Jacqui stood up and buttoned her jacket. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better. I hardly expected abuse from you when I came here.’
‘There you go again!’ As he raised himself on one elbow he felt a dull ache nagging at the base of his skull. ‘Who is abusing you? Not me.’
‘Tim, lie down.’ For once she sounded genuinely concerned. ‘You have a fever, d’you realise that?’
‘No.’
‘Take it easy, now.’
‘A slight one, perhaps,’ he conceded.
He allowed her to fluff up his pillow. As his head sank back on to it, the ache shifted. The last thing he wanted was to be ill, he thought wearily, closing his eyes to cut out the light. Yet what if, in addition to paralysing its victims, the poison in those tentacles had some long-term effect?
‘All right, I admit I’ve been nervous,’ said Jacqui abruptly, although keeping her voice down. ‘Gulliver is an important series, after all.’
‘Wish I thought so,’ he mumbled drowsily.
‘Oh, it is!’ she insisted. Then she laughed. ‘In the ratings, anyway, but I know what you mean. I’m surprised you think so as well. And relieved.’
‘The money’s good.’
‘The show entertains a lot of people. I know. I’m not knocking it, Tim. It’s not what I was nervous about, anyway.’
‘Then what?’
‘Something personal, that’s all. I can’t tell you.’ She placed a cool hand on his forehead. ‘You do have a fever. Perhaps we should talk tomorrow instead. Except I’m going back to London first thing.’
‘Then you’ll want to ask your questions now,’ he decided. His eyes felt hot; his mouth dry. ‘OK, let’s get on with it.’
Step by step he went over the events at the harbour, starting at the point when the thug had accidentally rolled into the water. About the fight he said nothing — that was no business of anyone else’s — but he recounted how he had jumped in himself once he had realised that the man was not even trying to take hold of the lifebelt.
Then he described the jellyfish. How they had appeared. The sting. The numbness that followed. Opening his eyes, he noticed how pale Jacqui had become as she sat there taking notes.
‘Over his face?’ she demanded, her ball-point pen poised. From her manner it seemed she was almost challenging him to deny it. ‘You’re sure?’
Tim nodded, then winced as the headache hit back at him. He watched her writing it down.
‘Like that boy yesterday,’ she commented, her eyes sombre. ‘Two within a couple of days of each other. That can’t be accidental, can it?’
‘How d’you mean?’
Before she could answer, the dark-haired nurse came back into the room wheeling a telephone trolley. ‘Call for you!’ she said brightly, bending down to plug it in. ‘Your wife.’ Then she giggled: ‘Your real wife, I mean. Don’t you get confused sometimes?’
‘Not allowed to.’
‘I’ll go,’ Jacqui announced. She pushed her notebook back into her bag and stood up. ‘Look after him, nurse. We need him.’
The nurse smiled brightly and handed him the phone.
‘Hello? Sue?’
‘Tim — I heard on the radio you were in hospital.’ Her voice sounded distant and oddly metallic. ‘What happened? They said you were trying to save someone’s life. Are you all right, darling?’
‘I’m fine. One of the extras got drunk and fell in the harbour, that’s all. Like an idiot, Gubbins jumped in after him.’ He kept quiet about the jellyfish; what was the point? ‘The quack wants me to stay in overnight, but there’s nothing to worry about. My hand’s in bandages, and I’ve had a couple o’ jabs…’
They talked for a minute or two only, then Sue said she had to rush, she was due on stage at any moment, but she’d call again the following day.
‘I love you,’ she added.
It was the way they’d always ended their phone calls, but it no longer sounded convincing.
‘Love you,’ he repeated automatically.
Two days later he was still in hospital.
‘Having a nice rest, are we?’ the nurse asked unfailingly whenever she came into his room and found his bed strewn with the scripts he was studying.
‘Glorious,’ he’d reply wryly.
It had been that way since the first morning. The doctor had done his rounds. Within five minutes of his leaving, a large registered envelope had arrived containing scripts for the next couple of episodes. On the compliments slip included with them, the series producer Anne Robart had even penned a note of sympathy in her own fair hand.
He’d been turning over the pages, glancing through his own part, when she followed up this gesture with a telephone call to ask how he was and when they might expect him to be fit for work again. A week, he guessed; it was for the doctor to say. She took a moment to digest this information, then commented that they’d have had to re-shoot the sandhills sequence anyway. The rushes were lousy, and there was also some problem with the film stock. He’d guessed there was something.
‘Unlucky all round, then.’ What else could he say? ‘I felt at the time that scene wasn’t right. Not Jacqui’s fault. She was fine.’
‘Did I suggest it was her fault?’
Her tone was cool. Where work was concerned, lovely Anne had never welcomed other people’s opinions, particularly not actors’. Her career had been meteoric: university, followed by three or four years in TV as a script editor, then elevated to the dizzy height of producer. It had left her with unshakable self-confidence. She had never directed, and never wanted to; never, in fact, had any close contact with the acting profession on whose skills she ultimately relied.
After an uncomfortable pause, she added: ‘We’re changing the script to explain why your hand is in bandages in this episode.’
‘My arm’s in a sling.’
‘A sling?’ She sounded surprised. ‘Even better. OK, Tim, we’ll get revised pages to you as soon as we can. A sling — that’s not a bad idea.’
‘Glad you think so.’
Thirty seconds later the next call came through: his agent. Should have been in touch earlier — the excuses oozed at him through the earpiece — but he’d been away in Edinburgh, such a lovely city, didn’t Tim think so? It was only just this morning he’d learned about the accident. Not too serious though, was it? No. No, he hoped not. That’s right. Oh well, they happen, these things, don’t they? Yes. But what did he think, might he be up and about in time to do a voice-over next Friday, or would it be safer to say no? It was Squeezy Mints again, and they were so keen. If he could possibly make it…?
‘Providing I’m not filming,’ Tim yawned.
‘You will look after yourself, won’t you? It really was an awful shock when I heard.’
A couple of hours later Jackson came on the line. Jackson Philips, executive producer, the Man Next to God, moaning commiserations. He hoped the shooting would not be held up too long. The new series was already scheduled in several countries, not that the translations were his worry, thank the Lord, but the Germans were such sticklers for dates. Already they were agitating.
‘That’s right!’ Tim assured the nurse each time she enquired. ‘A lovely rest. Best few days I’ve had for years.’
6
‘Hold the torch steady, will you?’
Dave Pine cursed as he wrestled with the recalcitrant nut. He’d already wasted three days stripping the diesel engine down, checking every part, and thought he’d cured the fault, at least for the time being, but once back at sea it had resumed its old tricks, coughing and spluttering when it should have been purring with pleasure at the straight run. To make matters worse, the wind had perked up, causing the little boat now to roll, now to pitch, sending his spanners sliding over the bottom boards.