He moaned involuntarily as the poison shot into him, leaving a reddening weal across his skin. Excruciating pains explored his left leg as he attempted to scramble on board the boat; then his fingers lost their hold. He was floundering in the water.
It was only when he came to the surface again that he noticed more jellyfish drifting towards him. They were coming from every direction, their bells spread like little coloured parachutes floating in the sea. Frantically he clawed at the boat, desperate to pull himself out of the water, and he had almost succeeded before the next razor-sharp whip lashed the exposed skin between his T-shirt and the top of his jeans.
It felt like nettle-stings, only a hundred times worse. He was left twisting in torment as the poisonous fluid reached his kidneys… his intestines… his bowels…
He fell away from the boat, but the chill sea still cradled him, as though reluctant to let him die too easily. A third jellyfish attached itself to his abdomen, wrapping its tentacles lovingly around him before injecting its own poison. He shrieked uncontrollably until the next wave washed the sound back down his throat, leaving him choking, but still alive.
At times he was conscious of the sky appearing green and mysterious through a veil of water; at times he saw it clearly as a dull white. Then the light became a deep, comforting pink as a fourth jellyfish settled gently over his face; in his numbed mind he even welcomed it, knowing it would bring one last, sudden moment of extreme agony, followed by release.
3
A real thug, he was. A bully boy from way back, Tim Ewing thought grimly as he squared up to the man. A thug’s face, heavy-jowled, thick-nosed, and a bullet-hard head. Massive fists too. A bruiser.
Their feet sank in the loose sand as they struggled. Tim staggered backwards, almost losing his balance, but recovered in time to aim a blow at that scarred jaw. His knuckles didn’t even connect. The thug dodged aside and the next thing Tim knew he was rolling down the sandhill, agony in his guts, retching for air. He hit the bottom awkwardly and could not get up.
‘Cut!’
Faintly he heard the director’s voice from the top of the sandhill but he didn’t give a damn whether she liked the shot or not. He lay there doubled up on the sharp, coarse grass, his arms pressed against his diaphragm, trying to ease the pain and find some way of breathing again.
‘OK with me,’ the cameraman boomed through the tangy air. It sounded a million miles away. ‘Check the gate.’
No one came to him. No one so much as bloody noticed, least of all that new director, Jacqui-whatever-her-name-was. Too busy working out her angles and her over-the-shoulder two-shots. She was thin and small, with short untidy hair: no beauty. Made up for it though by ensuring from the start that everyone understood she was boss. Straight from documentaries, someone said; not used to working with actors. Ask her for a motivation and a blank expression spread over her face as though you’d enquired when her next period was due. It was her fault the fight arranger hadn’t been replaced when the office phoned to say he’d broken a leg and couldn’t make it. ‘It’s not a long sequence,’ she’d argued, script in hand, obviously nervous of falling behind schedule. ‘Surely you two men can work out something between yourselves.’ And he’d agreed, stupidly, thinking to help her out; after all, she was the new girl on the series, whereas he’d been in the cast since the first episode.
That first bloody episode two years ago…
Tim Ewing had never seen himself as a TV star; that hadn’t been part of the plan at all. He’d wanted to act: on a stage in front of an audience, working on material he could believe in. The real thing. Yet here he was, thirty already, and stuck in The Chronicles of Gulliver — even the title made him squirm — type-cast for life as the rough, tough, trouble-shooting son of self-made tycoon Oliver Gulliver, reputedly the richest man in Europe.
His face had become familiar in living-rooms all over the country. Girls in shops and factories pinned up his photograph and wrote off for a lock of his short, curly hair. He was asked to open charity fêtes; he had money in the bank. Mr Ewing — Tim — to what do you attribute your very obvious success?
Success?
Oh, shit! Increasingly he remembered the dream he’d had when he started out, the big classical roles he was going to play, with words he could get his teeth into, not like this crap.
Two years ago…
He’d been in two minds whether to accept the job or not. When the offer had come, he’d been on the point of signing up with the Royal Shakespeare Company to carry a spear for the season, but TV meant four times as much money. It was only six episodes, they’d said. No one had imagined it would get the best audience ratings of any drama series yet. Of course, he’d realised the television people were not interested in his ability as an actor. Actors were ten a penny; you could take your pick in any London dole queue. No, it was those ‘rugged good looks’, as his friends were quick to point out, scarcely concealing their envy; in particular, the uneven line of his nose — the result of a fairground accident when he was a kid — which gave him the rough-house appearance they seemed to want.
Which didn’t mean he should be beaten up for real, he brooded; not without warning, anyhow — that’s what narked him. That thug they’d pulled in as an extra had to be out of his tiny mind to hit him like that. Just the movement, they’d agreed; but no, he had to go and put his weight behind it, a punch like a pile driver. The way they’d been standing, the camera wouldn’t even have seen it. Bloody sod.
‘Gate’s OK.’
Young camera assistant this time; well, Tim held nothing against him. He had his job to do.
‘Print that one. Now, Tim —’ The director’s voice stopped, puzzled. ‘Oh, he’s not still down there, is he? What’s wrong with him, is he hurt? Go down an’ see, somebody. We really must get on.’
‘I’ll go.’
Jane, he thought. Making herself useful. Damned if he’d have done it, not after the way the director had spoken to her.
He made the effort and sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between them, brooding. With luck, he heard the cameraman say, they’d get another couple of shots in the can before the light went. He’d go on, he supposed, if he had to; his breathing was steadier now, though his gut ached. It was just not his day.
But, director or not, she’d no need to be rude to Jane. A straight yes or no would have sufficed. Instead, what did they get? Well, I suppose so, but it really is a bit of a nuisance having people hanging about while we’re filming. Still, if Tim invited you, there’s not much I can do about it. Mind you don’t get in the way, that’s all. That kind of crap made him sick. It was not as if Jane were just some girl he’d picked up, some TV camp follower — and Christ knows there were enough of them. She was Jane Lowe, a journalist, as well as being a personal friend — he’d explained it all to Jacqui-thingummy — and having her around could be useful.
‘Are you all right, Tim?’ Jane arrived, her face flushed after running down the sandhill. Loose sand clung to her black sweater and jeans. Her grey eyes were green-tinged, like a cat’s. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’
‘Bastard winded me, that’s all.’ He got to his feet, wincing. ‘Ouf, Jesus! He’d better not try that again. Bloody extras.’
‘You are hurt,’ she insisted anxiously. ‘Tim!’
‘Make a good story for you — TV star beaten up on location. A paragraph, anyway.’