Time to get himself and Gannet out of this mess, he decided as the pain in his face increased, spreading down his jaw until it reached the roots of his teeth in agonising spasms.
Right — now when I give the order…!
He stooped to pick up his walking stick again, but his movement was clumsy. Somehow he found himself on his knees and a fresh touch of pain whipped across the back of his hand.
Pain could be withstood, his mind was insisting. Did it once before… twice… three times, was it? Jap interrogator… bastard fixed the terminals to…
Why was he thinking so slowly? Slack, that’s what he was! Slack! Smarten up, man! No skylarking there!
… to his balls… fucking Jap. Gone to switch on again… then that pain… that unbearable…
Constable Williams was on early duty that morning. He was a man who enjoyed his job, not least because it enabled him to ride around on a powerful motorcycle, paid for and maintained by the force, while many of his old classmates were on the dole. It gave him authority too, being a police officer, and that couldn’t be bad at the age of twenty-two. Not that he ever misused it, unlike some; if anything he was too soft-hearted, though he could pack a good punch when the occasion arose. But this wasn’t a rough area; what was more he’d lived here all his life, the younger of two brothers brought up by their widowed mother who did the books for a taxi firm.
He was idling through the streets, the engine purring contentedly as if it knew he would open up the moment he was out on the main road and outside the speed limit. In his pocket was the third summons he’d delivered to Gate Farm in the past six months, two for non-payment of TV licence, and this one for speeding. The poor sod had been on his way to court when they’d stopped him. Still, he’d probably have the kettle on, same as last time, or let him have some eggs even.
His personal radio crackled. Without slowing down, he answered it and confirmed his whereabouts.
‘Proceed to promenade where elderly man is reported to be in trouble on the beach. Constable Evans is down there already but may need assistance.’
‘Willco.’
He executed a neat U-turn and roared off down the road in the direction of the promenade. What sort of trouble, he wondered. Heart attack? — but in that case Evans would call for an ambulance. And it was a bit early in the day for a mugging, though not impossible.
Reaching Church Street, he switched on his siren and began weaving in and out between the cars caught up in what was locally known as the ‘rush hour’; at this time of year it went on for roughly ten minutes. Beyond the lights the traffic thickened, so he pulled clear of it on to the right-hand half of the road for the next couple of hundred yards, grinning as he remembered how only a couple of years ago before he joined the force he’d have been arrested for doing this.
But the grin dropped from his face the moment he got to the promenade. He groped for his radio and called up the station.
‘We’ll need an ambulance, sarge,’ he reported urgently. ‘And a couple more men — with gloves!’
‘Why gloves? Get a grip on yourself, man. What is the situation?’
‘Jellyfish. The whole beach is covered with the buggers. From where I’m standing the old’un looks dead, but Evans is down there — Oh, bloody hell! I’ve got to go and help him!’
Williams jumped down on to the beach. It was spotted with jellyfish whichever way he looked, like a horrible rash. Nervously he tugged at his black gauntlet gloves to make sure they were on properly. He recalled only too well the last time he’d met this type of jellyfish. Down by the harbour, it had been. Two men: one he’d recognised as that actor on TV who hadn’t even realised he had a jellyfish wrapped around his hand, sucking his blood; and as for the other, with that thing over his mouth and nose…
‘Evans! Stand up! Don’t touch them!’ he shouted to his colleague, but he knew it was already too late. There was no way the man could help himself now.
The jellyfish had attacked as Evans tried to lift the old man up. One had secured itself to his ungloved hand. Williams could see it clearly as he ran towards them, although it wasn’t until he was much closer that he realised Evans had also been stung across the face. A frightening red weal spread down his cheek, cutting into his upper lip.
Williams stooped to peel the jellyfish away from Evans’s hand which was already so numb, he didn’t even wince as skin and flesh came away with it. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Williams muttered, wanting to puke.
The tentacles curled around his gloved fingers, holding tightly as he attempted to toss the jellyfish aside. A couple of the more stubborn ones he had to pull out by the roots before he could free himself of it. As he did so, he felt a movement over his foot and looked down as a jellyfish appeared to be heaving itself on to his boot. Could that be possible?
Sickened, he stared about him. Hundreds of jellyfish lay on the beach, surrounding him. They need only move in on him simultaneously in a co-ordinated attack and that would be the end of his chances.
Imagining things, he was — that’s what he told himself, anyway. First, jellyfish can’t move on dry land. Second, whoever heard of them attacking in packs? Hyenas, yes; wolves, yes — but bloody jellyfish? Third, he was well covered, wasn’t he?
And Evans was moaning, needing help.
Williams bent down to get a grip on him, heaving him upright then letting him fall across his shoulder. The old fireman’s lift. He grunted as he straightened up.
‘All right, mate — soon have you out o’ this!’ he announced cheerfully as he turned towards the promenade.
Already he could hear the wail of the ambulance siren. Not much he could do for the old man or the dog. Pretty horrific sight that was, too. But at least he’d get Evans back.
The tentacle moved slowly across his neck. First came a slight tickling sensation, then an intense burning pain. A second later, while he was still writhing from the shock, he became conscious of something penetrating beneath his collar, creeping down his skin between his shoulder blades. He bit his lip, tasting blood, as he stood rooted to the spot, still with the dead weight of Evans’s body across his shoulder.
The jellyfish must’ve been on his clothes, his mind told him with terrifying clarity. On Evans’s clothes.
Oh, Jesus! The agony ran down his spine, tearing him apart. In the small of his back… kidneys, was it? Bursting?
He’d fallen — but when? How? Jerking uncontrollably, his whole body… Rolling and twisting in wild spasms.
Sand in his face, filling his mouth, hard grainy sand choking in his throat as the pain corkscrewed through him.
Bloody Evans — why did he go and do that? Pulling him down like that? Always messing around, was Evans, sod him.
Pain was easing though, relaxing, like someone’d given him an injection. Ambulance men? No, he was still on the sand, his muscles seizing up, all sensation dropping away. That jellyfish poison was paralysing him. He remembered vaguely how they’d eaten into the face of that poor sod down by the harbour. Were they nibbling at him now, and he couldn’t feel it?
Oh, God! Mam, don’t let me die.
Mam?
Tim knew nothing about the mass landing of jellyfish until he went down for breakfast that morning. He had overslept for once, and had no time even to glance out of his window as he shaved and washed, then struggled into his clothes. Thank God he could manage his shirt buttons now without that searing agony jangling through his whole nervous system. Odd, the way that poison seemed to work. The numbing effect had worn off only very slowly and during the first couple of days he’d hardly experienced any real pain at all, compared with what followed.