John Halkin - Slime

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. ‘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.’

‘Jellyfish.’ She didn’t move. ‘It’s the light of hell.’

The pink, speckled jellyfish drift through the water — hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them carried aimlessly along by the ocean currents. Occasionally, one lazily spreads itself out to resemble an undulating disc, trailing tentacles and innards behind it; then swiftly it pulls itself back until it is bell-shaped again. The action propels it rapidly in any direction it chooses.

As they swim, the jellyfish feed on whatever comes their way, sucking minute plankton into the tube-like mouths situated centrally inside the bell, or trapping fish with their tentacles and paralysing them with a quick-acting poison which makes it possible to devour them at leisure.

Coming across a sunken cargo ship is a bonus. The crew of ten is still aboard. The bodies float between the decks or on the bridge in a ghastly dance. Obscenely, the jellyfish settle on them, their tentacles exploring the bloated human skin, probing this new, rich food before deciding it may be safely ingested.

Perhaps a week later — or, perhaps, two — the first jellyfish detach themselves and glide away on the current. Others follow. The farther north they travel, the colder the ocean becomes. Almost imperceptibly they adjust their direction, seeking the shallower seas where the drop in temperature is not quite so extreme, until the changed rhythm of tides and currents warns them that they are approaching land.

The sea was grey that afternoon, but calm. True, there was a slight swell. Long, smooth waves shaped the surface of the water, yet they posed no threat to the sailing dinghy which rode them easily, rising and dipping in time with their rhythm. Pete exulted in the sheer feeling of power as the breeze filled the little red sail to carry the dinghy along.

It was the second time he’d sailed her, and the first alone. He’d known all along he could manage, he thought scornfully. Nothing to it. Trust Jenny to make a big mystery out of it, just because she was his elder sister. He was seventeen, not a kid any longer, and they had promised. Vince, her husband, had taken him out just once, Once! The rest of the time he was too busy at work, or so he said.

So was Jenny, too, and that left Pete with long days on his own, nothing to occupy him, no one to talk to even. It was a godforsaken hole where they had chosen to live even at the height of summer; out of season, it was deader than its own graveyard. As for the other inhabitants, they looked as if they’d just come out of their graves, half of them. Talk about walking dead!

The dinghy was his last hope of getting something out of the holiday. After that trip with Vince last weekend, he’d felt convinced he could sail her himself. Of course, Vince had laughed when he’d suggested it. Good old Vince! Trust bloody Vince! ‘No, let’s see how you shape up first. This is the open sea, Pete, not one of your rivers!’ A load of crap, he’d thought; what was the difference? It was all sailing, wasn’t it?

Well, now he’d proved he could do it without them. No need to mention it to them, either, when he got back; they would only make a fuss about his taking the boat and forbid him to do it again without their permission. No, he’d keep quiet about it, that was the best way.

He was clear of the bay now. The dinghy danced through the waves as the surging, untamed sea made itself felt. It was getting chilly, too; the increasing breeze cut keenly through his thin T-shirt. He bent down to retrieve his anorak which he had taken off earlier because it hampered his movements. Then, accidentally, he let go the rope.

The sail flapped wildly; the boat veered around; as he was straightening up, the boom punched him violently in the small of the back. A second later, he was in the water, his breath shocked out of him as he sank.

He surfaced, gasping for air, only to discover that the dinghy was already several yards away, careering wildly before the wind. Spitting out a mouthful of sea, he stared after it in dismay. There was no way he’d be able to catch up with it; nor, he realised, was there much chance of making it to the shore.

But as he trod the water, wondering what the hell he should do now, he saw the red sail slamming around again; simultaneously, a high wave slapped lengthwise against the dinghy, and it heeled over. The sail dragged in the water, slowing it down. That at least gave him a chance, he thought with a sudden rush of hope; if only he could reach it…

The water was cold, but he put all his strength into every stroke, determined that the sea was not going to have him as long as he could still swim. He was closer already — half-way there, perhaps — and as he was carried to the crest of the next wave he caught a glimpse of the boat still lying on its side; it was partly submerged, with its sail spread, water-logged, alongside it like a sea-anchor. In that same moment a sudden, sharp pain wrapped itself around his bare foot like a red-hot whiplash.

He writhed in the water, spluttering in agony as the shock snaked through him. His head went under. He swallowed the bitter salt water, but then struggled to the surface again, shaking uncontrollably.

But he had to make it, he told himself desperately as he tried to swim on. Oh, Jesus, he had to make it. His injured leg thrashed about uselessly, his teeth were chattering and his arms ached. Next time under, that would be his lot. Amen.

A second whiplash caught him, this time around the ankle, stinging viciously. He shuddered, almost crying out as the pain pulsed through him. Yet somehow he managed to stay afloat, still heading for the capsized dinghy. Blindly, he ploughed on through that cold sea, by now uncertain if he was even moving forward. His leg no longer felt as though it still belonged to him, despite the throbbing agony of his foot. What had attacked him, he had no means of knowing; his mind was dominated by one thought only, that he’d drown if he didn’t reach the boat soon.

Then, miraculously, one of those ceaseless, restless waves gathered him up and hurled him against something solid — the dinghy! He had been on the point of accepting that it was futile to go on, that it would be best to give up and allow the sea to take him, when there it was. His fingers slipped over the clinker-built bottom, too numb with cold to get a grip on it.

At the third attempt he succeeded. He stayed there in the water — he hadn’t the strength to attempt anything else — holding on with his fingertips. Except for an inexplicable tingling in his foot, he could not feel his leg; the whole limb might have been so much ballast which he was fated to carry along with him. Only gradually did he come to realise that the thing — whatever it was — still clung to his bare flesh and was busy probing between his toes.

No panic now, he told himself. Take it calmly. However much he longed to scream, he managed to stifle it. See what the thing is first, then decide what to do. Might be seaweed, nothing more.

Yes, that was the way to set about it: calmly.

Slowly and carefully he turned over in the water until he was on his back, precariously holding on to the boat behind him. Then he began to raise himself until he could see both his legs. Spread across his right foot like a cloak was a strawberry-coloured jellyfish. Its tentacles curled around him, and as he watched, horrified, one flickered over to caress his left ankle which had come too close.