‘How serious?’
‘The government is to lay a bill before the House of Commons this afternoon giving it emergency powers similar to those granted in wartime.’ He paused while the wine waiter showed him the bottle of Puligny-Montrachet he’d ordered and then opened it. ‘This should go well with squid,’ he commented when the waiter had gone. ‘I’m afraid I am far from optimistic about the situation. In the circumstances, gentlemen, I feel we’ve a duty to enjoy this lunch. It may be the last luxury we shall ever know.’
‘Oh, come!’ Tim protested. ‘Is it really as bad as that?’
‘Don’t you know?’ Sir John demanded. A worried look crossed his lined face. He seemed tired, Tim thought. ‘I imagined that you of all people would have realised.’
‘Realised what?’
‘We have kept a great deal back from the general public,’ he admitted, ‘but you’ll need to be fully informed if you’re to be as effective in your part of the operation as we hope. Let’s begin with the reason why there’s no fresh fish on the menu. Not a single fishing boat has left port anywhere in the country over the past seven days. With jellyfish forming a high proportion of every catch it’s simply too dangerous. Then there’s oil.’
So far, North Sea oil had continued to flow, he explained. Gas, too. But the men on the oil rigs were worried. All diving operations had been suspended, which meant essential repair jobs were being neglected. Two divers had died in circumstances which left no doubt that jellyfish had been responsible. Observers on the rigs had spotted vast shoals of them drifting towards the coast, real giants, they said, as big as two yards across.
This was confirmed by reports from a Royal Navy frigate using both sonar and echo-sounding equipment.
‘The frigate ran into heavy seas,’ Sir John went on confidentially. ‘No problem in normal circumstances — the sea washing over the bows, that sort of thing. But this time it brought jellyfish on board. Again, big ones. To make matters worse, their screws tangled with something. They didn’t know what it was at first, but it turned out to be more jellyfish.’
‘The poor buggers,’ said Tim soberly. He could visualise the scene, the panic on board.
‘Comparatively little panic, it seems.’ Sir John must have read his thoughts. ‘The Navy’s a highly disciplined force. Even so, one officer and three ratings were killed dealing with the jellyfish on deck. Or below decks, rather: they thought they’d got rid of them all, the storm had blown over, time to tidy up, make everything shipshape again, when they found two more. One dropped down a hatch and landed on the back of the rating’s neck. He was eighteen years old.’
‘That wasn’t in the papers,’ Tim commented.
‘We made damn sure it wasn’t. His parents were informed he’d died accidentally during a training exercise. I’m relying on your discretion, Tim. By the time I’ve told you everything you’ll understand why.’
‘How did they deal with the screws?’
‘Sent divers down. Cleared the water a bit first.’
‘What does that mean?’
Sir John hesitated. ‘This is strictly hush-hush. They were at sea, unable to move, and surrounded by jellyfish. Four of the ship’s company already dead. No diver could have survived without the right precautionary measures.’
‘Which were?’
‘They exploded two nerve gas grenades just below the surface of the water. Killed the jellyfish all right. They could see them for yards around, underside up.’
‘The Navy carries nerve gas grenades?’ Alan Brewer asked, his eyes alert with interest. ‘As part of their regular armament?’
‘That’s something I just don’t know,’ Sir John said blandly. ‘And I’d advise you to forget it.’
Before Alan could pursue this line of questioning, the ancient waiter returned with the next course. ‘Enjoyed your squid, I hope?’ he enquired as he removed their plates.
‘Very tasty,’ Tim said.
‘Nasty-looking creatures. Saw them on TV once. Most unpleasant.’ His serving spoon hovered above the vegetables. ‘Mushrooms for you as well, sir?’
‘Please.’
He emptied his glass, then eyed the bottle of claret which their host had chosen with such care. It lay in its basket, almost purring with content at being fetched out of the cellar after all these years. He felt a pang of regret that Sue was not there to share it with him. She had a good palate for expensive wines. That morning he’d tried telephoning her again, but it was no use. There had been no answer from the flat. When he’d dialled the theatre he was told no one was there; it had closed down and they’d all gone.
At last the waiter withdrew, but for the next few minutes they concentrated on their food. His lamb chops were tender and juicy; the wine was gentler than anything he’d ever tasted before. Sir John looked up and nodded to him as if to say enjoy it while you can.
It was a strange setting for such a conversation, he thought, looking around the room at the other men lunching there, several famous faces among them, and the portraits on the walls of an earlier generation of celebrities. Although for the most part it was the painters who were remembered these days, and the celebrities were forgotten.
Before coming here, he and Alan had called at the Ministry where they had been required to sign the Offical Secrets Act. The establishment was obviously very worried, and high time too. Ministers regarded the public relations exercise — public morale, they called it — as vital. In addition to normal press facilities, they were planning a series of information films on TV, both to give advice and to keep the public up to date. Tim was to be the front man. He was already acknowledged in the country, one nameless civil servant pointed out, as ‘Mr Jellyfish’. They needed to cash in on that reputation.
For the public good.
‘As I get older,’ Sir John said at last, laying down his knife, ‘I find these simple physical pleasures are the best.’
You and Jacqui both. Tim only just managed to refrain from speaking the thought aloud. ‘One-night Jacqui’ he called her in his mind: it had not been from lack of interest on his part, either. Perhaps it was merely that she disliked the idea of a male taking the initiative; the 1980s syndrome. Yet she was all surprises. With her clothes on, she looked down to earth and dowdy, as though she’d just dropped in from a CND march; without them, she was St Tropez class. Her filming was good, too. Those latest Gulliver rushes were brilliant. Alive. Full of movement. He was glad she’d be staying with him to direct this project.
‘Tim?’
‘I beg your pardon! I was dreaming.’
‘It’s time we completed this part of the briefing,’ Sir John remarked, leaning over to refill his glass. ‘No, carry on eating if you haven’t finished. I can talk while you eat. The one major factor I’ve not yet mentioned is that these jellyfish — or, rather, their young — have now been discovered in inland waters.’
‘Fresh water?’
‘Lakes, reservoirs, rivers, streams. Oh, and canals. About eight to ten sightings so far.’
‘But is it possible?’
‘Our first reaction was the same as yours. Probably hysteria. People were mistaken. But I’m afraid it’s true. We have specimens which were taken out of the river at Totnes.’
‘Jane came across them,’ Alan explained.
‘What was she doing in Totnes?’ Tim demanded furiously. Bloody hell, he knew only too well what she was doing there. Trying to screw information out of Sue for that article, what else? Going behind his back. Well, she wasn’t going to get away with it; he’d put the lawyers on to her. ‘She’d no business in Totnes.’