by Mark Morris
DEEP BLUE
MARK MORRIS
Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd,
Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane
London W12 OTT
First published 1999
Copyright © Mark Morris 1999
The moral right of the author has been asserted Original series broadcast on the BBC
Format © BBC 1963
Doctor Who and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC
ISBN 0 563 55571 8
Imaging by Black Sheep, copyright © BBC 1999
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Cover printed by Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton Many thanks to Paul Tye for information about boats and David Howe for information about families.
This is for Kevin Mullins, a great friend who was there at the beginning and who has shared so much of the magic.
Part One
Seeing Stars
With a grinding of machinery and a clanking of chains the trawl was winched aboard. As the huge net broke the grey surface of the sea and rose into the air, it looked like a living thing itself. Beneath its thick mesh thousands of fish thrashed and writhed, their silver bodies flashing beneath the blazing summer sun. When the trawl was clear of the sea, Terry Robson operated the gantry arm and the net swung out over the deck, drooling water which splashed around the boots of the six-man crew.
The Papillon had been built in the thirties, a decade or so before Terry was born. It was rusted and patched up, its engine in need of constant attention, but Terry’s old grandad still referred to it as ‘the new boat’. The Robsons had been fishermen for generations, perhaps even centuries, but in recent years Terry’s dad, Malcolm, skipper of the Papillon, had been muttering with no real humour about there being ‘a sea change’ on the way.
The big factory trawlers, with crews of up to a hundred and no reason to come ashore except for the occasional repair, were putting sole traders like the Robsons out of business.
For the moment they were still making ends meet - just - but Terry was realistic enough to realise that it wouldn’t be too long before they would have to diversify. Already many of their friends and neighbours were supplementing their income by taking groups of overfed businessmen for a day’s sea fishing. If it hadn’t been so depressing it would have been funny, making executive types pay for the privilege of freezing their nuts off and chucking their guts up all day.
As Joe Tye, Terry’s cousin by marriage, released the cod end, sending fish cascading in a slithering heap across the deck, the gulls circling above the wheel house began to shriek with frantic hunger. Terry moved forward to help sort through the catch. A lot of the stuff that the trawl ensnared would have to be thrown back - crabs, eels, pregnant females, fish smaller than regulation size - but there looked to be enough viable fish here, cod and haddock, herring, whiting and plaice, to make this a good haul.
Joe’s son, Barry, who at twenty was the youngest of the crew, and who wore his blond hair long like his pop-star heroes The Sweet, was bending towards the mass of fish slithering around his boots when suddenly he recoiled.
Terry’s Uncle Pete, his dad’s younger brother, glanced up.
Uncle Pete was a fearsome character, six-and-a-half feet tall, with a bushy black beard, piercing blue eyes, and hands like shovels. Barry was often the - mostly undeserving - butt of Pete’s abrasive manner, which did little to sweeten the already volatile relationship between Pete and Joe. Terry didn’t know why his dad’s brother and his sister’s husband disliked each other so much. Maybe it was just one of those things, or maybe there was some history between them. The fishing community at Tayborough Sands was tight-knit, contained within such a small, neat block of the tourist town that it could almost be termed an enclave. In such communities favours were always returned in kind, and often with interest, but by the same token no grievance was ever forgotten. Grudges were worn like insignia and even passed down through subsequent generations.
‘Something frighten you, lad?’ Pete growled. He had a knack of making every sentence he uttered sound as if he was accusing someone of spilling his pint in the pub.
Barry’s face creased in revulsion. ‘There’s another one of them bloody fish,’ he said.
John Baycock, Terry’s best mate and the only non-family member of the crew, piped up with his usual good humour,
‘Aye, you tend to get a lot of ‘em around here.’
Barry looked at him as if he didn’t realise John was joking.
Barry was a good lad and a willing worker, but he was not over-endowed in the brains department.
‘No, I mean... one of them fish. Horrible it is. Ugliest one so far, I reckon.’
‘You sure you’ve not just come across a bit of broken mirror caught in the net?’ John said, making Terry and his dad laugh.
Barry shook his head and shuffled backwards. ‘Horrible it is,’ he said again. ‘I’m not touching it.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you big pansy,’ growled Uncle Pete and strode forward through the slimy carpet, beetle-brows knit together in a scowl.
Terry moved forward too. He wanted to get a closer look at the deformity. There had been a lot of them these past couple of weeks. Some said it was to do with the strange light that Bob Elkins had seen land in the sea, but Terry thought it was all down to pollution. These big chemical companies and what-have-you dumped God knows what into the water these days.
Barry was right about one thing this particular specimen was the ugliest one so far. Terry saw it immediately amongst its suffocating brethren, and recognised it as a cod despite its hideous abnormalities. Oddly it was not flapping frantically as the other fish were, but was lying still on its stomach, its sides moving slowly in and out, almost as if it had adapted to breathe the air. Its flesh was discoloured and bulging with lumps that seemed to shift sluggishly beneath the skin, its mouth hung open, revealing small but razor-sharp teeth, and its eyes bulged as if it was glaring at its captors. Most grotesque of all, though, were the black, porcupine-like quills which had sprouted all over its body. Looking at it, Terry felt not just repulsed but uneasy. Perhaps it was the creature’s huge eyes, but it felt as though the thing was watching them broodily, as if there was a nasty little intelligence working away in there somewhere.
Although he had never been deep-sea diving, Terry knew a couple of lads who had. They came into the Mutton for a pint or two most Friday nights. The words of one of the drunken conversations he had had with them came back to him now.
He remembered them telling him that divers were more worried about cod than they were about sharks, because whereas sharks would ignore you most of the time, cod were vicious little buggers. They would latch on to your face with their teeth if they could, then spin themselves round and round until they’d torn off a circular chunk of flesh. Terry remembered making a joke about it, telling the lads that the cod were only getting their own back for all the fish and chip suppers eaten over the years. Now, though, the recollection filled him not with amusement but alarm, and as Pete bent forward, extending a hand towards the fish, he couldn’t help blurting, ‘Don’t touch it!’
Pete paused and half-turned, his blue eyes drilling into Terry’s own. ‘What’s up wi’ you? Don’t tell me you’re as much of a lass as Shirley Temple here.’
‘No, it’s just that... you might catch summat, that’s all. We don’t know what’s wrong with it.’
‘Terry’s right,’ said Joe. ‘At least get yourself some gloves. I don’t like the way that bloody thing’s looking at you.’
Pete shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. ‘I don’t believe you lot. You’re like a bunch of frightened kids.
It’s only a -’
‘Look out!’ Barry screeched.
Moving so swiftly that it was almost a
blur, the fish launched itself at Pete. He span in surprise, hand raising instinctively to protect his face. The cod opened its mouth wide and clamped its teeth around his upraised fingers. Pete yelled in pain and fury and swung round in an arc, the fish clinging to him like some grotesque silvery glove that he was unable to shake off. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so alarming, if the fish hadn’t then dropped some ten yards away to the deck with a squishy thud, and if Terry had not looked at Pete’s hand and seen only ragged stumps gushing blood where three of his fingers should have been.
Pete held his hand up in front of his face, his mouth wide open, and the furious roar died in his throat like a wave spending its strength on the shore. For a moment the sea was reflected, a dense grey, in his wide, astonished eyes before they glazed over, his eyelids flickering.
‘Catch him, lads, he’s going down,’ Malcolm shouted, breaking the stunned silence.
Perhaps it was his skipper’s words that revived Pete, perhaps just sheer bloody-mindedness. For even as his fellow crew members moved forward, stretching out their arms to keep him upright, giving the spiny, malformed cod a wide berth as they did so, Pete roared like a battle-charged warrior and thundered towards the fish still some ten yards away.
Terry wasn’t sure what his uncle planned to do - perhaps mash the fish to pulp beneath his boots and retrieve his bitten-off fingers from its gullet. But whatever his intentions, Pete never got the chance to realise them.
The lumps that had been moving sluggishly beneath the cod’s scaly skin suddenly seemed to coalesce into a single bulbous mass at the apex of its spine. The cod opened its blood-smeared mouth and let loose a shrill and raucous cry, almost like the caw of a crow, which made Terry’s skin crawl.
Almost simultaneously the fishy lump swelled and the skin ripped open from the pressure like cheap cloth. Barry let out a squeal of horror and Terry felt a surge of fear as several long, spiny, crablike legs quickly unfurled from the rent in the creature’s back.
Pete might still have caught and crushed the thing beneath his size twelve boots if he had not stumbled to a faltering halt at the sight. The newly hatched legs stretched out, four on each side, clicking like knitting needles as they found the deck. Gaining strength, they flexed, grotesquely lifting the body a few inches upwards. They quivered for a moment, then, moving with astonishing speed, scuttled the creature away towards the prow of the boat.
‘Hey!’ Pete yelled, as if to a purse-snatcher, and gave chase once more. It was too late. The mutant halted a few feet from the prow, bent its spiny legs in a crouch, and sprang over the side. It hit the grey water with a splash and was gone.
For a few moments nobody moved. They stared at the patch of churning, foamy water that briefly marked the creature’s passing, transfixed with mouths agape and eyes wide, until the sea smoothed itself over as if to deny the existence of such a monstrosity. His voice clotted with awe and dread, Malcolm said slowly, ‘Twenty-eight years on the sea, and I’ve never seen anything -’
Pete interrupted him with a rattling groan. Then he keeled over face-first, crashing to the drenched, slippery deck like a felled oak.
Terry realised with a guilty start that for the past moments he had forgotten about the terrible damage to his uncle’s hand. For the first time he saw the blood pooled and spattered around Pete’s prone body. There was an alarming amount of it, and the wound was still pouring with blood.
Terry rushed forward, skidding to his knees beside his uncle at the same time as John Baycock and Joe Tye. A few moments later they were joined by Malcolm, who thrust the first aid box from the wheel house into his son’s hands. Only Barry hung back, his face ashen.
Terry had to will his hands to stop trembling in order to open the box. He took out a bottle of antiseptic, oily with fingerprints from previous mishaps, and a roll of bandage in a cellophane sheath. He tore the sheath open with his teeth and began to tug at the bandage inside, dismayed to see his own grubby fingerprints instantly soiling the pristine white gauze. He was about to pour some of the antiseptic on to the bandage when Joe Tye muttered, ‘What’s that stuff on his hand?’
For a guilty moment Terry thought Joe was accusing him of being unclean, but then realised he meant Pete. The big, bearded man’s breath was a rattle in his throat, his eyelids flickered, his body shook as though with fever. Perhaps it was shock or loss of blood. In a daze, Terry looked down at his uncle’s mutilated hand.
It was the blood that had swamped his attention before, but Terry now saw the ‘stuff’ that Joe had pointed out.
Through the blood he saw that Pete’s wound was coated with a glutinous, jelly-like ooze. Terry swallowed and shuddered.
He imagined the creature disgorging the gluey substance like poison from its diseased body on to his uncle’s. Frantic to prevent the stuff from penetrating the wound, Terry yanked at a length of bandage, but it refused to tear, merely stretching instead.
John Baycock delved into the first aid box, grabbed a swab and began to wipe the gel away from the wound. Terry flashed him a glance of gratitude, unscrewed the lid of the bottle and poured antiseptic directly on to Pete’s hand.
Semiconscious, the bearded man hissed and muttered, his body tensing momentarily.
‘Easy there, big man,’ Joe Tye soothed with a tenderness that surprised Terry despite the circumstances.
When he was satisfied that the wound was entirely clean, John Baycock applied a lint dressing, holding it in place as Terry wound the bandage tightly around his uncle’s hand. He worked swiftly and carefully, trying to outpace the blood that continued to soak through the lint and the gauze and threatened to reduce his good work to a sodden red mess. As more and more bandage was applied, an almost palpable relief coursed through the men, as if hiding the terrible injury from view could somehow quell the horror of the incident that had caused it. When Terry was finished it looked as though his uncle was wearing a single white boxing glove.
‘Will he be all right?’ Barry murmured, stepping hesitantly forward now.
Terry shrugged and felt his dad’s hand pat him twice on the shoulder.
‘Good work, son,’ Malcolm said in a low voice as if his words were meant for Terry alone. Then raising his voice, the skipper added, ‘All right, lads, keep him as comfortable as you can. I’m taking us home.’
In the two weeks since he had been given his new job title, Jack Perry had been practising the term in his head and in front of the mirror in his bedroom. ‘I’m an environment coordinator,’ he would say, qualifying the statement with a slight raising of the left eyebrow and a smug little smile. In his mind he would be at a party, sipping Pina Colada and speaking to a woman who looked like a cross between Sally Thomsett from Man About the House and that girl from the Hai Karate ads. The woman would gasp in admiration and her eyes would brighten with interest. Perhaps she might even lick her glossy red lips in lascivious anticipation.
It was at this point that the fantasy would begin to dissolve. If the woman enquired further, Jack would have to admit that he drove a truck for the council and that the only authority he wielded was over a bunch of moaning, long-haired students who were simply out for a bit of holiday money. Not only that but every morning at 5 a.m. he and the students - most of them hungover, or soporific from the pot they had been smoking the night before - pulled up on to the promenade, got out clad in overalls, boots and thick rubber gloves, and tramped down to the beach, laden with shovels and industrial-sized refuse sacks.
Sometimes, lying in his bed at night and hearing his widowed mother in the bedroom next door tossing restlessly in hers, Jack would wonder where it had all gone wrong.
There were no parties in his life, no Pina Coladas, no Sally Thomsett lookalikes. There were not even any friends to speak of - not real ones at any rate. Just casual acquaintances, people he knew on a superficial level: people at work; people he bumped in to now and then who had been to school with him, and who, like him, had never moved away; fellow enthusiasts at the ste
am railway where he did voluntary work every Sunday.
If it wasn’t for his trains - his weekly pilgrimage to the railway itself, the books he spent hours poring over, the beautifully complex model rail network he had set up in the attic and which he added to constantly - he didn’t know what he’d do. Oh, he had dreams of going to parties and meeting beautiful women, of being the pivot of an uproarious circle of friends, but when it came down to it he was only ever happy in the company of his trains. His trains were a constant, his trains never let him down. The only thing that ever blighted the time he spent with them was the knowledge that sooner or later reality would impinge again, highlighting his inadequacies, crushing his spirit with its casual cruelty.
Hell is other people, he thought on this particular morning as he crunched the truck down through the gears and brought it to a shuddering halt on the seafront. Even if by some miracle he did one day meet Sally Thomsett or the Hai Karate girl and she did, by some far greater miracle, turn out to fancy him, he honestly doubted whether he would be able to cope. Part of him desperately wanted to be loved and accepted, but the more dominant part balked at the prospect of what that would really involve. People - real people - were different to fantasies. They were too unpredictable, they wanted to enter into relationships that needed to be worked at, partnerships in which compromises had to be reached, sacrifices made.
‘What’s this? Offering a silent prayer to Neptune?’ said a voice from the back of the truck, and Jack realised he had been daydreaming again. It had been happening with increasing regularity this past week or so, an inability to concentrate on what was happening around him, a tendency for his thoughts to drift inward. By now he was finding it difficult to keep track of conversations without his mind slipping away. It was almost impossible to settle down to read or watch TV for any length of time. Perhaps it was all to do with the fact that he’d been sleeping badly of late. His dreams had been full of dark, unsettling images that caused him to wake several times a night, sweating and gasping for breath.
