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  SLIME

  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. ‘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.’

  ‘Jellyfish.’ She didn’t move. ‘It’s the light of hell.’

  Slime

  John Halkin

  Copyright © 1984 by John Halkin

  First published by Century Hutchinson

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  1

  The pink, speckled jellyfish drift through the water – hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them carried aimlessly along by the ocean currents. Occasionally, one lazily spreads itself out to resemble an undulating disc, trailing tentacles and innards behind it; then swiftly it pulls itself back until it is bell-shaped again. The action propels it rapidly in any direction it chooses.

  As they swim, the jellyfish feed on whatever comes their way, sucking minute plankton into the tube-like mouths situated centrally inside the bell, or trapping fish with their tentacles and paralysing them with a quick-acting poison which makes it possible to devour them at leisure.

  Coming across a sunken cargo ship is a bonus. The crew of ten is still aboard. The bodies float between the decks or on the bridge in a ghastly dance. Obscenely, the jellyfish settle on them, their tentacles exploring the bloated human skin, probing this new, rich food before deciding it may be safely ingested.

  Perhaps a week later – or, perhaps, two – the first jellyfish detach themselves and glide away on the current. Others follow. The farther north they travel, the colder the ocean becomes. Almost imperceptibly they adjust their direction, seeking the shallower seas where the drop in temperature is not quite so extreme, until the changed rhythm of tides and currents warns them that they are approaching land.

  2

  The sea was grey that afternoon, but calm. True, there was a slight swell. Long, smooth waves shaped the surface of the water, yet they posed no threat to the sailing dinghy which rode them easily, rising and dipping in time with their rhythm. Pete exulted in the sheer feeling of power as the breeze filled the little red sail to carry the dinghy along.

  It was the second time he’d sailed her, and the first alone. He’d known all along he could manage, he thought scornfully. Nothing to it. Trust Jenny to make a big mystery out of it, just because she was his elder sister. He was seventeen, not a kid any longer, and they had promised. Vince, her husband, had taken him out just once, Once! The rest of the time he was too busy at work, or so he said.

  So was Jenny, too, and that left Pete with long days on his own, nothing to occupy him, no one to talk to even. It was a godforsaken hole where they had chosen to live even at the height of summer; out of season, it was deader than its own graveyard. As for the other inhabitants, they looked as if they’d just come out of their graves, half of them. Talk about walking dead!

  The dinghy was his last hope of getting something out of the holiday. After that trip with Vince last weekend, he’d felt convinced he could sail her himself. Of course, Vince had laughed when he’d suggested it. Good old Vince! Trust bloody Vince! ‘No, let’s see how you shape up first. This is the open sea, Pete, not one of your rivers!’ A load of crap, he’d thought; what was the difference? It was all sailing, wasn’t it?

  Well, now he’d proved he could do it without them. No need to mention it to them, either, when he got back; they would only make a fuss about his taking the boat and forbid him to do it again without their permission. No, he’d keep quiet about it, that was the best way.

  He was clear of the bay now. The dinghy danced through the waves as the surging, untamed sea made itself felt. It was getting chilly, too; the increasing breeze cut keenly through his thin T-shirt. He bent down to retrieve his anorak which he had taken off earlier because it hampered his movements. Then, accidentally, he let go the rope.

  The sail flapped wildly; the boat veered around; as he was straightening up, the boom punched him violently in the small of the back. A second later, he was in the water, his breath shocked out of him as he sank.

  He surfaced, gasping for air, only to discover that the dinghy was already several yards away, careering wildly before the wind. Spitting out a mouthful of sea, he stared after it in dismay. There was no way he’d be able to catch up with it; nor, he realised, was there much chance of making it to the shore.

  But as he trod the water, wondering what the hell he should do now, he saw the red sail slamming around again; simultaneously, a high wave slapped lengthwise against the dinghy, and it heeled over. The sail dragged in the water, slowing it down. That at least gave him a chance, he thought with a sudden rush of hope; if only he could reach it…

  The water was cold, but he put all his strength into every stroke, determined that the sea was not going to have him as long as he could still swim. He was closer already – half-way there, perhaps – and as he was carried to the crest of the next wave he caught a glimpse of the boat still lying on its side; it was partly submerged, with its sail spread, water-logged, alongside it like a sea-anchor. In that same moment a sudden, sharp pain wrapped itself around his bare foot like a red-hot whiplash.

  He writhed in the water, spluttering in agony as the shock snaked through him. His head went under. He swallowed the bitter salt water, but then struggled to the surface again, shaking uncontrollably.

  But he had to make it, he told himself desperately as he tried to swim on. Oh, Jesus, he had to make it. His injured leg thrashed about uselessly, his teeth were chattering and his arms ached. Next time under, that would be his lot. Amen.

  A second whiplash caught him, this time around the ankle, stinging viciously. He shuddered, almost crying out as the pain pulsed through him. Yet somehow he managed to stay afloat, still heading for the capsized dinghy. Blindly, he ploughed on through that cold sea, by now uncertain if he was even moving forward. His leg no longer felt as though it still belonged to him, despite the throbbing agony of his foot. What had attacked him, he had no means of knowing; his mind was dominated by one thought only, that he’d drown if he didn’t reach the boat soon.

  Then, miraculously, one of those ceaseless, restless waves gathered him up and hurled him against something solid – the dinghy! He had been on the point of accepting that it was futile to go on, that it would be best to give up and allow the sea to take him, when there it was. His fingers slipped over the clinker-built bottom, too numb with cold to get a grip on it.

  At the third attempt he succeeded. He stayed there in the water – he hadn’t the strength to attempt anything else – holding on with his fingertips. Except for an inexplicable tingling in his foot, he could not feel his leg; the whole limb might have been so much ballast which he was fated to carry along with him. Only gradually did he come to realise that the thing – whatever it was – still clung to his bare flesh and was busy probing between his toes.

  No pan
ic now, he told himself. Take it calmly. However much he longed to scream, he managed to stifle it. See what the thing is first, then decide what to do. Might be seaweed, nothing more.

  Yes, that was the way to set about it: calmly.

  Slowly and carefully he turned over in the water until he was on his back, precariously holding on to the boat behind him. Then he began to raise himself until he could see both his legs. Spread across his right foot like a cloak was a strawberry-coloured jellyfish. Its tentacles curled around him, and as he watched, horrified, one flickered over to caress his left ankle which had come too close.

  He moaned involuntarily as the poison shot into him, leaving a reddening weal across his skin. Excruciating pains explored his left leg as he attempted to scramble on board the boat; then his fingers lost their hold. He was floundering in the water.

  It was only when he came to the surface again that he noticed more jellyfish drifting towards him. They were coming from every direction, their bells spread like little coloured parachutes floating in the sea. Frantically he clawed at the boat, desperate to pull himself out of the water, and he had almost succeeded before the next razor-sharp whip lashed the exposed skin between his T-shirt and the top of his jeans.

  It felt like nettle-stings, only a hundred times worse. He was left twisting in torment as the poisonous fluid reached his kidneys… his intestines… his bowels…

  He fell away from the boat, but the chill sea still cradled him, as though reluctant to let him die too easily. A third jellyfish attached itself to his abdomen, wrapping its tentacles lovingly around him before injecting its own poison. He shrieked uncontrollably until the next wave washed the sound back down his throat, leaving him choking, but still alive.

  At times he was conscious of the sky appearing green and mysterious through a veil of water; at times he saw it clearly as a dull white. Then the light became a deep, comforting pink as a fourth jellyfish settled gently over his face; in his numbed mind he even welcomed it, knowing it would bring one last, sudden moment of extreme agony, followed by release.

  3

  A real thug, he was. A bully boy from way back, Tim Ewing thought grimly as he squared up to the man. A thug’s face, heavy-jowled, thick-nosed, and a bullet-hard head. Massive fists too. A bruiser.

  Their feet sank in the loose sand as they struggled. Tim staggered backwards, almost losing his balance, but recovered in time to aim a blow at that scarred jaw. His knuckles didn’t even connect. The thug dodged aside and the next thing Tim knew he was rolling down the sandhill, agony in his guts, retching for air. He hit the bottom awkwardly and could not get up.

  ‘Cut!’

  Faintly he heard the director’s voice from the top of the sandhill but he didn’t give a damn whether she liked the shot or not. He lay there doubled up on the sharp, coarse grass, his arms pressed against his diaphragm, trying to ease the pain and find some way of breathing again.

  ‘OK with me,’ the cameraman boomed through the tangy air. It sounded a million miles away. ‘Check the gate.’

  No one came to him. No one so much as bloody noticed, least of all that new director, Jacqui-whatever-her-name-was. Too busy working out her angles and her over-the-shoulder two-shots. She was thin and small, with short untidy hair: no beauty. Made up for it though by ensuring from the start that everyone understood she was boss. Straight from documentaries, someone said; not used to working with actors. Ask her for a motivation and a blank expression spread over her face as though you’d enquired when her next period was due. It was her fault the fight arranger hadn’t been replaced when the office phoned to say he’d broken a leg and couldn’t make it. ‘It’s not a long sequence,’ she’d argued, script in hand, obviously nervous of falling behind schedule. ‘Surely you two men can work out something between yourselves.’ And he’d agreed, stupidly, thinking to help her out; after all, she was the new girl on the series, whereas he’d been in the cast since the first episode.

  That first bloody episode two years ago…

  Tim Ewing had never seen himself as a TV star; that hadn’t been part of the plan at all. He’d wanted to act: on a stage in front of an audience, working on material he could believe in. The real thing. Yet here he was, thirty already, and stuck in The Chronicles of Gulliver – even the title made him squirm – type-cast for life as the rough, tough, trouble-shooting son of self-made tycoon Oliver Gulliver, reputedly the richest man in Europe.

  His face had become familiar in living-rooms all over the country. Girls in shops and factories pinned up his photograph and wrote off for a lock of his short, curly hair. He was asked to open charity fêtes; he had money in the bank. Mr Ewing – Tim – to what do you attribute your very obvious success?

  Success?

  Oh, shit! Increasingly he remembered the dream he’d had when he started out, the big classical roles he was going to play, with words he could get his teeth into, not like this crap.

  Two years ago…

  He’d been in two minds whether to accept the job or not. When the offer had come, he’d been on the point of signing up with the Royal Shakespeare Company to carry a spear for the season, but TV meant four times as much money. It was only six episodes, they’d said. No one had imagined it would get the best audience ratings of any drama series yet. Of course, he’d realised the television people were not interested in his ability as an actor. Actors were ten a penny; you could take your pick in any London dole queue. No, it was those ‘rugged good looks’, as his friends were quick to point out, scarcely concealing their envy; in particular, the uneven line of his nose – the result of a fairground accident when he was a kid – which gave him the rough-house appearance they seemed to want.

  Which didn’t mean he should be beaten up for real, he brooded; not without warning, anyhow – that’s what narked him. That thug they’d pulled in as an extra had to be out of his tiny mind to hit him like that. Just the movement, they’d agreed; but no, he had to go and put his weight behind it, a punch like a pile driver. The way they’d been standing, the camera wouldn’t even have seen it. Bloody sod.

  ‘Gate’s OK.’

  Young camera assistant this time; well, Tim held nothing against him. He had his job to do.

  ‘Print that one. Now, Tim –’ The director’s voice stopped, puzzled. ‘Oh, he’s not still down there, is he? What’s wrong with him, is he hurt? Go down an’ see, somebody. We really must get on.’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  Jane, he thought. Making herself useful. Damned if he’d have done it, not after the way the director had spoken to her.

  He made the effort and sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between them, brooding. With luck, he heard the cameraman say, they’d get another couple of shots in the can before the light went. He’d go on, he supposed, if he had to; his breathing was steadier now, though his gut ached. It was just not his day.

  But, director or not, she’d no need to be rude to Jane. A straight yes or no would have sufficed. Instead, what did they get? Well, I suppose so, but it really is a bit of a nuisance having people hanging about while we’re filming. Still, if Tim invited you, there’s not much I can do about it. Mind you don’t get in the way, that’s all. That kind of crap made him sick. It was not as if Jane were just some girl he’d picked up, some TV camp follower – and Christ knows there were enough of them. She was Jane Lowe, a journalist, as well as being a personal friend – he’d explained it all to Jacqui-thingummy – and having her around could be useful.

  ‘Are you all right, Tim?’ Jane arrived, her face flushed after running down the sandhill. Loose sand clung to her black sweater and jeans. Her grey eyes were green-tinged, like a cat’s. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’

  ‘Bastard winded me, that’s all.’ He got to his feet, wincing. ‘Ouf, Jesus! He’d better not try that again. Bloody extras.’

  ‘You are hurt,’ she insisted anxiously. ‘Tim!’

  ‘Make a good story for you – TV star beaten up on location.
A paragraph, anyway.’

  ‘If you want me to.’ She looked doubtful.

  ‘No, thanks!’

  Her long straight hair blew around her face, framing it. He laughed, and slipped his arm about her shoulders, glad she was there.

  From the top of the sandhill, the director was waving to indicate they were moving on for the next set-up. He could see the camera assistant hoisting the tripod on to his shoulder. Terry, the sound man, was folding up the little canvas stool he took with him wherever he went. Of the thug there was no sign.

  Tim waved back grudgingly.

  ‘They’re going down to the shore for the next shot,’ he said. ‘Hope you’re not getting bored.’

  ‘I still haven’t worked out what’s happening,’ she confessed. ‘In the story, I mean.’

  They began their climb over the sandhills, taking the easy way round to the shore, while Tim filled her in on the plot. It was the usual rubbish. His six-year-old nephew – Oliver Gulliver’s favourite grandson, naturally – had been kidnapped from his nanny while flighty Mama was on holiday in Biarritz, playing truant with her latest lover. The ransom had been set at a million dollars, but Tim, alias Jonathon Gulliver, aimed to track down the kidnappers himself, thereby saving both the child and the money. Or, if necessary, only the money.

  ‘Why dollars?’ Jane asked after a moment’s thought. ‘Why not pounds? Or Swiss francs?’

  ‘They’re trying to sell the series in the States.’

  The ache below his ribs had diminished to a dull, grumbling discomfort, but he still needed to pause for breath as they reached the top of the gentle incline. Down on the flat shore, the director was gesticulating impatiently, urging him to hurry. Beyond her, the grey sea moodily licked at the sands. One after another the quiet waves advanced, broke, then reluctantly drained away.

  Jane shivered. ‘I don’t like the sea,’ she murmured. ‘It’s so – oh, I don’t know – so indifferent to us. As if people didn’t matter.’