Jacqui was standing on the far side of the bed with her back towards him. She was going to be coy, he thought, but he was wrong. He saw her take off her shoes and peel down her tights, but then she faced him again.
‘You are slow!’ she mocked him when she noticed he’d hardly started to undress. ‘Or d’you want me to help?’
As she spoke, she lazily drew her sweater over her head. When it was off, she shook her head a couple of times in quick succession as if to encourage her short, wavy hair to fall back into place, but it remained as untidy as usual. Her breasts were small but very definitely there; well-shaped, and with brown button-nipples to crown them.
Her movements were slow as she fumbled with the zip-fastener on her skirt. Gradually she zipped it down, her eyes teasing him: she played it like a musical instrument; every little rasping sound it made became an erotic mating call. At last she unhooked the waistband and allowed the skirt to slip down to her ankles. She stood there naked, her skin green-tinged by that haunting light.
‘Approve?’
‘Oh, yes! Who wouldn’t?’ He went to her. As they kissed, he ran his hand softly over her back. Then, holding her at arm’s length, he said: ‘Green suits you.’
‘Green?’ She caught sight of herself in the full-length wardrobe mirror and laughed. ‘I hadn’t realised.’
‘Goes with your eyes.’
In bed, she became suddenly tense. Whatever he tried — caressing her, kissing her — she accepted almost impatiently. She clutched at him, her arms tightening about him as she rolled over on to her back, frowning and biting her lips as he eased into her. He felt excluded. It was his body she was accepting, but merely as an instrument; not him at all. He was no longer even there for her.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten!’ she breathed intensely, but not to him. ‘I’d forgotten.’
Afterwards, she cuddled up to him, becoming aware of him again, but now more relaxed than he had ever known her. Then, without moving, she murmured something about another drink; he disentangled himself to replenish both glasses. They sat up in bed side by side, drinking. His hand wandered over her breasts, lingering as they responded.
‘It’s just as well we’re shooting that Gulliver episode again,’ she said dreamily. ‘I made a mess of those first couple of days. Knew it at the time, too.’
‘You were very nervous.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you be?’ she blurted out. ‘If the person you’d lived with for two years had suddenly gone off with someone else?’
‘So that was it?’
‘Yes, that was bloody it!’ A quick smile. ‘I’m glad I’ve told you.’
Like Sue, he thought. The same sodding story. Only Sue had chosen the double bed as her confessional. She’d wanted to make love again before issuing her notice to quit. Bitch. He wondered what she was doing at that moment. Back from the theatre probably, and cosily tucked up under the blankets with — what was the bugger’s name?
‘Your friend…’ He hesitated. ‘I mean, did he…?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Her fingers moved slowly downwards, exploring under the bedclothes until they found him. ‘Tactile pleasures,’ she murmured as he responded to her touch. ‘That’s all that matters really when you think about it. Not love or affection, all that crap, but just whether you’re good in bed.’
‘You sound bitter.’
‘I’ll show you whether I’m bitter or not.’
She kicked the bedclothes aside.
It must have been some two hours later when they heard the sound of engines and men’s voices shouting from the direction of the shore. They went over to the window to look out, their arms about each other, still naked. Three lorries were moving in line across the beach. At first it was not clear what was the purpose of this manoeuvre. Then they turned.
‘They’re spraying the beach!’ Jacqui said. ‘That’s what it looks like.’
‘Much good that’ll do. Pesticide, I imagine. Something like that.’
But he was wrong — how wrong became immediately apparent once the lorries had withdrawn up the slipway and moved well clear of the promenade. He heard a pistol shot, hardly more than a dull phut, and a Very light travelled low over the beach, hitting the sand about half-way towards the sea. A sheet of flame burst out angrily and with a sudden whoosh the entire beach was on fire.
‘Bloody hell!’ Jacqui held on to him, shuddering. ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that to any living thing, not even jellyfish. They’re being burned alive, for Chrissake!’
Tim held her close, but said nothing. Vividly he recalled his own feeling when he was still down there among them, knowing they were crawling over him and remembering what they had done to that woman in the shop, to Arthur and the other victims, and what they could have done to him. He felt glad they were burning. Relieved.
Over the beach hung thick black smoke which at first was fully visible as the fire raged, its light taking over from the burning jellyfish; but then at last the flames died down, and the dark smoke merged almost imperceptibly with the night sky until it completely disappeared.
The stench remained, seeping into the room through the gaps around the ill-fitting sash windows. A sweet-sour smell of charred tissue.
‘Consumed by fire.’
Unconsciously he spoke the words aloud, but Jacqui took no notice. She was pointing to the roadway some distance from the beach: a dark patch, well away from the nearest street lamp. The lorries were parked there. Although nothing could be seen of their superstructure, the wheels and the lower part of each chassis were clearly visible, glowing with an intense greenish-yellowy light.
‘Slime,’ she said.
In London that same night Alan Brewer had been enjoying dinner at the Garrick Club with an old friend from Fleet Street who was lucky enough to be a member. Between the two of them these dinners had become something of a private tradition. Tit for tat, in a way. Alan regularly invited his friend to appear on television programmes, thus making him a household name as well as supplementing his income, while in return he himself was taken to eat at the best club in London where together they explored the more expensive reaches of the wine list.
All in all, it was a very satisfactory arrangement.
On this occasion he decided to drive home via the Embankment, but found it crowded with cars and sightseers. He parked with difficulty and asked someone what it was all about.
‘Jellyfish,’ a girl said, giggling. ‘In the Thames.’
There was no way he could push his way through that mass of people, so he went up on to Waterloo Bridge where he managed to squeeze between two Italian tourists and get to the rail. The tide was out, exposing a wide stretch of mud along the South Bank before the Festival Hall.
It was thick with jellyfish, gently glowing like decorative lamps. They were the first Alan had seen with his own eyes, but he knew well enough what they could do to people. He felt sick at the sight of them.
The crowd too was strangely silent, considering the number of people there. There was no panic; but no joy, either. A dark cloud of apprehension hung over them, and even the approaching police sirens seemed more subdued than usual.
Returning to his car, he ran into a police superintendent he knew slightly through a TV documentary he’d made about the work of Scotland Yard. There were traffic jams at least as far as Cheyne Walk, he advised. Best avoid the river altogether.
‘Jellyfish?’ he added. ‘If you television people don’t know, who does?’
It was almost as if the police blamed television for the jellyfish being there in the first place, Alan brooded as he sat tapping his fingers on the wheel, waiting for the car in front of him to move. All he’d asked was how far upriver the jellyfish had penetrated. From the answer, it was obvious the police had no idea. Well, the Thames was tidal at least as far as Richmond.