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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 hiseyes 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