The Fearful (20 page)

‘Throw in the rest of the feed.' Bill dug the oars into
the water with all his strength as he tried to power the little boat along. ‘Throw it in, Tim!'

Tim did as he was told. Icy dread filled his belly, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the shocking sight. There was a jet-ski bobbing in the waves. Riderless. Gully was nowhere to be seen.

BE CAREFUL WHAT
you wish for
. Tim couldn't remember where he'd heard that before.

He was watching TV in his room; watching Uncle Doug being interviewed by the breakfast television news reporter, trying to explain about the legend and the Mourn and why what had happened had happened. And if Tim turned round to look through the window he'd see the two police boats out on the lake searching for Gully's body.

But he hadn't wished for this, had he? Not this much, this bad.

But the Mourn
had
answered him. And wasn't everything that was happening now his much sought-after proof? He felt forced into believing. He'd summoned the Mourn, he'd called for it to prove itself to him, and it had taken Gully just like it had taken those schoolboys back in 1699. Wasn't this what he had to believe now?

There was a gentle knock at his door. His mother came into the room. ‘Can you switch that off and come downstairs, love? I want to have a quick word with you and Jenny before you go to school.'

As he reached forward to push the
OFF
button he heard
the reporter say: ‘. . . and what has been only a small legend for over three hundred years yesterday suddenly exploded into the national consciousness . . .'

He followed his mother down to the kitchen. The lights were all on because the cracked window had been boarded up. Jenny was already sitting at the table, a new mug of tea held in both hands. There were two cardboard boxes of fresh crockery on the floor waiting to be fully unpacked; so far they'd only taken out what had been needed for breakfast. Tim sat opposite his sister at the table. It was obvious she hadn't slept much last night; her complexion was sickly and she had deep grey shadows under her eyes. She looked like she'd been crying until only a few moments ago.

She hadn't said anything to anyone yesterday when she'd been brought home from school early. Anne had explained what had happened (she'd already known about the earthquake because the tremors had been felt at the school) and she'd disappeared up to her room without speaking to anyone – then stayed there. He wondered if she knew what he'd done, that it could be his fault. The only thing he couldn't work out was whether the creature had attacked Gully by chance, or whether it
knew
he hated him?

‘You okay?' he asked.

She gave a small nod but didn't look up.

Yesterday had been difficult for the whole family. To Tim it had felt a bit like living in an underwater world. The proper, outside world of loud noises had been muted and it had taken a real effort to wade through the hours and minutes
and seconds. But now that time had dried, there didn't seem to be a single drop of it left – he couldn't tell where the day had gone. He'd watched the TV vans with their satellite dishes and masses of cables take over the lakeside, churn up the mud, spill dozens of people and cameras onto the shore. But if anybody asked him now what time they'd arrived, he wouldn't have a clue.

Last night had been worse – lying in the dark, thinking in circles, feeling scared and guilty. He hadn't been the only one. He'd been to the toilet once at midnight, again just after three, and he'd seen Jenny's light was still on and had heard his parents talking with Uncle Doug in the study both times.

‘Dad's going to run you to school in a few minutes,' Anne told them. ‘We don't want you walking and having to fight off the reporters on the way. We'd rather you didn't talk to any reporters at all – Dad and Uncle Doug can do that, yes?'

They both nodded.

‘It will be best if you try and treat school like as normal a day as possible.'

They nodded again, albeit reluctantly this time. Tim certainly wasn't looking forward to having to go at all; doubted Jenny was either. It didn't take a genius to work out that school was going to be kind of tough today.

Anne put a mug of tea on the table in front of him before turning her attention to the sink. The guests' breakfasts had already been dealt with but there was still the washing-up to be done. Tim got up to help just as Uncle Doug came in through the back door.

Anne was quickest to ask: ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Bedlam,' Doug said, kicking off his shoes. Then: ‘They all want to interview Bill. I reckon they're getting a bit fed up of me.'

‘He's patrolling the shore. It's even more important he keeps up his duties now.'

‘I know, Annie, love. You know that, I know that. But these journalists are looking for an angle – as if a man-eating lake monster isn't enough!' He helped himself to tea from the pot. ‘I can only repeat everything I already told them yesterday, and the police haven't found the poor bugger's body, which means they've got nothing new to say either. So to keep the story interesting they've started calling us a “cult”.'

Anne shook her head. ‘But that's ridiculous.'

‘Again, Annie: we both know it.' He slumped down at the table beside Jenny. ‘At first it was all questions about why I was sure the Mourn had attacked the lad rather than him simply losing control of the jet-ski during the earthquake, falling in and drowning. And I think the point that the police haven't found sight nor sign of him yet answers that. But then this smart-arse from the BBC who seemed to have done a little more of his research started talking about how Bill had failed in his duty because he didn't protect the lad in the first place.'

Anne sucked in her breath through gritted teeth. Tim and Jenny exchanged edgy glances.

‘Bill's going to have to talk to these people if he wants to defend himself,' Doug said.

‘He won't.' Anne looked grim. ‘He said he won't talk to
any
reporters. He says it's none of their business.'

‘A young lad's been killed by the Mourn, Bill is the Mourner – the whole country sees it as their business. I don't think he understands how the media works these days. You can't ignore it. You may be able to avoid many things in life, but the media – same as the police or the government – has a tendency to seek you out whenever it feels like it. You know, if he doesn't stand up to these people and defend himself, he's going to end up with the blame.'

Tim had heard enough. ‘But it's not his fault! He didn't—'

His mother shushed him. ‘Please, Tim. It's—'

‘Dad's not to blame!'

‘Hey, of course he's not.' Uncle Doug held up his hand for calm. ‘But he has to fight his own battles. Neither you nor I can do it for him.'

‘That's not what I mean.'

Anne was sharp. ‘Tim! Please! I don't want our guests hearing about all our problems.'

‘But—'

‘You go get ready for school. Don't cause your father any more worries by making him late as well this morning.'

He felt like a small child being banned from ‘grown-up' conversation. It hurt him and provoked his anger in equal measure because they didn't know all the facts, and weren't even willing to listen. He still hadn't admitted what he was really doing out on the lake the other night. But when Jenny stood up to leave the room he followed, feeling it was important to talk to her as well.

They went to Jenny's bedroom, switched on her TV. It was the first time they'd been alone together since their argument on Saturday morning.

‘I wanted to say thanks for not saying anything to Dad – about what I said.'

‘I still might.'

He took the hint and shut up.

ITV were repeating an interview with Uncle Doug from last night.

‘. . . we're not doubting the fact that there was an earthquake. There are records of other tremors in this area dating back centuries. But this morning's was perhaps the strongest one for many years, and we believe it was probably the reason for the Mourn's attack. The tremor caused a great disturbance deep down in the lake that must have roused the creature, bringing it closer to the surface than it's been in a long, long while . . .'

Tim shook his head. ‘I don't think that's true.'

‘You don't think
any
thing's true.'

Tim flinched. ‘No, listen – I was wrong. What I said to you on Saturday, I'm admitting I was wrong, okay?'

‘Why? Because it's all on telly now?'

‘No. Of course not.'

‘What then?'

‘I know I said I didn't believe. I said I needed proof, didn't I? Well that's why I was out on the lake on Sunday night. I was trying—'

But he didn't get the chance to finish what he was saying
because their father was at the door. ‘Turn that off,' he said. ‘I'm taking you to school.'

Again Tim had to bite back his confession. It was harder to do second time around: the guilt was swelling inside him. He felt like it might burst him wide open.

It might have been exciting if it wasn't so nerve-racking. Tim sat in the back of the van, Jenny up front next to Bill. They had to drive through a rowdy scrum of journalists and photographers; a flash popped brightly, there were shouted questions and somebody thumped on the passenger-side window, making Jenny yelp. She looked pale. Tim just couldn't believe it; he'd never seen anything like it. Bill blared his horn and drove slowly but steadily, refusing to stop.

Tim didn't know if Uncle Doug had told him what the reporter had said – about him failing in his duty. If he did know, he was hiding it well. But then he'd always been good at hiding his feelings. Maybe he'd just turned his hearing aid off. Although Tim reckoned even that prop wouldn't have been able to block out this kind of noise.

They managed to get to the main road and over the Dows Bridges in one piece.

‘Either your Uncle Doug or I will be there to pick you up tonight. I don't want you talking to anybody you don't know today. No sneaking out to the chippy for lunch, please. Just stay on the school grounds. I've already rung your Head – Mrs Collins, isn't it? – and she's promised to do everything she can to make it as normal a day as possible for everybody. Yes?'

Tim and his sister nodded silently.

‘If anything does happen – and I'm not saying it will, but just in case – report it to her straight away. I know she's not Fearful, but she has a job to do. Luckily for us she knows that.'

Again they nodded.

Tim sat quietly in the back of the van as they drove along Goode Street, Couth Lane, getting closer to school. He was desperate to say something to Bill, but was scared he might not listen. Not that he knew what to say, or how to say it. He forced himself to speak before it was too late.

‘Dad!' It was as if the word had leaped out with some force behind it. He rushed on. ‘It's not your fault, Dad.'

Bill stayed facing forward as he drove. He made no sign of even hearing.

Jenny turned and frowned at him, wanting him to shut up, but he said, ‘It's not your fault about Gully. You couldn't have done anything about it.'

‘Thank you, Tim.' Bill said it so quietly Tim had to strain to hear him above the noise of the engine. He slowed and pulled up at a zebra crossing, letting two elderly women cross. One peered into the van and pointed them out to her companion. They both stared. He put his foot down again, perhaps a touch too hard. ‘At least this has happened now. It's best it's happened at the end of my time instead of at the beginning of yours.'

Tim struggled with what to say. He still hadn't said what he wanted to. The van climbed the hill towards the school. ‘I . . . I think
I
might have done it. I think I summoned the Mourn on Sunday night.' He ignored Jenny's glare. ‘I
wanted to see it, I challenged it to prove itself to me. I think I made it get Gully because . . .' He looked away from his sister. ‘Because we'd had an argument. I hated him. I think it's my fault, not yours.'

Jenny's face had softened; she looked confused, not angry.

Bill stopped the van at the side of the road. He turned round fully in the driver's seat to look at his son. ‘Some Mourners have claimed to have had the power to summon the Mourn – Old William, of course, but James and Donald too. I never have; I've never wanted to. Maybe you do – only time will tell. I'll warn you, though: don't ever think you can control it.'

He waited for Tim to nod his understanding.

‘I don't like to hear you saying you hate anyone,' he said, turning round to stare up the road. ‘But the Mourn took that lad as a show of its power, that's what I believe. We're coming up to an important time of change for all of us. This weekend we see the new Mourner initiated; the creature can no doubt sense this, and wants us to remember why we call ourselves “Fearful”. That's what I believe. Perhaps I should have realized. Mr Spicer saw the creature not long after my Carving; these things happen for a reason.' He twisted his head to look at Tim again. ‘I need you to read the diary, okay?'

‘I am. I was—'

‘Read what Old William has to say. That way you can help me make sure this never,
never,
happens again.'

Tim hid his dismay at again being told to read the book. But maybe this time he understood why. For Bill it was what made sense of the world when everything seemed to
be going wrong. He watched his father's eyes in the rear-view mirror as he drove them the rest of the way to school. And if the diary worked so well for him then why couldn't it work like that for Tim too? He just hadn't tried hard enough to understand it on Saturday night, that was the problem. He had to make a proper effort.