On whatever the jellyfish had touched it had left a smear of slime which at first, in the heat of the moment, she hadn’t noticed. Now, while waiting for Tim to finish phoning, Sue became very much aware of it: on her own rubber gloves, over the top of the counter, on Mrs Wakeham’s hands and jumper. And it seemed to glow, with a pale, green-tinged light.
It was not until a few hours later when they were back in the flat that she became aware of the bitter irony of it all. Tim had succeeded in getting through to Jane, only to be told that the specimen was no longer needed. A coastguard had brought three to the laboratory that very morning, having fished them out of the Bristol Channel.
Which meant, Sue realised dully, that Mrs Wakeham need not have died.
10
During the next few days, jellyfish attacks were reported from several different parts of the country. A freak of nature, most commentators said. The victims had merely been unlucky.
Others had died too in the storms which had been battering the coasts of Britain, proving the weather forecasters wrong. A Greek cargo ship had broken up on the rocks off Land’s End with the loss of all hands. Two amateur yachtsmen had drowned in the Solent, caught out by the sudden deterioration in the weather. In the North Sea, a helicopter about to touch down on an oil rig had been swept to disaster by an unexpectedly fierce gust of wind. No survivors.
The jellyfish incidents were seen as no more than a few tragic stories among many; hardly noticeable, in fact, among the statistics for accidental death.
Yet they were real enough to those who suffered.
In Colwyn Bay, North Wales, high waves reared up over the sea wall and smashed across the roadway. Some reached the crown of the road before subsiding and draining back, but the truly powerful ones broke over its entire width. No one caught by that force would have a chance, and Pete Kelly knew it.
‘Right then — me first!’
Jock, the mad bastard, gunned his engine while his girl friend Meg, riding pillion, adjusted the goggles over her eyes. They had come down from Liverpool for the day, the four of them on just the two bikes — Jock and Meg, with himself and Marilyn. It had been great up in the mountains, opening up along those narrow, twisting lanes with the feel of 500cc under him and Marilyn’s knees rubbing against him, her hands on his waist. Both girls had their own bikes, but he was glad they’d decided to come this way. It was more intimate, like.
Then Jock had to dream up this mad caper. They’d gone into Colwyn Bay for fish and chips and discovered the warning notices diverting traffic away from the coast road. He could get through on the bike, Jock had boasted — and Marilyn had egged him on, which meant there was no way Pete could back out of it.
One at a time, they decided.
A giant wave shot over the road in a great arch. As it broke and the water began to run back, Jock roared off. A few seconds later he’d reached the other end. He skidded to a stop and Meg, on the pillion, waved.
‘Choose your moment, you’ll be all right,’ Marilyn judged, pulling down her goggles. ‘That’s all there is to it, really.’
Pete chose his moment. A couple of big waves swept over the roadway, then he was off! A third wave broke unexpectedly near him, drenching him with its spray. His wheels slipped a little but he managed to correct it and rode triumphantly through to join Jock and Meg.
‘I thought you’d had it then,’ Jock sniggered.
Marilyn was furious. ‘What d’you mean, thought we’d had it?’
‘When that wave hit you — wow!’
‘You’d have come off.’
‘Who would?’
‘You!’
‘Try it again?’ Meg challenged. She could be as crazy as Jock when the mood took her. ‘Bet you don’t dare. Bet your Pete peed himself, he was so scared.’
‘You’ll pee yourself this time!’ Marilyn sneered back, giving as good as she got. ‘Right, Pete? This time we go first.’
She hadn’t asked him, yet he couldn’t refuse. Worried, he glanced at the sea. It was rougher than ever, charging up against the road as though it bore a personal grudge. No one in his right senses would want to go along there.
Meg spotted his hesitation. ‘Told you!’ she crowed triumphantly with a look at Jock. ‘He’s peeing himself now!’
Pete didn’t bother to answer. He revved up a couple of times, checked to make sure Marilyn was OK, and then waited for the right gap in those raging waves. Within a couple of seconds he thought he saw one — near enough, anyhow — and opened up.
As he moved off, a smaller wave broke almost in front of him, but he’d reckoned on that and swerved to avoid it. The next — he was almost half-way along by now — took him by surprise. Luckily he saw it coming and was able to brace himself, but the force of water which hit him sent the bike careering over the road, the wheels refusing to grip, the steering all haywire. Behind him, he heard Marilyn gasping and spluttering; her arms tightened around his waist.
Go into the skid, don’t fight it, he told himself. It seemed against all reason, yet he knew he had to do it.
But before he had a chance to do anything, a large jellyfish slapped across his face, blinding him. The 500cc bucked like an angry horse and threw him off, sending him sprawling across the roadway. Above the rush of the sea came Marilyn’s voice screaming at him.
‘Pete! Oh, Pete, what is it? Pete!’
Marilyn… bloody Marilyn who’d got him into this… didn’t even like her that much…
Long, thin needles probed his cheeks, pushing in behind his eyes, inserting themselves agonisingly into his gums until he moaned and squealed in muffled terror. His lungs were bursting, but with that thing across his mouth, closing up his nostrils… oh, Jesus!’
It cut into his lips. It burned his eyes, etching the sight out of them, and he would never see again.
That was Marilyn screaming — oh yes, he could still hear. But she’d no need to have done that to him. Why had she done it?
A wave drove him reeling across the roadway once more, then sucked him back. Marilyn was holding on to his leg: it had to be Marilyn, silly cow. Dazzling lights shot through his blind eyes; his head was a bundle of tiny pins all pressing into him. But the sea would put everything right. It gathered him in. Soothing. Taking it all away.
‘Bloody hell, the poor sod!’
‘What we gonna do, Jock?’ Meg had looked on, terrified, as both Marilyn and Pete were swept out to sea. ‘Ought we to tell somebody, d’you think?’
‘Like who? Did you see that thing on his face, like seaweed or something?’
‘We should tell a copper.’
‘S’ppose so. It was his own fault, after all. I mean, I said it was too dangerous. You heard me say that.’
‘Yeah, we warned him.’
‘Yeah.’
Over on the east coast not far from Clacton heavy seas had broken through, flooding several houses. In one, an eighty-year-old widow lived alone. She was an independent soul, said neighbours, always ready with a cheerful word when they met her, although none of them had ever been invited inside.
The morning after the storm, while everyone was mopping up, the local postman mentioned that she still had her curtains drawn and had anyone checked if she was all right? One of the neighbours — a Mr Williams, according to the newspaper — went over to investigate.
He rang the bell, but heard nothing, so then he knocked at the door.
No reply.
The windows, both back and front, were firmly closed. So were the curtains downstairs, and in one room upstairs. It was obvious from the filth in the garden and around the doorstep that this house had suffered from flooding as much as the others, although the water had gone down again.