She could count on them including a picture of herself, as well as her name in bold type.
It would mean a breakthrough for her, and that could lead to other assignments, other magazines, maybe even a column in one of the popular dailies, or a paperback commission.
Naturally she hated the whole idea of probing into Tim’s private life — or anyone else’s for that matter — trying to uncover murky secrets in dark corners, but that one article alone would bring in enough to wipe out her overdraft, make the down-payment on central heating for her flat and put her car back on the road. But she didn’t yet have enough to go on. That jellyfish episode was an absolute gift — the only reason she’d telephoned Jocelyn was to make certain she got the details right — but she needed more on the girlfriend front, something that hadn’t yet reached the press cuttings libraries, even if she had to sleep with him herself.
The thought amused her. That would be a scoop the magazine would be sure to buy. The Pillow Secrets of Tim Ewing, by One Who Knows! At least the research might be fun. She could send a copy to Bill to help his insomnia.
Oh shit, none of this was what she’d set out to do when she’d decided to go into journalism, but what else was there? Somehow she had to earn a living. Of course she’d dreamed of seeing her name in the heavies, or writing political commentary for the weeklies, with some TV perhaps, or the occasional radio talk — but then, who hadn’t? All that was well out of her reach. It was the tightest closed shop in British journalism.
No, to get her chance she’d do whatever was necessary, however distasteful. She was not going to fail. Nor did she intend to finish up like poor Bill — underpaid, worrying about his mortgage, wasting his genuine talents on a local paper that might any day go into liquidation. She was aiming at the top.
Jellyfish or no jellyfish.
If the nationals didn’t want the jellyfish story — well, that was that. End of chapter.
As for getting a specimen for Jocelyn, she might take a stroll along the beach later on to see what she could find; if it didn’t rain, that was. Those dark storm clouds were gathering in fast, though with any luck they might pass over. In any case, she’d certainly not try to net one out of the harbour as Jocelyn had suggested. Use a shrimp net, she’d said! The mere sight of the rotting garbage those gulls were fishing out was enough to turn anyone’s stomach.
‘Thinking of jumping in? Things can’t be that bad!’
‘Tim!’ Startled, she swung around to see him approaching along the harbour wall, his arm in a sling. ‘But you’re in hospital!’
‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’ He grinned at her. ‘I was wondering if it was you standing here. It’s getting so dark, I could hardly see. It’s going to pour down; we’ll get soaked if we stay here.’
He put his free arm around her shoulders and they began to walk back. A keen wind was whipping up the water of the harbour, causing the halliards on the moored yachts to slap sharply against the metal masts.
‘I was coming to visit you later on,’ she said, cuddling up against him and hating herself for what she was trying to do. ‘To see the poor man on his sick bed. They told me when I phoned you would be in for another day.’
‘Doctor changed his mind, didn’t he?’
‘You pulled the wool,’ she accused him.
‘Told him I felt fine.’
‘Liar. Do you?’
He laughed. His arm about her shoulders tightened. ‘Darling, if I’d known you were coming, I’d have donned my best silk pyjamas and stayed in bed. He let me out for a walk, that’s all. A breath of fresh air, no more. Made me promise I’d be back to let them take my temperature and tuck me up. He said even that was breaking every rule in the book.’
From the direction of the harbour came the steady chugging of an engine. The coastguard was towing in a fishing smack, and to judge from the obvious excitement of the men on the far side Jane guessed this must be the missing boat. Yet there was something odd about it. At first she thought it must be the effect of the light, that dramatic amber tinge filtering through the storm clouds, but then suddenly she realised what it was.
‘Let’s run!’
‘Why?’ Tim protested, still laughing. ‘All right — but I’m supposed to be ill, remember?’
She grabbed his uninjured hand and began a dash around the harbour wall, jumping over mooring ropes, skirting the bollards and lobster pots, the empty kerosene drums and fish boxes, never taking her eyes off that fishing boat.
Had it not been so dark, she might never have noticed that strange, greenish sheen — but it was dark, more like evening than afternoon. In the nearby buildings people were switching on their lights; cars, too, were driving with their headlights on. At any moment now the storm was going to hit them.
Most boats in the harbour looked perfectly normal; only the fishing boat glowed with that unnatural luminescence. A pale green light, though splashed with pink, came from the bows, the gunwales, the deck, the lower part of the wheelhouse. As they reached her to take a closer look, a coastguard on board threw a line; that, too, was gleaming faintly in the semi-darkness. It was caught by one of the knot of men gathered on the wall; he secured it, and then stared down at his hands, puzzled.
‘Whole boat’s covered in slime,’ Jane heard the coastguard grumbling. ‘An’ what’s left o’ the trawl, too, though there’s not much of it. Been eaten through, I’d say.’
Jane glanced up at Tim and entwined her fingers between his, holding him tight.
‘Any sign o’ Jack Pine an’ the lads?’
‘Found his cap, but that’s about it. God knows what happened, ’cos I don’t.’
‘Someone’ll have to tell his missus.’
‘Ay.’
‘Don’t fancy that job.’
It was sick, the whole thing, Jane thought bitterly. She remembered that incandescent slime on the policeman’s gloves after he had handled the jellyfish; it was obvious enough what had happened. Somehow those jellyfish had managed to board the boat, and then… well, it was too horrible even to consider.
‘But why?’ She spoke softly, as though not wishing to disturb the dead. They had to be dead. What chance could they possibly have had?
From the expression on Tim’s face, it was evident that he shared her fears. He pointed to the lettering across the stern.
‘Ironic, isn’t it? The Medusa. You realise medusa is another name for jellyfish?’
The storm broke.
Jagged lightning snaked through the clouds, momentarily illuminating the boat, the harbour, their own shocked faces. Between the flashes the darkness seemed even more intense. Then the thunder followed, tearing through the air like sticks of high-explosive bombs, one after the next. Jane half-expected to find the houses behind her crumbling; she was hardly able to comprehend how they could remain undamaged.
But it was a fitting end, she thought: like an act of 52 homage to the dead.
They made no move to run for cover with the others but stayed as the lashing rain gradually cleansed the little fishing craft of its slime. The luminescence became fainter, patchier, but not until it had faded away completely did they turn to go.
7
They went back to the hotel first to dry out. Famous TV star though he was, Tim didn’t fancy returning to the hospital in his wet clothes to face the disapproval of the nurses.
The rest of the crew had already left for London but he still had his room there: a large first-floor bedroom facing the sea with its own adjoining bathroom of feudal dimensions. The star bedroom, in fact. Jane had been put up in an attic somewhere tucked away among the maze of back staircases. She’d arranged her own accommodation and had been lucky getting into the same hotel at all. But she hadn’t grumbled; nor had she invited him to visit her.