Jane completed her notes, then attempted to start work on her article, but somehow she wasn’t in the mood for it. From her window, which was at the rear of the house, she could see the laboratory lights burning. Jocelyn was probably still working, and Robin had long since gone to bed. She thought of going downstairs to watch television, but decided in favour of a book in bed. Within ten minutes she was asleep.
She woke up with a start. There were sounds in the house — she heard a floorboard creak — but the lights were still on in the laboratory. It was two o’clock, just past.
Another creak.
Jocelyn?
Swinging her legs out of bed, she opened her door. The bathroom light was on; someone was moving about in there, clumsily. A sudden apprehension gripped her: what if Jocelyn had put her hand in the tank with those little ones and was trying to deal with it herself without telling anyone? She could be like that. Stubborn.
Jane padded, barefoot, across the landing. Just to make sure, she told herself; she’d never get back to sleep if she didn’t check.
‘Hello — you up?’ Robin stood there, dressed only in striped pyjama bottoms, fumbling in the over-packed bathroom cabinet. ‘Seem to have made a mess of my bandage. It’s coming loose.’
‘You’ll never do that by yourself,’ she told him, examining the ravelled bandage looped around his hand. ‘Sit down on the bath. I’ll see what I can do. Are there any safety pins?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘I thought it was Joss I heard. Is she still down there?’
‘Must be.’
‘You did get this in a mess. I don’t know what you’ve been doing with it.’
She had to undo most of the bandage before she could begin to rewind it more securely around the dressing. As she bent over his hand, concentrating, she became aware of something troubling him.
‘Jane,’ he said softly, ‘you’re not wearing very much, are you?’
‘Nor are you!’ she retorted. In exasperation she unwound the last couple of turns around his thumb and tried again.
Only then did she realise what he meant. Her flimsy nightdress drooped in front of her while she worked. She might as well have been standing there naked. But what the hell. By now his own equipment was hardly hiding itself in the undergrowth.
‘Put your fingers on the end of the bandage and make sure it doesn’t move,’ she said brusquely, straightening up. ‘I’ll find some sticking plaster.’
It took a moment or two, but eventually she discovered a half-used roll of sticking plaster at the back of the cabinet and was able to finish the job.
‘Best I can do. I’m no nurse.’
‘Thanks.’ Obviously embarrassed, he hitched his pyjama trousers around a little in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his interest. ‘Would’ve asked Joss, only she’s still working. You’ve seen the lights, I suppose?’
‘What lights?’
‘Come, I’ll show you.’
At the end of the landing was a frosted window which opened to the side of the farmhouse. Robin raised the sash. The scene was incredible. In daylight it was an attractive, picture-postcard view obliquely across the Bristol Channel towards the Welsh coast. But that night it was bathed in a brilliant, greenish light emanating from the sea itself and from a narrow stretch of the shore on either side.
Jane gasped, involuntarily stepping back against him.
‘Oh, my God, it’s frightening!’
‘It’s beautiful,’ he disagreed, holding her. ‘Take it all in. We may never see the like of it again. The earth and every common sight to me did seem apparelled in celestial light…’
‘Jellyfish.’ She didn’t move, but pressed herself back against his chest, feeling the hairs against her skin. In that moment she just couldn’t face the idea of being alone. ‘It’s not celestial. It’s the light of hell.’
His hand moved, sliding beneath her nightdress to caress her breast. She allowed it to stay there, closed her eyes… But when she opened them again the light was as intense as ever. Not a ship was in sight. Not so much as a fishing smack. The entire expanse of the Bristol Channel had been taken over by the enemy.
Robin’s grip tightened, holding her closer as a deep shudder passed through her. She longed for him to stay with her, but it wouldn’t do. Twisting gently in his arms, she raised her face and kissed him on the lips: a firm, decisive kiss before she broke away from him.
‘No, love. Jocelyn’s my sister.’
‘And my wife — or she was before she married those jellyfish.’
‘Oh, you poor thing!’ she mocked him.
‘You started it,’ he pleaded, though she could see a laugh behind his eyes. He wasn’t stupid.
‘Unintentionally,’ she agreed. ‘Now I’m stopping it. Husbands are fair game. Brothers-in-law are out of bounds. OK?’
‘For the time being. Goodnight, sweet Jane!’
‘More bloody poetry!’ She went back to her room, but paused at the door. ‘Robin — seriously — d’you think we should phone down to Joss to check if she’s OK?’
‘She’d never forgive me. I did it once. She was furious. Accused me of interfering with her work.’ He hesitated, the uncertainty obvious on his face. ‘I know this is different, but last time it took a week before we got on an even keel again. She really is brilliant, you know, your sister. Best marine biologist in the country, her colleagues tell me. No, I think we’ll let her get on with it.’
17
‘No fresh fish I’m afraid, sir,’ the lugubrious waiter apologised deferentially, his biro poised. ‘I can recommend the squid.’
An old retainer type, Tim thought, slightly amazed, as he examined the menu. Probably he’d worked at this club most of his life and knew every member by name.
A handsome club it was, too, in the best crusted port tradition. In clubs such as this the fate of nations had been decided. Its rooms had high ceilings and noble proportions, with valuable old oil paintings on the walls. Within earshot of Big Ben when the windows were open. From its extensive terrace he and Alan Brewer had just been watching the marines in action with flame throwers along the mud banks of the Thames until everyone was driven indoors by the stench of sizzling jellyfish.
‘Three squid?’ Sir John — their host from the Ministry — glanced around the table, an eyebrow raised. He was a distinguished civil servant of the old schooclass="underline" dark suit, well worn; greying hair; close-shaven. Not one of the new young whizz-kids. ‘Alan?’
‘One way of getting our own back. No jellyfish on the menu?’
‘No, sir. Though I did hear some West End restaurants are trying it. Without much success, I believe. They say it’s rather tough.’
‘Right then, squid it is,’ said Alan. ‘And I’ll have the steak to follow.’
‘Tim?’
‘Yes, squid and… er… lamb chops.’
Down the centre of the room was a long table where members without guests were lunching. Their own smaller table, booked in Sir John’s name, was near the window a few feet away. Once the old waiter had taken their orders and wandered off towards the service door, there was no danger of their being overheard.
‘More secure here than in my office, I’m afraid,’ Sir John pointed out. ‘It’s a leaky place, Whitehall, these days. Now I think you know, Tim, why I’ve called this meeting? Did Alan explain?’
Tim nodded.
‘Briefly, it’s this.’ Sir John kept his voice low. ‘This jellyfish scare is turning out to be a much bigger thing than anyone thought in the early stages. Up to a few days ago, the general view was that it was no different in essence from freak weather conditions. A bad winter, say; or floods. We’d need to pump some money into emergency aid to help those affected sort out their lives — we’d the holiday trade particularly in mind, naturally. However, the way things are turning out, it now looks considerably more serious than that.’