The Fearful (19 page)

‘Where are you?'

Just the wind and the rain. Just the waves.

‘You're dead!' he shouted.
‘You're a lie!
'

There was no reply.

He slumped down, tipping the rowing boat dangerously. He no longer cared if he fell out.

‘You're just a shitty
lie
!'

He felt hollow and exhausted. He was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a race – and lost.

‘Tim . . .'

He tried to ignore the voice calling him at first, wanting to pretend it was just a sound carried by the wind. He closed his eyes to block it out. There was a slice of stars above the horizon as a gap in the cloud moved slowly across the sky.

‘
Tim
,' his father called. ‘
Timothy
.'

Reluctantly he picked up the oars, and using the dim starlight was able to point himself in the direction of the feeding pier. Sarah had obviously run to fetch Bill. Her nerves must have been too much for her. But Tim didn't feel betrayed – at least, not by her. He rowed slowly, not feeling anything. He was empty inside. His arms ached with the effort of rowing and that took up all the concentration he had. The waves struggled against him all the way back.

AS SOON AS
he opened his eyes he remembered, so closed them again. Tight. He didn't want to wake up – not this morning. He tried to cling to his sleep like he was clinging to his duvet.

But now his mind was awake and spinning through last night's events. The more he tried to ignore the morning light sneaking around the edges of his curtains the more impossible it was to pretend he was still fast asleep. Maybe it was all just a dream. Hah! No such luck.

Maybe today will be different
, he thought.
Maybe today will be the day when everything changes
.

The first thing he realized was how much the muscles in his arms ached because of all that rowing. And he had blisters on his hands from where he'd gripped and tugged at the oars. Then, when he finally submitted to the idea that he was going to have to face the day, he saw that he was late. Very late.

His alarm clock told him it was 9:15. He should have been helping out with breakfast two hours ago, but he'd slept right through. Right now he should be sitting in his
Monday morning history lesson with Miss Webb. Nobody let anybody sleep late in this house. Bill, Anne or Jenny (sometimes all three) were usually extremely vocal about getting him up on time.

Now he didn't want to get up because he was worried about what might have happened. His imagination threw up several possibilities. They could have forgotten about him – but that was highly unlikely. They were pissed off with what had gone on last night and couldn't be bothered to worry about him any more – which definitely sounded more feasible. Or something had happened to them . . .

He opened his curtains to look out at the lake. It was a bright day, but there was a slowly melting frost on his mother's flowerbeds. He checked to make sure the
Bonnie Claire
was still there, then looked for his father's bright yellow figure somewhere close by. He couldn't see him, although the garage door was open so he guessed that must be where he'd be found. Over at WetFun he saw the builders were back; several busy bodies moving around the site. There were already some sailors out on the lake, scratching silver wakes across the dark surface. The speedboat that he'd seen on the trailer on Saturday was back in the water where it belonged. One of the students was zooming across the water's chop on the jet-ski. Probably Gully – he was the jet-ski fanatic. They were going home later today apparently, and good riddance to them. Looking around the lake he saw there were also a couple of anglers on the far shore in the lee of the trees. Everything
seemed
okay.

Even so he dressed quickly if apprehensively, and headed
downstairs. He'd told Sarah last night that he wanted to leave. He determined that if nothing else, today was going to be the day he laid plans.

Anne was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a mug of tea and one of her chunky novels. The breakfast pots had all been washed and cleared away but the kitchen still smelled of fry-ups. Anne put the book down when he came in.

‘You're up,' she said needlessly.

‘Hmm,' he agreed. He hovered, waiting to see what she was going to say.

‘Do you want breakfast?'

‘Has something happened?'

‘Happened?'

‘It's half-past nine.'

She stood up and moved over to the fridge. ‘Your father and I thought you might want an extra hour or so in bed after last night.'

‘Oh.' It was unlike his dad to be so thoughtfully lax. ‘Thank you.'

Anne took some bacon and eggs out the fridge and went to the stove.

‘I'm not hungry,' Tim said.

‘Are you sure?'

‘I'll just have a glass of milk and then I'd better get to school.'

‘You don't have to go in today. I called to let them know a few minutes ago.' She returned the food to the fridge and poured him some milk. ‘Your father and I wanted to have a talk with you. About last night.'

He took the glass of milk but didn't sit down at the table. It appeared his parents had been having another one of their private chats about him. He wondered whether he'd rather be in Miss Webb's class, even though Roddy Morgan was in that class too.

‘Has Jenny gone in?'

‘Your Uncle Doug had to go into town, so he drove her and Sarah in on his way.'

‘Is . . . Is Sarah okay?' What he was really asking was,
Do you know the truth about what she was doing here last night?

Unfortunately his mother's answer was as ambiguous as his question. ‘You gave her a bit of a fright, I think. She was the one who woke us. She thought you'd fallen in. She said you'd been shouting but she couldn't see you in the dark, and then all of a sudden you went quiet. Your father was ready to ask Vic Stones for one of his boats when we saw you rowing back in again.' Anne sat back at the table. ‘I think you gave us all a bit of a fright.'

When he'd returned last night it wasn't just Bill standing on the feeding pier, but Anne, Uncle Doug and Jenny. They'd all had questions for him and he'd told them he was showing off to Sarah, trying to impress her, because he didn't think it sounded quite as stupid as the truth.

Anne had still wanted to know what on earth Sarah was doing at Mourn Home. Jenny had guessed what had been going on immediately and lied for them, saying she'd called Sarah really late last night to get her to sneak back round. Neither Anne nor Bill had been impressed, but had had to
accept the answer because it was the only one they were going to be given. Tim couldn't have been more grateful to his sister and knew he owed her a favour or two in return now. He wondered whether it ought to involve some sort of revenge against Gully.

Anne sipped her tea slowly. He noticed the grey shadows under her eyes and realized she must have been up all night.

He took a gulp of his milk and went to put the glass down on the table. But the table moved.

The whole house moved.

The noise, the rumble, was like the loudest rolling thunder Tim had ever heard. But it was a low, crunching bass note that came from deep underground.

His glass smashed on the floor as if it had jumped out of his hand, splashing the white milk across the grey stone slabs. His head cried,
Earthquake!
But he wasn't sure if he believed it. His legs almost went from under him as the floor shifted suddenly one way then the other. The solidity of the world felt brittle.

Anne had dropped her mug of tea. She was gripping the table for dear life. Her chair had juddered right out from underneath her and toppled over backwards on the uneven floor. Everything shook. Everything juddered, shuddered, jerked, jolted,
shook.
Cupboard doors swung open. The crockery inside seemed to leap suicidally from the shelves, smashing itself to smithereens.

Tim staggered again and this time lost his legs; he fell flat on his backside. His mind spun at an incredible rate,
a thousand thoughts per second. One thought caught hold and he remembered Donald's diary writing – his description of the terrifying earthquake back in 1908. He didn't think the man's words had been such an exaggeration after all.

He wasn't sure whether he should try to stand again. The shards of crockery danced and chattered on the floor around him. There was a sound like a whip – a loud
shh-nap
– and although the kitchen window stayed in its frame a crack instantly appeared diagonally from top to bottom in the glass. The door to the guest's dining room opened all by itself as if a ghost had just walked in.

‘Outside!' Anne shouted, lurching to her feet.

Tim moved on drunken legs, scrambling up, reeling for the back door. The ceiling light shade swung like a pendulum. The doorknob vibrated in his hand. He half fell onto the gravel driveway with Anne treading on his heels in her haste. Bill was hurrying towards them from out of the garage.

The deafening rumble was fading, its echo ebbing away.

Are you all right?' Bill was breathing hard. ‘Annie? Tim? Are you hurt?'

Anne was shaking her head. ‘We're fine, but—'

Tim was staring out at the lake. ‘Dad! Look!'

A wave bigger than anything Tim had seen before rolled along the feeding pier. It tossed the
Bonnie Claire
up out of the water and onto the planks and kept coming. It surged up the shore, past the Mourn Stone, splashing and foaming around its rough edges, and reached almost as far as Anne's
flowerbeds before at last slouching back. But Tim was pointing farther out to where the whole surface of the lake was churning. Two of the small sailing boats were lying on their sides; maybe as many as half a dozen people were struggling in the cold water.

‘Call Vic Stones,' Bill said to Anne. Then he was running for the feeding pier, for the
Bonnie Claire.
‘Tell him to get one of his speedboats out to them.'

Anne didn't need telling twice, but Tim was following his father.

Bill suddenly turned on him. ‘Feed!' he shouted. ‘Get some feed!'

Tim ran into the garage, ignored the tools that lay scattered across the floor, the stepladder that had fallen off its wall-hooks, and pulled one of the plastic bags out of the freezer.

He raced along the pier as another wave rushed towards them. It was smaller than the first, yet it still managed to rock the rowing boat now sitting on the pier and swamp their feet and ankles. He caught up with his father and together they heaved the little boat back into the water. Tim thought he was going to be ordered to wait here, and although Bill hesitated for a fraction of a second, what he said was: ‘I'll row.'

They pushed off from the side of the pier and Bill pulled hard on the oars. The lake was already beginning to settle but it was still as choppy as if they were in the middle of a storm. Bill had his back to the drama; Tim
was looking beyond him to the people in the water. Two of them had managed to climb onto the exposed hulls of one boat; a third was clinging to the mast. He couldn't see the second boat clearly because it was too far away, but the figures did seem to be close to it rather than far adrift.

‘I think they're okay,' he said.

But Bill didn't slow. Sweat stood out on his brow. He worked his jaw as if that would help his arms.

‘Was it an earthquake?' Tim wanted to know. Bill didn't answer and out of habit, thinking of his hearing aid, he shouted, ‘It was an earthquake, wasn't it?'

‘Keep that feed handy,' Bill told him.

They edged closer. And suddenly the water rose up around them, a heavy wave thumped against the rowing boat. Aftershock. Tim gripped the sides; icy spray drenched him. He heard a faint yell. The sailors on the closest boat were washed into the water again after almost managing to scramble up onto the tipped hull.

Bill glanced over his shoulder but kept rowing as strongly as ever. ‘Throw some of the feed over the side. Not the whole lot. Draw it to us if it's close.'

The
Bonnie Claire
pitched and rolled. Tim tore open the plastic bag and dropped into the water something that looked like it had come from Mr Gregory's shop.
Draw it to us,
he thought. Bill believed the Mourn was close.

Groups of frightened onlookers gathered on WetFun's shore. All they could do was watch. The anxious voices carried to Tim and his father. But they were lost in an
instant as a roaring engine burst into life. A speedboat shot out across the lake as if fired from a catapult.

‘It's Vic Stones.' Tim watched the way the sleek silver boat smashed through the waves rather than skimmed over them. It was quick to reach the sailing dinghy nearest the shore and Stones's passenger plucked the struggling sailors out of the cold lake. ‘He's got them. They're okay. He's got them.'

‘Throw in more feed,' Bill said. He was watching over his shoulder as the speedboat noisily leaped across the lake to the second capsized crew. Tim couldn't help wondering if his father wished he had a speedboat too, because it was meant to be his job to do the rescuing round here, wasn't it? To be honest, even over the thumping of his heart, Tim couldn't help feeling a little ridiculous in the back of the rowing boat.

The water seemed to settle once more. They bobbed in the
Bonnie Claire
and watched as Vic Stones circled the dinghy once, twice, assessing any damage, then started back towards the WetFun shore. But there was somebody running out along a jetty waving at the speedboat. It was one of the students. Tim recognized Scott and followed with his eyes to where he was waving, pointing.

Both Bill and Tim saw it at the same time. Tim felt his whole body go cold. Bill immediately started rowing hard again. Vic Stones on the other hand didn't seem to understand what Scott was trying to say. The speedboat sped towards him, too quick to see what Tim and Bill had seen.