‘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.