Slime (3 page)

‘Yer’ll pay for that. New suit, the lot – I’ll throw the bloody book at yer! Think yer smart, bein’ on TV – but jus’ wait, that’s all!’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Tim said, irritated. Just about everything was going wrong on this location. ‘Take it to the police if you want to. You’re pissed out of your mind; don’t think they won’t notice. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.’

‘Threatenin’ me now?’ The thug turned to the others. ‘’Ear that? Bugger’s threatenin’ me!’

‘Wouldn’t put up wi’ that,’ one advised him bluntly. ‘Ask me, you should teach ’im a lesson, Arthur.’

‘Too bloody right.’ He tapped Tim on the chest, pushing him back across the road towards the harbour. ‘Only I wouldn’ wan’ to spoil his pretty face, would I now?’ Another push. ‘Sized each other up yesterday, ’im an’ me, out there in the sand’ills. Not that much to ’im when yer take a closer look.’ Another push.

‘What’s eating you?’ Tim demanded patiently. 27

The last thing he needed was to get involved in a brawl, yet there seemed no way out of it.

The thug went to tap him yet again, but this time Tim sidestepped and aimed a light punch at his jaw. It was easily blocked, but had the right effect. The man’s eyes darkened. He brought up his fists, hunched his shoulders, and lumbered about as though looking for an opening. It was a poor imitation of what he must have been like in his heyday in the professional ring. Tim felt sickened at the sight of him.

Yet he still packed a lot of brute force, as Tim remembered only too well from the previous day. He’d have to stay well clear of those fists whatever else happened.

‘That’s it, boyo! You show ’im now!’ one of the bystanders called out to encourage him.

The thug’s right fist shot out like a missile. Tim dodged, grabbed his wrist with both hands, swinging himself around, dropping a knee, and threw the man over his shoulder. He fell heavily near the edge of the harbour wall.

Tim waited, alert, as he tried to get up, expecting him to charge back like an enraged bull. Which was what he was – an old bull who knew in his heart he was no longer up to it.

But he got to his feet awkwardly, staggering, and then toppled headlong into the water. His friends roared out their tipsy laughter, slapping each other exaggeratedly on the shoulder as they came nearer to watch his helpless splashing about.

‘He can’t swim!’ Jane cried out, alarmed. ‘Look at him! Tim, he’s going to drown if we don’t help him!’

The idea of struggling in the water with that gorilla in the name of life-saving held no appeal for Tim. He turned on the men who had been with him.

‘Well, aren’t you going to fish him out?’ he shouted.

They fell silent; none of them moved.

Tim ran for the lifebelt, lifting it from its stand and tossing it in. The man in the water made no attempt to take hold of it, although it was well within his reach. Suddenly, Tim understood why. He grasped Jane’s arm and pointed.

‘Jellyfish!’

Two of them were just visible beneath the discarded plastic wrappers, traces of petrol, cigarette packets, and the rest of the harbour filth which coated the murky water. One had fixed itself to the drowning thug’s hand; another lay across his thick neck.

‘We can’t let him die!’ Jane declared, beginning to unzip her anorak. ‘Not without at least
trying
to help him.’

He stopped her.

‘No – you stay here!’ He pushed the lifebelt rope into her hands. ‘And for Chrissake, pull us out quickly – over towards the steps there. And you –’ He turned to the other men. ‘Give her a hand with the rope, one of you. And somebody get over to that phone box and call the police.
And
an ambulance! Well, get a move on, then!’

He tugged off his boots and plunged into the water. By now the thug was lying with his head back, his face just above the surface. In a couple of strokes Tim had reached him, in time to observe the speckled pink jellyfish oozing from its victim’s neck around to his mouth and nose. His eyes, left free, were panic-stricken. Beseeching.

There was nothing Tim could do about that jellyfish, he knew; not while they were still in the water. He just had to get the man out before he suffocated. Tim grabbed the collar of his jacket with one hand and hooked his free arm over the lifebelt. Then he kicked out for the stone steps which led down from the harbour wall.

The rope became taut and he felt the lifebelt moving slowly over the water. Vaguely, he was aware of Jane shouting something to him, but he could not draw his
eyes away from the sight of the jellyfish feeding on its victim’s face. The deep ruby star-shaped pattern in the centre seemed to be throbbing like an erratic pulse.

A sting lashed his left hand painfully. The shock was so unexpected that he almost let go of the man’s jacket, but stopped himself just in time. A second later the agony was repeated, sending what felt like thin, jagged, high-voltage shots coursing up his arm. It took all his concentration to maintain his grip on the man.

‘Faster!’ he heard himself shouting, spitting out the foul water, which tasted of petrol. ‘For God’s sake!’

At last – it seemed to take ages – he felt his shoulder bumping against the hard steps. Hands seized him, dragging him up to safety. They took charge of the heavyweight, too, laying him out on the stone with that pink jellyfish still spread over the lower part of his face.

‘Get it off him, somebody!’ he heard Jane insisting. ‘Or get out of the way and let me do it!’

But by now a policeman had arrived on a motorcycle, a young man, probably not much older than twenty, and with a pimply face. ‘Just stand aside, miss,’ he said briefly. He bent over Arthur, took hold of the jellyfish in his gauntleted hands and peeled it off. ‘Stand clear, will you!’ He took it to the edge of the harbour wall and dropped it back in the water.

Arthur’s cheeks were a mess of red, raw flesh, as though someone had drawn a steel comb across them, cutting in deeply. Miraculously he was still alive, though groaning desperately through lacerated lips as the policeman tugged the second jellyfish away from his fist, which had very little trace of skin left on it.

‘Right, give him air! Stand back now!’

He was doing everything by the book, that young policeman, though his face was by now as pale as his own white helmet. But that’s the way it had to be, Tim approved as he stood there watching with the water
dripping from him. His left arm was now completely numb, but he didn’t give it another thought; he was only too glad he’d managed to get them both out alive.

Jane turned away from the injured man to come over to him; then she screamed.

‘Tim – your hand! No, don’t touch it!’

He looked down, shocked. Cosily wrapped around his hand, like a pink luminescent mitten, was another jellyfish.

‘Just leave it, sir! I’ll get it.’

But before the policeman could touch it, Tim had already grasped the jellyfish with his right hand, digging his nails in as he tried to tug it away. The tentacles held on fast, but then they suddenly released their grip; he just missed being stung again as they waved dangerously near him.

‘Bloody hell!’

He dropped it on to the stones, standing back quickly in case it attacked his feet through the wet socks. It was a wise move. With a snort of revulsion, Jane began to stamp on it; immediately, the tentacles tried to close around her boots. She recoiled, her eyes wide with horror.

‘Oh, Tim…’ she whispered, pressing against him as she stared at the jellyfish which had seemed so still and lifeless when nothing was within its reach. ‘Oh, Tim, what can it be?’

His hand was a mass of blood which dripped on to his wet clothes, but it was still numb. The poison was so effective that he could not even raise his arm to take a real look at it.

The policeman found a boathook and hastily pushed the jellyfish back into the water. ‘Better out of the way, those things. Never did like them. Good God, look at that!’

A green slime covered the black leather fingers of his
gauntlet gloves, and it was gleaming like rock-star glitter make-up. As they all stared at it, the sound of the ambulance siren was heard, coming closer.

5

Much against Tim’s will they insisted on him staying in hospital overnight in order to keep an eye on him. The treatment of his hand had been painful. The numbness in his left arm from the jellyfish’s natural anaesthetic gradually ebbed away while the nurse was still picking out those sharp needle-like hairs which the tentacles had deposited in his exposed flesh. Every touch of the tweezers hurt like hell and his whole arm throbbed violently.

‘Just have to wait an’ see now, won’t we?’ The ageing Welsh doctor shook his head doubtfully, his eyes intense beneath his white bushy eyebrows. ‘Jellyfish, you say?’

To round off the treatment, they made him drop his hospital pyjamas while they rammed an injection into his backside. It left a sore spot which troubled him whichever way he tried to lie in that narrow, clinical bed.

The room was pleasant, though. It had off-white walls, a carpet on the floor, flowered curtains and a view across the bay. By late afternoon the clouds had dispersed sufficiently to allow a weak sun to penetrate; it coated the brooding sea with silver. Gazing at it, Tim wondered how many more pink jellyfish were swimming around out there. He remembered how helpless the thug had been, simply floating, paralysed, unable to defend himself against that thing over his face. It did not take long to drown once they set to work.

Tim must have dozed off. The next thing he knew, a dark bright-eyed nurse bustled into the room with his evening meal on a tray. She announced he had a visitor, a
young lady, who would be along once she’d had a word with the doctor. And would he like the curtains closed now it was almost dark outside?

‘Please,’ he said, pushing himself up in bed.

He felt lazy, and glad he didn’t have to get up. His arm still throbbed and that ache in his buttock issued a sharp reminder whenever he put too much weight on it.

‘Jellyfish, was it?’ she went on as she tugged the curtain across. ‘That other poor man – he’s in a terrible condition. People will be afraid to go swimming.’ She tutted, shaking her head. ‘Seen you on TV, you know. Always watch Gulliver when I’m not on duty, an’ sometimes when I am! That wife o’ yours, she’s awful, isn’t she? It’s a wonder you put up with it!’

‘Oh…!’ He laughed, suddenly understanding what she meant: not Sue, as he’d thought at first. ‘In the show, you mean? Gloria?’

‘That’s the one. Vicious, she is. All I can say is, she’d better not come in this hospital, or there’ll be a few of us ready to give her a piece of our mind.’

‘She’s quite nice really. The actress, that is.’

‘Is she now?’ The nurse sounded unconvinced. ‘Now you eat up, an’ I’ll bring your visitor along the moment she’s free.’

That would be Jane, he assumed, pleased. She had come with them in the ambulance; then, once they reached the hospital, he’d said she needn’t hang around if she had other things to do. He could sense she was itching to get to a phone. An ambitious girl – and ruthless too in her own way, he suspected. Before going, she’d said something about his car being still down by the harbour and he’d given her the keys, telling her she was free to use it if she wished. Which she obviously did.

He had already finished his omelette and was toying with the strawberry blancmange when the nurse returned with his visitor: not Jane after all, but Jacqui. She stood in
the doorway and smiled at him awkwardly.

‘Well, that just about wraps it up, doesn’t it?’ she commented, nodding at his bandaged hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said wryly.

‘Are you all right, Tim?’

‘I shall be. Out tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps.’

The nurse closed the door quietly, leaving them alone together. Jacqui brought the chair over to sit by the bed. She had dressed up for the visit, he noted, in a brown trouser suit which she wore with a striped shirt and a greenish tie. High heels too, to give her that extra couple of inches; though she still looked small and emaciated, in need of a good meal. Her face was thin and peaked, while her alert, brown eyes contrasted strangely with her wispy blonde hair.

‘I spoke to the doctor, but he wasn’t too certain when you’d be out,’ she added. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but not unfriendly. ‘In any case, even if you could carry on, we need to replace Arthur, and that means re-shooting the lot. I’ve been on the phone to the office. They’re fixing it up for us to come back for the retakes. Well, you anyway.’

‘Not you?’

‘That’s not yet certain.’

She gave that information brusquely, as if to indicate that further questions would not be welcome. He gazed at her, wondering what the problem was. Maybe they hadn’t liked the rushes; maybe they welcomed the chance to re-shoot.

‘How is Arthur?’ he asked.

‘As well as can be expected, according to the doctor. You know he had a stroke?’

‘Yes, they told me. Probably while he was still in the water. It’s not surprising really when you think what happened. I suppose I got off lightly.’ He glanced at the
bandages. ‘What about his face?’

‘They didn’t say.’ She hesitated. ‘Tim, would you – I mean, can you talk about it? All I know, it was a jellyfish. Not the details.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can’t you tell me more?’

That brusque tone again got on his nerves.

‘Why – to satisfy your curiosity?’

She flushed a deep red. ‘If you want to know,’ she replied tartly, ‘I have to write a report for the office.’

‘That explains it.’

‘I can’t ask Arthur, he’s not conscious yet. The doctor says he might never be able to talk again. After the stroke, he meant.’ She leaned forward to touch his uninjured hand. ‘Tim, I’m not being hard, you know. I really do have to produce that report. I wish I didn’t.’

‘You and I, we haven’t got on since we first met.’ Tackle the problem head-on, he thought, it was the only way; have it out now while he was lying helpless in bed. ‘I don’t understand why.’

‘I imagine you resent me taking over. All of you.’ The hostile expression returned to her eyes, that same expression to which he’d grown accustomed over the past couple of days. ‘Perhaps because I’m a woman, I don’t know.’

‘Oh, don’t be an idiot! We’ve had a woman directing this show ever since the first episode. No, it’s something else, isn’t it? You don’t think you’re up to it. You’re all nerves.’

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.’