made no such distinctions.
He and Jocelyn sat in the back, while the major twisted around in the front seat to chat with them. Tim was right about his being a boxer, he discovered; he was also an experienced mountaineer and an enthusiastic cricketer. No, he’d not actually been close to any jellyfish himself; nor, for that matter, had most of the men, although a few had been involved in beach burnings.
‘As a kid I used to hate ’em at the seaside,’ he confessed. ‘Chopped ’em in half with my spade, nine times out of ten.’
‘Do that, and both halves will still be alive,’ Jocelyn said. ‘Watch out for the tentacles, even after they’re broken off.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ the major said. ‘We’ve been fairly well briefed, as you can imagine.’
About half an hour later the car turned off the road, juddered along a narrow track and eventually stopped in a field in which several other army vehicles were parked. The major jumped out and opened the door for Jocelyn.
‘Command post,’ he informed them briskly. ‘I’ll have to report, but before I do I’ll show you where you can change. I must apologise, Dr Meadows, that we’ve no separate facilities for ladies.’
‘I’ve come here to do a job,’ she answered quietly. ‘I really don’t need special treatment.’
He led them across the grass to a long caravan painted in camouflage patchwork.
‘The general’s caravan,’ he explained in a tone which implied they were being accorded a great honour. ‘He hasn’t moved in yet, so we thought it might make a suitable changing-room for our visitors.’
‘You’re expecting a general?’ Jocelyn sounded surprised.
‘Of course. All the top brass.’
Major Burton saluted briskly, then left them to themselves.
In and around the field there was a general air of military bustle as orders were shouted, platoons of men were lined up and marched off, and others hurried about for no very obvious reason. A couple of large troop carriers pulled out. Near one stationary vehicle a tall aerial mast had been erected, and they could hear the throbbing of a diesel generator not far away.
The caravan was spartan and shabby inside. Its pale walls were covered with sellotape marks where at some time papers had been stuck to them. The vinyl-topped table was stained and there was a tear in one of the seats.
Spread out on a bunk was their protective clothing: waterproof trousers which they could pull over their own jeans, waders, and a parka with a hood for each of them. In addition, the army had provided rubber face-masks which left the mouth, nostrils and
eyes free, gauntlet gloves, and goggles.
‘They look sensible enough, at any rate,’ Jocelyn commented, fingering them. Her face was still deadly serious, with no glimmer of a smile. ‘You’d better help me get them on, Tim.’
By the time they were both dressed, the major had returned.
‘Colonel Ross sends his compliments,’ he reported laconically. ‘Unfortunately he is rather tied up at the moment, as you can imagine, but he hopes he’ll have the honour of meeting you later in the day. In the meantime, I’m to take you up to the front line. If you’ll just excuse me for one more second, I’ll get into my own battle clothing.’
It seemed so absurd, Tim thought. Here was a highly professional army with all the techniques of modern warfare at its fingertips, and it was being deployed against – what? Jellyfish.
No doubt the major was thinking much the same as he clumped back in his waders to ask if they were ready to go.
‘If you are,’ Tim said.
For the journey to the front, they abandoned the staff car in favour of an old reconditioned jeep. Once they had climbed aboard the major issued each of them with a long-handled hoe.
‘Requisitioned every garden hoe we could lay our hands on,’ he grinned as he selected one for himself. ‘Best defensive weapon we’ve got against jellyfish, believe it or not. Damn sight more useful than the L1A1 rifle.’
‘Are the men using any firearms at all?’ Tim asked.
‘Machine guns, to break up any concentration of jellyfish. Otherwise, flame throwers.’ He clambered into the front seat. ‘Off we go, driver.’
As they accelerated jerkily over the rough ground, a convoy of three field ambulances passed along the lane at the far side of the field, heading away from the front. On seeing them, the major began to talk urgently into his radio, asking – as far as Tim understood – for a situation report on Sector H where he intended taking his civilian visitors.