The Fearful (17 page)

Tim felt a quick pinch of anxiety in his stomach. No, he didn't like the idea of it being about him.

Nana Dairy, on the other hand, all of a sudden decided what an admirable and wonderful and clever man Uncle Doug was. ‘You're making us all so proud of you,' she said.

Bill picked up the book. ‘Dad'd be proud, Doug. This is some achievement.' He held it almost reverentially, feeling the weight then flipping slowly through the pages, even touching the print with the tips of his fingers. ‘This is some achievement,' he repeated. He gave it to his wife. ‘Look at this, hey? Look at it.'

‘I can see it.' She smiled warmly at her brother-in-law. ‘Well done, Douglas. It really is a wonderful achievement.'

‘I told you I'd do it,' Uncle Doug said. ‘I beavered away on it while I wasn't busy stuffing my face with cardboard pizzas and soggy burgers. I wasn't about to let the family down.' His smile was a touch sarcastic, but Nana Dalry didn't notice. ‘You know, my publishers have agreed to throw a little launch party for me, and I realize it's short notice – very short in fact – but I wondered if we could have it this Saturday? At Tim's Carving?'

Tim wasn't sure what that meant, but he saw his father's brow wrinkle slightly. Not a good sign.

‘I don't know about that, Doug,' Bill said, tugging on his beard. ‘I was planning on it being a fairly quiet affair. Just for the Fearful – and the town.'

Uncle Doug took his book back. ‘For the town? I think the town's shown time and again that it doesn't give two buggers for our family any more.' Bill made to speak, but his brother wouldn't let him. ‘Wasn't last night's meeting of everyone who opposes Stones's hotel proof enough of that? Four people turned up, didn't you say?' He shook his head. ‘No, Bill, you've got to think a little wider. We've got to remind the rest of the country about the Mourn and put Moutonby back on the map.' He was leaning across the table, waving his book like a preacher with a Bible. ‘Bloody Nessie has had all the attention for far too long. And she didn't even eat anybody, did she, eh?'

Again Tim's father tried to speak, but—

‘No, I'm sorry, Bill. Something has to be done and Tim's Carving will be the perfect opportunity to grab everybody's attention. He's going to be the first Mourner of the new millennium, don't forget.'

Father and son locked eyes. Tim hoped Bill couldn't see the mounting panic he was trying to hide in his.

Doug was busy sounding like a politician. ‘We've got to focus the gaze of the world back on this little Yorkshire town and its lake. Bring back some dignity. That's why I've written the book. I think this family deserves a little bit more respect for what it has done – and is
still
doing.'

Bill was quiet.

Nana Dairy piped up, ‘It's what I've been saying all
along,' she told him, suddenly Doug's new best friend and ally. ‘I've been trying to tell you that for years.'

Tim's mouth had gone dry; there was a tightening fist of anxiety gripping his insides. The last thing he wanted, surely the worst thing that could happen, would be to have ‘the gaze of the world' on his birthday. He knew the world was going to be full of people like Roddy Morgan.

‘I've got to admit I've already had a word with the publishers,' Uncle Doug said, leaning back in his chair. ‘And the wonderful women in the publicity department have already got the ball rolling. I've asked them to get local TV and radio here, a couple of the tabloids if possible. So with a bit of luck it's going to be big.'

Bill looked at his wife. Then turned to his brother again, shaking his head. ‘Doug, I appreciate what you're doing, but—'

Uncle Doug was back over the table in an instant. ‘Don't “but” me, Bill. Come on, don't you dare. You need this. Since the council abolished the Monster Tax what's this family been living on, eh? So we turned this old place into a guesthouse when Dad died. Fine. But where're the guests? The students and the Americans leave tomorrow; who've you got filling their rooms? You probably don't even charge old Jack Spicer full whack any more, do you? And when Stones opens his new place, what then?'

Tim's father didn't answer, knowing Doug didn't really need him to.

‘Look, Bill, think of Dad, okay? He'd be so proud of the way you're fighting for this family and all we believe in. He
always said it was the one thing that made the Milmullens different. Because we're Mourners it means we have a purpose and duty. So think how proud he'd be if we fought that little bit harder, if we brought recognition and pride back into this old house.'

Bill was looking at Tim. But Tim couldn't meet his dad's eyes any more.

Uncle Doug nodded at the portrait on the wall. ‘Think of the old guy, and what he did way back when.'

Bill took the book from his brother again. ‘I just don't think it's my way,' he said quietly.

‘We've got the perfect opportunity this coming Saturday,' Uncle Doug told him. ‘We celebrate a brand-new Mourner, and my marvellous book hits the shelves.'

Bill sighed heavily, his brow deeply creased.

Nana Dairy decided it was time for her two pennies worth. ‘Well, you know what I think—'

‘Yes, we probably do, Mother,' Anne said, and Nana Dalry harrumphed at being cut short.

‘What do
you
think, Annie?' Bill asked her.

She considered the book herself for a few seconds. ‘Maybe it's what this family needs: a kick-start.' She looked at Uncle Doug. ‘But a tasteful one.'

He leaned back in his chair, spread his hands and smiled.

Bill was looking less than overjoyed. But was also looking as though he dearly wanted to be persuaded. ‘If you think you can—'

‘I
know
I can,' his brother said.

‘Am I in your book, Uncle Doug?' Jenny asked. ‘Am I going to be famous?'

Doug beamed at her. ‘We're all going to be famous.' He swept his smile around the table. ‘You want to be famous, don't you, Tim?'

Tim stared at the book. He remembered how he'd wanted the Mourn to show itself to Roddy Morgan and the students last night, and now more than ever he wanted that to happen. He was sure it was the only thing that would stop the whole world from laughing at him on his birthday.

SARAH WAS CRYING.
Small hitching sobs that caught in her throat.

‘What?' Tim asked. ‘What?' But he knew.

She pulled the sheets over to cover her, turned away from him.

‘Sarah. Talk to me.' He stopped at the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside: Sylvie and Mike returning to their room. He waited for them to close their door. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Tell me what's wrong.'

She shook her head and he took the meaning to be,
I can't
.

‘I thought . . .' he began. But what he'd been about to say was going to be a lie so he stopped himself. He knew this wasn't what she'd wanted. It was all him. Just him. Because it was going to make him a man. And the problem was, even though she was crying, he could still feel the heat of his want inside him.

‘Sarah . . .' He tried to hold her, brushed his fingers across her belly. ‘Come on, Sarah. Please . . .'

She used the flat of her hand to push him away. ‘No.'

He got out of bed, pulled his boxers and jeans on and
sat in the chair on the other side of the room to her – needing the distance.

Sarah had spent the early evening with Jenny, then at about ten had made a point of saying goodbye to everyone, even Uncle Doug. Tim had declared he'd walk her home, but had brought her to room two. They'd giggled and acted up at their daring deception, exaggeratedly hushing each other with lots of kisses. The worries of the last few days had slid way down in the back of his mind. The deceit and the delicious nerves it caused seemed to be the best way to forget, as well as a wonderful aphrodisiac.

They lay on the bed together. ‘Where do you want to be?' he'd asked her. The room was bright and spotlessly clean, but it was anonymous – plain and dull. Yet the ordinariness helped Tim's imagination. ‘We could be anywhere.'

‘I like it right here,' Sarah said, her head on his shoulder.

‘But we're in a hotel room, and it could be any hotel room in any place anywhere in the world.'

‘You choose. Wherever you want to go is where I want to go.'

He laughed. He tickled her, plucked at her bra strap through her T-shirt, tried to make her laugh with him. ‘There's loads of places I want to go.'

She pulled his arms around her. ‘I like it right here,' she repeated.

Which kind of annoyed him, but he didn't want to spoil things.

After three-quarters of an hour or so he went to tell everyone he was back and going up to his bedroom. Nobody
minded – all too busy talking about Uncle Doug's book. When he returned to room two he found Sarah already under the sheets, nothing on except her black underwear. There'd been a lot more giggling going on; kissing, touching. But then . . .

And now . . .

He was getting cold sitting there half naked. The room was dark and Sarah was just a shape under the blankets.

‘Sarah, I'm sorry. I . . . Are you okay?'

He heard her sniff at her tears, and saw her silhouette move as she rubbed her wet cheeks on the pillow. ‘Why were you like that?'

‘I thought that's what we were going to do.'

‘We said we were going to spend the night together. We were going to hold each other all night, you said, because it was something we'd never been able to do before.'

He stayed quiet. All he'd really wanted was sex. And part of him was surprised she hadn't realized.

‘Do you love me?'

He'd known this was going to be one of her first questions.

She answered for him. ‘You don't love me. You just want to have sex.'

‘Sarah, you wouldn't believe how much I wanted tonight to be special. It's been the only thing that's kept me happy all weekend.'

‘That's a bit shallow, don't you think?'

He recoiled from the spite in her voice. He didn't know
what to think. She was crying again but he didn't have a clue how to comfort her.

‘What have I done wrong?' she wanted to know. ‘Have I done something to make you . . .?' But the words got caught up in her tears and she had to bury her face in the pillow to quieten them.

‘It's not you.' It was half the truth. ‘It's me.' The whole truth would be that it was both of them.

He knew that loving her, loving her with all his heart, would be another tie that bound him to Mourn Home. Was it such a terrible thing for him to admit that he wanted to see the world? Was he a bad person for wanting to love other girls and women too?

He stared at her silhouette. He finally made the decision that had been nagging at the back of his mind for such a long time.

‘I'm going away.'

Sarah sniffed loudly. ‘What do you mean?'

He didn't want to say ‘running away' because it sounded childish somehow. ‘I just need to go somewhere else. I don't want to be here any more.'

He heard the catch in her voice. ‘Is it me? Is it because I won't—?'

He shook his head quickly. ‘No, no. Don't think that. No. Please.'

‘What is it, then? Why do you—?'

‘I don't want to be the Mourner.'

He'd expected her to be shocked, outraged, to jump up and down shouting, ‘You're crazy! What are you
talking
about?' But she was silent. He tried to see the expression on her face, but she was still turned away from him and the room was too dark.

He said, ‘I don't want all this stuff that my Uncle Doug's planning to happen and have the whole world laughing at me for believing in monsters. Because that's the problem: I don't believe in the Mourn.'

Silence.

He was shivering. He reached for his jumper on the floor and pulled it on.

‘You must have believed in it once,' Sarah said at last.

‘I did. At least I think I did. Kind of like the way I believed in Father Christmas when I was a little kid. And I've been wishing I still did believe, but—'

‘So am I a little kid because I still believe in it?'

‘That's not what I said.'

She rolled over so she could look at him, and he wondered how much of him she could see, because she was still just a silhouette to his eyes.

‘Why
do
you believe?' he asked, knowing that this was the question he should have asked his father.

‘I just do. I always have.'

‘But why?'

‘Because my parents always have, I suppose. It's just never been a question.'

‘Don't you have a mind of your own?' He'd meant it to be a joke, but had forgotten she wouldn't see the slight smile on his face. ‘That came out wrong,' he said quickly. But couldn't help wondering if it had.

‘Of course I've got a mind of my own. I believe in it because it's true. You've got to believe in it if it's true.'

‘But I've never known if it is true.'

‘Why would people go on believing in it for all this time if it was all just a big lie?' She sat up in the bed, with her knees up under her chin and the sheets pulled over them. ‘So what are you going to do instead of being the Mourner?'

‘Don't know,' he said. ‘That's part of the problem, I guess. As long as I don't have to be the Mourner I can be anything I want, can't I?' He just had to figure out what that was. Unlike most kids he hadn't spent his life dreaming about being this, that or the other because he'd only ever been going to be one thing. Now the choice seemed overwhelming and complicated. But having that choice was what mattered, wasn't it? The freedom of that choice.
Anything
I
choose
.