Slime by John Halkin Page B

stayed as the lashing rain gradually cleansed the little fishing craft of its slime. The luminescence became fainter, patchier, but not until it had faded away completely did they turn to go.

7
    They went back to the hotel first to dry out. Famous TV star though he was, Tim didn’t fancy returning to the hospital in his wet clothes to face the disapproval of the nurses.
    The rest of the crew had already left for London but he still had his room there: a large first-floor bedroom facing the sea with its own adjoining bathroom of feudal dimensions. The star bedroom, in fact. Jane had been put up in an attic somewhere tucked away among the maze of back staircases. She’d arranged her own accommodation and had been lucky getting into the same hotel at all. But she hadn’t grumbled; nor had she invited him to visit her.
    ‘Granted the jellyfish were trawled up in the net,’ Tim argued as they stood in the corridor outside his room, dripping water over the patterned carpet, ‘that still doesn’t explain how they got back into the sea, nor what happened to the crew.’
    ‘You’re not saying it wasn’t jellyfish?’
    ‘Out of water they’re stranded. Ask your sister.’
    ‘How else d’you account for the slime?’ she challenged him. ‘All over the boat.’
    He had no answer.
    ‘It had to come from jellyfish. There’s no other explanation.’ Her long brown hair clung damply around her face, emphasising her stubborn expression. ‘It had to.’ She sneezed.
    ‘I suppose so,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Look, we’d better get out of these things and into a hot bath before we both catch cold.’
    She sneezed again.
    ‘We could use my bathroom,’ he suggested.
    ‘Together? Lud, sir – spare my blushes!’
    ‘Plenty of towels.
And
what’s left of a bottle of scotch.’
    ‘Well supplied, aren’t you?’ She laughed at him, keeping her distance. ‘I suppose you make a habit of bathing with strange ladies?’
    ‘When I can.’
    Another sneeze. ‘My love, a woman really needs to look her best before agreeing to share her bath. You must admit’ – sneeze – ‘that I don’t. However, I’ll be down for a drop of that whisky.’
    ‘I’ll leave my door on the latch.’
    ‘Do that.’
    With yet one more sneeze she left him and headed down the corridor towards the narrow door marked ‘Staff Only’ which he suspected led into a warren of service stairs.
    He waited until she’d gone before unlocking his own door. Inside, he made directly for the bathroom, his shoes squelching water with every step. With difficulty he kicked them off, then bent down to fit the plug in the big, old-fashioned bath. Clouds of steam filled the air as the water gushed from the twin taps, but it would be some time before his bath was ready.
    How those jellyfish had escaped from the boat was a mystery. It was possible of course that they’d been washed overboard by heavy seas; or, equally, that they’d evolved some method of moving when they were out of the water. It was a gruesome thought.
    Still turning it over in his mind he began to undress, though awkwardly. The bandages were still dry, which was something; in fact, other than some dampnessaround his collar the rain hadn’t succeeded in penetrating his anorak. But his trousers were soaked through and sticking to him. He had to peel them off like sloughing a discarded skin.
    He tested the water, turned off the taps, then padded through the bedroom to pour himself a generous slug of whisky before climbing into the bath. On his bed were two freshly-laundered shirts, each in its individual transparent plastic envelope. He shook one out and used the envelope as a glove to protect his bandaged hand.
    Pity Jane had said no, he reflected as he stretched out in the water, surrendering to its luxurious warmth. Plenty of room for two. Three, even. Like the rest of the hotel, the bath was probably Edwardian – the age which had invented the original dirty weekend.
    Still, although