‘Granted the jellyfish were trawled up in the net,’ Tim argued as they stood in the corridor outside his room, dripping water over the patterned carpet, ‘that still doesn’t explain how they got back into the sea, nor what happened to the crew.’
‘You’re not saying it wasn’t jellyfish?’
‘Out of water they’re stranded. Ask your sister.’
‘How else d’you account for the slime?’ she challenged him. ‘All over the boat.’
He had no answer.
‘It had to come from jellyfish. There’s no other explanation.’ Her long brown hair clung damply around her face, emphasising her stubborn expression. ‘It had to.’ She sneezed.
‘I suppose so,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Look, we’d better get out of these things and into a hot bath before we both catch cold.’
She sneezed again.
‘We could use my bathroom,’ he suggested.
‘Together? Lud, sir — spare my blushes!’
‘Plenty of towels. And what’s left of a bottle of scotch.’
‘Well supplied, aren’t you?’ She laughed at him, keeping her distance. ‘I suppose you make a habit of bathing with strange ladies?’
‘When I can.’
Another sneeze. ‘My love, a woman really needs to look her best before agreeing to share her bath. You must admit’ — sneeze — ‘that I don’t. However, I’ll be down for a drop of that whisky.’
‘I’ll leave my door on the latch.’
‘Do that.’
With yet one more sneeze she left him and headed down the corridor towards the narrow door marked ‘Staff Only’ which he suspected led into a warren of service stairs.
He waited until she’d gone before unlocking his own door. Inside, he made directly for the bathroom, his shoes squelching water with every step. With difficulty he kicked them off, then bent down to fit the plug in the big, old-fashioned bath. Clouds of steam filled the air as the water gushed from the twin taps, but it would be some time before his bath was ready.
How those jellyfish had escaped from the boat was a mystery. It was possible of course that they’d been washed overboard by heavy seas; or, equally, that they’d evolved some method of moving when they were out of the water. It was a gruesome thought.
Still turning it over in his mind he began to undress, though awkwardly. The bandages were still dry, which was something; in fact, other than some dampness around his collar the rain hadn’t succeeded in penetrating his anorak. But his trousers were soaked through and sticking to him. He had to peel them off like sloughing a discarded skin.
He tested the water, turned off the taps, then padded through the bedroom to pour himself a generous slug of whisky before climbing into the bath. On his bed were two freshly-laundered shirts, each in its individual transparent plastic envelope. He shook one out and used the envelope as a glove to protect his bandaged hand.
Pity Jane had said no, he reflected as he stretched out in the water, surrendering to its luxurious warmth. Plenty of room for two. Three, even. Like the rest of the hotel, the bath was probably Edwardian — the age which had invented the original dirty weekend.
Still, although Jane was disappointingly wrong about the bath, she was almost certainly right about the jellyfish. And that meant… He tried to work out exactly what it did mean. How many jellyfish had it needed to attack that boat? An army at least; far more than the three or four they’d so far met. They could be massing out there, waiting for the right moment to come ashore. It was at least possible.
The ancient Greeks had known about medusae. They had given the name Medusa to the worst of the Gorgons whose hair was poisonous snakes; one glance at her face could turn a mere human into stone. One brush against the jellyfish tentacles could paralyse. Jane’s sister had suggested they might be some previously unknown form. He thought of the teenage boy. And Arthur. In each case they had covered the nose and mouth so that the victim could no longer breathe. Had that been deliberate? Part of their hunting technique? Tim remembered only too vividly what had happened while he struggled to save the thug’s life: those jellyfish stings were no mere self-protection; they had been actively hunting.
With human beings as their prey.
He shifted in the bath, accidentally brushing the pink face flannel off the edge of the soap tray; it dropped into the water, spreading itself, and floated gently down towards his legs. Some instinct made him grab it, crumpling it up savagely in his hand; then he stared at it, startled at his own reaction. It was only a piece of cloth, yet he’d broken into a sweat at the sight of it. Nerves, of course. The jellyfish were getting to him.
‘Can I come in?’ He heard Jane opening the outer door, her fingernails tapping a rhythm on one of its panels. ‘Oh, you’re in the bath still!’
‘The whisky’s on the dressing table. Help yourself.’
‘I need it.’ As she passed the open bathroom door she glanced in, mischievously. ‘Like me to wash your back?’
‘Please!’ he said.
‘Huh, you should be so lucky!’
‘Thought it might help with what you’re writing,’ he teased her lazily, but she remained out of sight in the bedroom. ‘Actor reveals all.’
‘Exhibitionist!’
‘I’ve never spent this amount of time with a journalist before,’ he went on. ‘And all for one article — it is only one, is it?’
‘It’s called in-depth research. There’s not much whisky left.’
‘Hey — don’t take it all!’
Gripping the curved top of the bath with his right hand, he managed with difficulty to stand up without putting any weight on the other, which by now was throbbing again uncomfortably. He almost slipped getting out of the bath and landed rather heavily on the bath-mat.
‘Tim, are you all right?’ Jane called anxiously. ‘If you need any help, for goodness sake say so.’
‘I’m OK now… I think.’
He struggled into the white bathrobe the hotel had provided but had trouble with the belt and had to ask Jane to tie it for him. When she had done so, she made him sit down on the stool while she rubbed his hair with a towel.
Her own hair she had combed back into a pony tail, with a rubber band to hold it together. It still looked damp. She had changed into a skirt, he noticed — the first time he’d seen her in one since the party — but her legs were bare and she was wearing sandals. Beneath her dark green sweater her breasts moved freely.
‘That should do you!’ she declared, dropping the towel into his lap. ‘Where’s your comb?’
‘I can do it,’ he protested.
‘With that hand? I can’t imagine why they let you out of hospital.’
‘Aren’t you glad they did?’
‘No.’ She tugged the comb through his hair. ‘Sit still, will you? When this is dry, I’m going to drive you back there.’
‘And then what? You can’t go hunting jellyfish on your own.’
‘Why not?’
‘And certainly not dressed like that,’ he continued, refusing to argue the point. As she moved away, he became only too conscious of the vulnerability of her bare legs. He could almost visualise the jellyfish tentacles straying over them. ‘You’ll need to wear jeans and boots. Gloves, as well. And we’ll go together tomorrow morning.’
‘A-huntin’ we will go!’ she commented lightly, returning to the bedroom. ‘That’s if they let you out!’
‘They will.’ He followed her through to recharge his glass. ‘The doctor advised me to stay in hospital tonight, but he didn’t insist. It was my choice.’
‘Private medicine!’ she said in disgust.