Slime (6 page)

‘They haven’t said. I suppose it’s all right.’

‘I’ve borrowed somebody’s flat. A holiday flat near Torquay. It’d just be the two of us. Tim, it’s been six weeks. We’ve got to talk.’

‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘It is time.’

That night he had another bout of fever. When at last he fell asleep, he dreamed he was sitting in that large, old-fashioned bath again, surrounded by jellyfish. Slowly a tentacle came wavering towards him. It was followed by a second… then a third… creeping over his limbs… One lay across his upper lip; one penetrated a nostril: he could even see it as it explored his nasal cavity. It was quite visible, and getting larger, growing to enormous size until it broke out through his face. He could hardly hold back his shrieks of terror.

He woke up drenched in sweat, sitting bolt upright. His terror lingered; before daring to touch the floor with his bare feet he switched on the light to examine the room. Nothing there, of course.

Telling himself not to be such a fool, he went over to the washbasin for a towel and was trying awkwardly to dry himself one-handed when the night nurse came in to see what was wrong. Briskly she rubbed him down, helped him into clean pyjamas and made sure he was safely back in bed again before she left.

In the morning, the Welsh doctor stubbornly refused even to think of letting Tim out of hospital again.

‘Indulged you yesterday, didn’t I, an’ we know what happened!’ He placed a cold stethoscope against Tim’s chest, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Sounds healthy enough, but we’ll take a look under those bandages to see how the hand’s getting on, shall we? You’re too precious, so I’m told. Not that I’ve ever been one for television myself. With all these pretty nurses swooning over you, I don’t know why you want to leave.’

‘I need the fresh air,’ Tim tried.

‘Then you can open the window. Plenty o’ sea breezes here, you know. Best hotel in town, this hospital – an’ you’ve been given the best room, for reasons which are quite beyond my understanding. Your poor friend now, he’s in a bad way. It’s touch an’ go if he’ll ever talk again.’

‘Stroke?’

‘That’s right. You can thank your lucky stars you’re in good health, all things considered. Your hand’s doing nicely. Good red flesh. It’ll heal in no time if you’re sensible. Try to rush things, though, an’…’ He shrugged.

‘OK, one more day,’ Tim conceded, abandoning the struggle. ‘But best hotel or not, I’m checking out tomorrow first thing.’

A chuckle. ‘Let’s wait an’ see, shall we? Tomorrow is
another day, or so I’m told.’

‘My wife is expecting me.’

‘No arguing then, is there?’ At the door, he paused. ‘You must tell me more about these jellyfish when we’ve a moment. I’ve been hearing rumours.’

At about the time that conversation was taking place, David Jones was wading into the sea at Bedruthan Steps in Cornwall for his daily swim.

It was not a warm day. The breeze was sharp and dark rain clouds were scurrying across the sky. Yet, hail or shine, he’d never miss his regular dip, not even in the depths of winter.

Save for the war years when he’d been in the army, most of his working life had been spent in London, going into the bank every morning, rising slowly but steadily through the grades until he finished up as manager of a large suburban branch. They had lived frugally, he and his wife Colleen, saving up for the cottage in Cornwall to which they eventually retired.

Five years ago, that was. Colleen had died last year shortly before Christmas, leaving him on his own. A quick illness, no longer than three or four days, and then she’d gone. Now he went in for his swim alone, but always thinking of her.

The waves lapped at his knees. He paused for a second, gazing out at that familiar bay, and then plunged forward, taking to the sea with an easy familiarity. The cold shock of the water was bracing, firming up his lean, muscular body. It had been Colleen who had taught him to swim in the first year of their marriage. Sea nymph, he’d called her: she’d grown up in a little fishing village in southern Ireland and had swum before she could walk.

He must have been in the water for five minutes or more when he felt a strange tickling sensation against his
stomach.

Seaweed, he thought. He changed direction, striking out towards the headland on the right.

But the seaweed, if that’s what it was, went with him. It sent prickles across his skin, like pins and needles. Riding the waves, he turned over on his back to take a look.

‘Oh dear…’ The gleaming jellyfish spread across his stomach. It was pink and red, a spotted pattern, with a deep red splodge in the centre. In all his years, this had never happened before. He didn’t exactly know what to do, and with Colleen not being there to advise him…

Slowly he allowed his body to sink, hoping the sea would wash the thing away; or that it would take off of its own accord. He didn’t intend to harm it, after all. Creatures could sense hostility, couldn’t they? Hadn’t he read that somewhere? In some magazine?

An agonising pain coursed through him, shooting through his intestines and genitals. He found himself swallowing mouthfuls of salt sea-water as he gasped for breath. He sank, then broke surface again, gulping in the air before he once more went under. A fresh pain explored him, more leisurely this time, meandering through him as though deliberately seeking out his organs one by one to inflict torture on them.

He was screaming, yet he couldn’t hear himself. All around him was the muffled silence of water and the dim, shifting light. Instinctively he must have kicked out again, for there was the chill air and the ripples against his face.

That agony had been no more than a sudden cramp, perhaps. Lazily he tried to work it out, his mind barely functioning. Yes, that’s what it must have been, but it had gone now. His whole body felt oddly raw, yet at the same time so relaxed.

He was no longer swimming even; just floating. So gently. They didn’t believe he was seventy already, the
people who saw him every day. They all said that, and Colleen had been so proud when she heard it.

Wait till he told her about the jellyfish!

It must have gone, of course. He tried to touch his stomach to make sure, but his arm was so reluctant to move. He’d better get back now: Colleen would be waiting.

Shoulder?

Had it moved to his shoulder, that jellyfish? Or a second one? No…

Oh no…

It slithered over his skin, shifting to his throat… like a muffler… A sharp, burning pain penetrated his neck, probing without mercy.

Washing over his face, the sea choked his shrill screams. He was drowning, he knew it as surely as he’d have known a page from his own accounts. He’d tried to tell Colleen he’d follow her. Yes, he’d tried to tell her. Not sure whether she’d heard, though her hand had tightened over his.

Colleen –

8

Food… food… food…

From the first few jellyfish already prowling these rich coastal waters the message goes out. No apparatus yet devised by mankind can detect such transmissions through the ocean depths; yet, many miles away, the main jellyfish hordes are alerted.

Instinctively, the bell-shaped bodies start to pulsate as they home in on the signals. Hundreds move as one, riding the currents, skilfully using that bellows motion to stay on course. From the surface they are scarcely visible, although an observer flying directly overhead might
notice a few variations in the sea’s constantly changing pattern of light and shade.

From the south and west they approach, heading for the Celtic Sea… the English Channel… the North Sea… their tentacles alive with expectation.

Food… food… food…

9

The weekend with Sue turned out to be possible after all. The Welsh doctor raised no objections, though he did issue a firm warning that Tim should take things easy for the next few days. But that, thought Tim, suited his mood well enough. He still wore his sling and his left hand set up waves of pain at the slightest pressure on it.

Jane appointed herself chauffeuse and drove him as far as Bristol where she put him on a train for the South Devon coast before taking herself off – in his BMW, naturally – to spend the weekend with her marine biologist sister.

‘We still need to find that specimen,’ she reminded him as they parted, brushing a quick kiss against his lips. ‘Keep your eyes open in Devon.’

He nodded, then climbed awkwardly into the train. A walking casualty, they’d once called him in a war film in which he’d earned a couple of days’ pay as an extra. Only five years ago, that’d been, and now here he was, travelling first class.

Much to his relief, Sue was at the station to meet him. He spotted her even before the train had stopped: a tall slim figure, as elegant as ever. She waved and ran towards him, eager to help as he clambered down the steps.

‘Tim! Oh, love, you poor thing!’ Her arms were around him, her mouth against his, briefly. ‘Oh, but it’s so good to see you again.’

‘This time it really has been too long,’ he confessed. ‘We mustn’t let that happen again. I’ve missed you.’

She insisted on carrying his grip as they went out to the station yard where she’d parked. She was wearing her old yellow ski jacket with dark, narrow trousers which disappeared into the tops of her boots. As they left the booking hall, the wind riffled through her long blonde hair. He was reminded of how she’d looked when they first met. A windy day in a bus queue, it had been. Now here they were, growing inexorably apart, and he seemed powerless to prevent it.

Working in different parts of the country, meeting only infrequently – well, that was something every actor had to put up with. What he’d not realised was how much they would change within themselves. Of course they’d started with the best intentions, making that mad cross-country dash on Saturday nights or Sundays, just to be together for a few hours.

But then came extra rehearsals, location shooting, photo calls: always something. From once a week it became every fortnight, then every month. And now…

‘The flat’s not far,’ she was saying as she unlocked her battered Mini estate and threw his grip on the back seat. ‘It’s in one of those big Edwardian houses facing the sea – all bay windows and white stucco. Oh, Tim, it’s going to be lovely! You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this!’

She reversed rapidly out of the parking bay, stabbing at the brake before she changed gear, then swung out on to the road. Tim put his free hand against the dash to steady himself.

‘Alison’s dropped out of
Much Ado
,’ she announced. Alison was the actress in the company who usually landed the plum parts. ‘Says she’s been offered the lead in a new thriller series for Scottish TV. So she’s going commercial. Always thought she would.’

‘And?’

‘Revised cast list went up this morning.’ Sue jammed her foot down on the accelerator to get across the junction before the lights turned red. ‘They’ve given me Beatrice.’

‘Seeing sense at last, are they? You’re by far the best actress they’ve got. Up till now they’ve been wasting you.’

‘Oh, not really, Tim. I mean – ’

‘I’ll come to see this one.’

‘Make sure you do!’ she retorted. She applied the brake more gently this time as she slowed to turn into the road fronting the short promenade. There was a long terrace of tall white houses, and she pulled up before the third in the row. ‘
Much Ado
was going to be
our
play, remember? Me as Beatrice, with you as Benedick.’

‘That’s still the plan,’ he said. ‘One day.’

‘Perhaps.’

It was obvious she no longer believed him, and he felt hurt she hadn’t even attempted to disguise the fact.

He got out of the Mini awkwardly, knocking his injured hand against the door jamb, cursing under his breath as it began to throb again. Sue knelt on the driving-seat and stretched over the back to retrieve his grip. Watching her, Tim became suddenly nervous about this weekend; he was desperate for it not to turn sour. Six weeks apart had been too much.

On the far side of the road was a wide paved area which ended with a two-barred, solid railing, beyond which was the sea. The tide was almost fully in. Waves reared up dramatically, white-maned, before tumbling into themselves and draining slowly back, leaving a spread of seaweed and debris over the narrow strip of sand which was still left uncovered. The late afternoon sunlight glinted on the water. Nothing could have seemed friendlier: no hint of any threat; no menace. No sign of a jellyfish, either in the sea or stranded on the shore.

Perhaps, Tim thought, they infested only the Welsh coast; perhaps the south was free of them.

Sue slammed the car door shut and locked it. ‘Right!’ she exclaimed, smiling at him, her eyes lively. ‘Let’s go in.’

They had hardly set foot on the steep flight of steps leading up to the front door when a short stout woman came bustling along the pavement towards them, handbag on her arm, shaped felt hat in dark green holding her greying hair firmly in place.

‘Chilly wind, isn’t it?’ she said to Sue, pausing. She looked pointedly at Tim. ‘Back for another weekend, then? Hardly seems no time since you was here last.’

‘It’s a fortnight,’ said Sue. ‘How’s the rheumatism?’

‘Mustn’t grumble. Well, it’s nice seein’ you again. Better weather over the next couple o’ days, so they say, an’ we could do with it. Be popping into the shop, will you?’

‘First thing in the morning, Mrs Wakeham,’ Sue promised. ‘We’ll have a chat then.’

Mrs Wakeham nodded, satisfied. Then, with one more glance at Tim, she wished them a happy stay, and walked on.

‘She couldn’t take her eyes off you!’ Sue suppressed a giggle. Lowering her voice, she added: ‘She really does keep the most awful shop. Baked beans, custard powder and a few mangy potatoes – nothing else in it! Oh, and little packets of fancy cakes she’s had on her shelves for years, I’m sure. Even the colours have faded. She tried to sell me some.’

‘You’ve been here before, then?’ Tim was surprised. More than surprised – irritated that she hadn’t told him. ‘You never mentioned.’

Before answering, she waited until they were inside the house with the door closed; then she kissed him on the lips, a sensuous kiss, taking her time over it.

‘There are lots of things I didn’t mention,’ she admitted quietly, her eyes lingering on his face. ‘We’ve so much to talk about, Tim love. So much to catch up on. But not down here in the hall. The flat’s upstairs.’

There was something different about her, Tim thought as he followed her up the uncarpeted stairs. She seemed to have worked out some plan for the weekend, and was determined to see it through. They would be staying in for their meal that evening, she explained, calling back over her shoulder; she’d bought some wine and intended to cook. ‘Just for the two of us,’ she insisted.

‘Of course,’ he agreed; usually she was only too keen to eat out.

The flat’s airy front room was furnished with cheap, shabby furniture, but he noticed she’d bought spring flowers for the vase in the centre of the table, and more on the sideboard. The gas fire was on, glowing white; trickles of condensation ran down the large window panes which gave a hazy view of the sea. An unopened bottle of scotch stood on a tray on the side table, together with soda water and a couple of glasses.

She began to help him out of his coat but he caught her arm, stopping her.

‘I’ve missed you, Sue.’ He held her close.

‘D’you think I haven’t missed you too?’ Her hand wandered over his face. She kissed his cheek, then grimaced. ‘Stubbly! We’ll get these things off, then have a drink.’

She dropped his overcoat across one of the armchairs, together with her ski anorak and hat. Then, without asking, she took off his jacket. He watched her every move as she crossed the room to drape it over the back of one of the dining-chairs. Each little gesture evoked memories: the way she smoothed out a fold with her long, slender fingers; the shape of her lips as she turned towards him again; and those mocking, teasing eyes…
smiling… inviting…

Twisting the cap off the whisky bottle, she poured out two generous measures, added soda and brought them across to the sofa where he was sitting, allowing himself to be served. This was
her
party; let her set the pace.

‘To us, Tim!’

She raised her glass solemnly, her eyes on his.

‘Sue, love – to us! I’m sorry it was so long.’

Putting her glass on the floor beside her, she leaned against him, holding up her face to be kissed. Her lips parted. Their tongues caressed, slowly at first, until hers became more agitated, curling, thrusting, commanding a response from him. She took his hand and guided it beneath her white sweater so that it rested against her stomach.

‘You always used to touch me there, remember? In those very first weeks?’

‘You thought it odd.’ His little finger explored her navel, circling, then probing gently.

‘I still do, but I like it. With you.’

His hand moved upwards, seeking her breast, sensing the hardening of her nipple as his fingers grazed over it. His own responses stirred as his body recalled the old familiarities, like a traveller returning after a long journey.

She had unbuttoned his shirt and slipped her fingers inside, spreading them slowly over his ribs, but suddenly she pulled back from him. ‘Wait!’ She peeled off her sweater, tugging it over her head, then sat facing him, naked to the waist, her hair tumbling over her white shoulders. ‘Just in case you’d forgotten what your wife looks like!’ she declared mischievously.

She was proud of her breasts, and with reason. Once or twice in the past she’d played nude scenes on stage – ‘but only when it was integral to the purpose of the play,’ she would explain seriously, her eyes troubled – but she had
no cause to be shy. She was one of the few actresses around who could even risk a wide-screen nude close shot and her figure would still look perfect.

Tim reached out for her again but she held him at arm’s length, gazing at him challengingly.

‘You must think me a shameless hussy. Hardly inside the door, and here I am – half-naked already.’

‘I love you, Sue.’

‘That means you
do
think me shameless!’ Her eyes danced as she slipped her arms about him, kissing him. After a time he felt her right hand wandering over him, then tugging at his belt. ‘With you I am.’

‘I do love you,’ he repeated.

She wriggled away from him, stooped to pick up their glasses and handed him his.

‘Drink,’ she commanded, and waited until he’d obeyed. ‘D’you remember how we used to get gooseflesh in that cold bed-sit because we didn’t want to put our clothes on again? In those days we drank beer – one can between the two of us!’

‘All we could afford,’ he agreed.

Standing up, facing him, she undressed completely, willing him to look at her.

‘Now you. No, don’t move, let me do it.’ She pulled off his shoes, throwing them aside; then his socks. When she saw the fading bruises below his ribs, she said: ‘You did get yourself in a mess, darling. I heard you’d been stung by jellyfish, though you said nothing. They can’t do that much damage, can they?’

‘These can,’ he said grimly. ‘Not your ordinary kind, but–’

She placed a hand over his mouth. ‘No, love. Explanations afterwards, not now. This is
our
moment, and we mustn’t let anything spoil it. I’ve got the fire on in the bedroom, we can take the bottle through with us – ’

Drawing her towards him, he smothered her words,
kissing her with that deep yearning he always experienced whenever he was with her. And she responded, clinging to him, until she fell back across the sofa, her leg curling over his. They lay awkwardly, uncomfortably, until after a while they had to admit it was not going to work and they separated, laughing.

‘Bedroom,’ she said.

‘Fuck the bedroom.’ He grabbed the cushions from the sofa and arranged them over the worn carpet.
‘Here.’

She lowered herself on to them, making room for him, twining herself around him. ‘Oh, Tim,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Oh, Tim, what happened to us? I want you so much. What happened?’

The following morning Sue woke up first. She leaned on her elbow and looked down at Tim who was sleeping with his mouth slightly open, occasionally snorting. Somehow she had to tell him she was going to leave him. She had to find the right moment when she could speak calmly, and be sure he was listening. He’d be hurt, she knew. Especially after the previous evening when they had made love… how many times? In the living-room on those cushions; then a drink while they sat with their arms around each other before wordlessly moving into the bedroom; and eventually they’d taken a bath together… and she’d put the final touches to the meal she’d prepared… and they’d had the wine which turned out to be all the man in the shop had promised… and they’d got back into bed to… well, to rediscover each other… to start afresh…

But she did not intend to start afresh, not this time. She had to explain she’d been having an affair with another actor in the company – Tim had met Mark once, though she doubted if he’d remember – and she planned to move in with him: so could they please talk it over sensibly like
two rational people?

A divorce? Yes – what point was there in thinking of anything else?

Over and over again in her mind she’d rehearsed her arguments. Tried to anticipate his reaction. Yes, of course she still loved him, hadn’t she proved that? Physically, at any rate. In that way Mark would never be able to rival him. Tim aroused longings in her she’d never experienced with Mark, and he could satisfy them too.

But was that everything? With Mark she could
talk
, confident he’d be in tune with her thoughts. It was no longer possible with Tim, not since he went into Gulliver. They were strangers these days even when they were together. She’d only to express an opinion about the theatre, or the play she was in, or the Bomb, to realise how many miles apart they now were.