Slime (18 page)

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.

‘Three squid?’ Sir John – their host from the Ministry – glanced around the table, an eyebrow raised. He was a distinguished civil servant of the old school: dark suit, well worn; greying hair; close-shaven. Not one of the new young whizz-kids. ‘Alan?’

‘One way of getting our own back. No jellyfish on the menu?’

‘No, sir. Though I did hear some West End restaurants are trying it. Without much success, I believe. They say it’s rather tough.’

‘Right then, squid it is,’ said Alan. ‘And I’ll have the steak to follow.’

‘Tim?’

‘Yes, squid and… er… lamb chops.’

Down the centre of the room was a long table where
members without guests were lunching. Their own smaller table, booked in Sir John’s name, was near the window a few feet away. Once the old waiter had taken their orders and wandered off towards the service door, there was no danger of their being overheard.

‘More secure here than in my office, I’m afraid,’ Sir John pointed out. ‘It’s a leaky place, Whitehall, these days. Now I think you know, Tim, why I’ve called this meeting? Did Alan explain?’

Tim nodded.

‘Briefly, it’s this.’ Sir John kept his voice low. ‘This jellyfish scare is turning out to be a much bigger thing than anyone thought in the early stages. Up to a few days ago, the general view was that it was no different in essence from freak weather conditions. A bad winter, say; or floods. We’d need to pump some money into emergency aid to help those affected sort out their lives – we’d the holiday trade particularly in mind, naturally. However, the way things are turning out, it now looks considerably more serious than that.’

‘How serious?’

‘The government is to lay a bill before the House of Commons this afternoon giving it emergency powers similar to those granted in wartime.’ He paused while the wine waiter showed him the bottle of Puligny-Montrachet he’d ordered and then opened it. ‘This should go well with squid,’ he commented when the waiter had gone. ‘I’m afraid I am far from optimistic about the situation. In the circumstances, gentlemen, I feel we’ve a duty to enjoy this lunch. It may be the last luxury we shall ever know.’

‘Oh, come!’ Tim protested. ‘Is it really as bad as that?’

‘Don’t
you
know?’ Sir John demanded. A worried look crossed his lined face. He seemed tired, Tim thought. ‘I imagined that you of all people would have realised.’

‘Realised what?’

‘We have kept a great deal back from the general public,’ he admitted, ‘but you’ll need to be fully informed if you’re to be as effective in your part of the operation as we hope. Let’s begin with the reason why there’s no fresh fish on the menu. Not a single fishing boat has left port anywhere in the country over the past seven days. With jellyfish forming a high proportion of every catch it’s simply too dangerous. Then there’s oil.’

So far, North Sea oil had continued to flow, he explained. Gas, too. But the men on the oil rigs were worried. All diving operations had been suspended, which meant essential repair jobs were being neglected. Two divers had died in circumstances which left no doubt that jellyfish had been responsible. Observers on the rigs had spotted vast shoals of them drifting towards the coast, real giants, they said, as big as two yards across.

This was confirmed by reports from a Royal Navy frigate using both sonar and echo-sounding equipment.

‘The frigate ran into heavy seas,’ Sir John went on confidentially. ‘No problem in normal circumstances – the sea washing over the bows, that sort of thing. But this time it brought jellyfish on board. Again, big ones. To make matters worse, their screws tangled with something. They didn’t know what it was at first, but it turned out to be more jellyfish.’

‘The poor buggers,’ said Tim soberly. He could visualise the scene, the panic on board.

‘Comparatively little panic, it seems.’ Sir John must have read his thoughts. ‘The Navy’s a highly disciplined force. Even so, one officer and three ratings were killed dealing with the jellyfish on deck. Or below decks, rather: they thought they’d got rid of them all, the storm had blown over, time to tidy up, make everything shipshape again, when they found two more. One dropped down a hatch and landed on the back of the rating’s neck. He was eighteen years old.’

‘That wasn’t in the papers,’ Tim commented.

‘We made damn sure it wasn’t. His parents were informed he’d died accidentally during a training exercise. I’m relying on your discretion, Tim. By the time I’ve told you everything you’ll understand why.’

‘How did they deal with the screws?’

‘Sent divers down. Cleared the water a bit first.’

‘What does that mean?’

Sir John hesitated. ‘This is strictly hush-hush. They were at sea, unable to move, and surrounded by jellyfish. Four of the ship’s company already dead. No diver could have survived without the right precautionary measures.’

‘Which were?’

‘They exploded two nerve gas grenades just below the surface of the water. Killed the jellyfish all right. They could see them for yards around, underside up.’

‘The Navy carries nerve gas grenades?’ Alan Brewer asked, his eyes alert with interest. ‘As part of their regular armament?’

‘That’s something I just don’t know,’ Sir John said blandly. ‘And I’d advise you to forget it.’

Before Alan could pursue this line of questioning, the ancient waiter returned with the next course. ‘Enjoyed your squid, I hope?’ he enquired as he removed their plates.

‘Very tasty,’ Tim said.

‘Nasty-looking creatures. Saw them on TV once. Most unpleasant.’ His serving spoon hovered above the vegetables. ‘Mushrooms for you as well, sir?’

‘Please.’

He emptied his glass, then eyed the bottle of claret which their host had chosen with such care. It lay in its basket, almost purring with content at being fetched out of the cellar after all these years. He felt a pang of regret that Sue was not there to share it with him. She had a good palate for expensive wines. That morning he’d tried
telephoning her again, but it was no use. There had been no answer from the flat. When he’d dialled the theatre he was told no one was there; it had closed down and they’d all gone.

At last the waiter withdrew, but for the next few minutes they concentrated on their food. His lamb chops were tender and juicy; the wine was gentler than anything he’d ever tasted before. Sir John looked up and nodded to him as if to say enjoy it while you can.

It was a strange setting for such a conversation, he thought, looking around the room at the other men lunching there, several famous faces among them, and the portraits on the walls of an earlier generation of celebrities. Although for the most part it was the painters who were remembered these days, and the celebrities were forgotten.

Before coming here, he and Alan had called at the Ministry where they had been required to sign the Offical Secrets Act. The establishment was obviously very worried, and high time too. Ministers regarded the public relations exercise – public
morale
, they called it – as vital. In addition to normal press facilities, they were planning a series of information films on TV, both to give advice and to keep the public up to date. Tim was to be the front man. He was already acknowledged in the country, one nameless civil servant pointed out, as ‘Mr Jellyfish’. They needed to cash in on that reputation.

For the public good.

‘As I get older,’ Sir John said at last, laying down his knife, ‘I find these simple physical pleasures are the best.’

You and Jacqui both. Tim only just managed to refrain from speaking the thought aloud. ‘One-night Jacqui’ he called her in his mind: it had not been from lack of interest on his part, either. Perhaps it was merely that she disliked the idea of a male taking the initiative; the 1980s syndrome. Yet she was all surprises. With her clothes on,
she looked down to earth and dowdy, as though she’d just dropped in from a CND march; without them, she was St Tropez class. Her filming was good, too. Those latest Gulliver rushes were brilliant. Alive. Full of movement. He was glad she’d be staying with him to direct this project.

‘Tim?’

‘I beg your pardon! I was dreaming.’

‘It’s time we completed this part of the briefing,’ Sir John remarked, leaning over to refill his glass. ‘No, carry on eating if you haven’t finished. I can talk while you eat. The one major factor I’ve not yet mentioned is that these jellyfish – or, rather, their young – have now been discovered in inland waters.’

‘Fresh water?’

‘Lakes, reservoirs, rivers, streams. Oh, and canals. About eight to ten sightings so far.’

‘But is it possible?’

‘Our first reaction was the same as yours. Probably hysteria. People were mistaken. But I’m afraid it’s true. We have specimens which were taken out of the river at Totnes.’

‘Jane came across them,’ Alan explained.

‘What was
she
doing in Totnes?’ Tim demanded furiously. Bloody hell, he knew only too well what she was doing there. Trying to screw information out of Sue for that article, what else? Going behind his back. Well, she wasn’t going to get away with it; he’d put the lawyers on to her. ‘She’d no business in Totnes.’

‘Good job she went there,’ Sir John approved. ‘Showed initiative. She went back the following day with her sister to search for polyps. I suppose you know about polyps in the reproductive cycle of the jellyfish?’

‘Of course.’ He felt bitter. The news had soured the whole day for him. The divorce would get into the press before he’d had a chance to try and stop it. ‘So what’s the
first step?’

‘On Friday you go down to Somerset to film the polyps. Our science staff has prepared a detailed brief for you. From there you’ll be transported to the Dorset coast where we’re mounting a combined services operation against the jellyfish – army and Navy together. This is a trial run to discover which methods work best.’

‘I’d poison the buggers,’ Alan said flatly, draining his glass. ‘Spray them from the air.’

‘D’you think we haven’t considered that?’

‘You used nerve gas once.’

‘In an emergency,’ Sir John agreed. His eyes never left Tim. ‘Everything in the sea around that spot died. We don’t want to mention that. It’s classified information. As for other poisons, dioxin has been considered. It has been used in pesticides and defoliation gases: in Vietnam, in particular. In Britain, the problems would be unimaginable. Take the amount of dioxin you could get into that claret bottle, drop it into our water supply, and you could wipe out half the population, humans as well as jellyfish.’

‘So roasting them alive is the only alternative?’ Tim asked.

‘It’s not very satisfactory, I know, but it causes less long-term damage. When this is all over we’re still going to need food to eat, water to drink. It’s ironic, isn’t it? We survived Hitler, we laughed at Mussolini, we dodged clear of Stalin, and the American president has yet to be elected in whom we’ve felt total confidence – yet all the time the real threat was in the sea. Jellyfish.’

‘It’s that bad?’

‘We have lost control of most of our coastline.’ He spelled it out gravely. ‘However many we kill, more come to replace them. Now they’ve found their way into our inland waters. If they multiply there in the same numbers they could overrun the entire country. So far there has been surprisingly little civil unrest, but when food
shortages begin to bite –’ He left the sentence unfinished and beckoned to the waiter. ‘Now let’s have some brandy with our coffee. The best.’

Tim declined the brandy. He should ring Jane, he thought; possibly she might know where Sue was. At least she could tell him what was happening down there.

Outside, the rain was lashing down again. It had been a bad year all round; location work had taken twice as long as it should. From the members’ table came a sudden outburst of laughter, followed by a thin voice exclaiming that, anyway, it was good weather for jellyfish.

The speaker did not know how right he was.

Sue came away from visiting Mark feeling worried and depressed. He still had that intermittent fever and his cheeks, always thin, had taken on a hollow, sunken appearance. Her own hands had almost healed, but Mark’s were still in bandages; his forearms too, as far as the elbows. And they now knew that other jellyfish had found their way up his trouser legs and a few had landed on his waist below the hem of his pullover.

‘He’s going to pull round,’ the young doctor had said, though without conviction. ‘We just have to be patient. We’ve taken blood and urine samples together with scrapings of pus from the sores. When the reports come back from the lab we’ll know much better where we stand. The poison these tiny ones use is not quite the same as the big jellyfish.’

He was obviously one of those doctors who believed in telling everything; too enthusiastic about his work to be reassuring. Sue had nodded, hardly taking it all in.

What no one could explain was why she herself had got off so lightly. The young cyclist had died without recovering consciousness. His girlfriend, pale and silent, was taken home the next day by her father. Sue had watched
them loading the two bicycles and rucksacks into their van, then driving slowly away.

Mark might die, she told herself.

The doctor himself had admitted that jellyfish poison could affect each person differently. He suspected Mark’s case might be complicated by a particular allergy.