The Fearful (29 page)

He gasped, the icy water stole his breath, but he wouldn't let go of the painter; he twisted it around his wrist. It was pitch-black even with his eyes open and the sounds from above were all but soaked up. He sank as he tried to kick, wasn't sure which way was up any more. As his mind spun he still had time to think that this was the first time he'd ever been in the Hundredwaters, and to realize he wasn't scared. At least, not of the lake itself, but because he wasn't an accomplished swimmer. He yanked down on the rope in his hands and managed to pull himself in the right direction. He'd never felt anything as intense as this cold, which was like a weight of ice forming around him. It made his legs and arms so heavy, so hard to move. He floundered, swallowed a black mouthful that made him choke. But broke the surface spluttering and kicking.

He hit his back against the
Bonnie Claire
and twisted in the dark, grabbing for it, almost tipping it. Forcing calm into his whole body, bullying his thoughts into ordering themselves, he hauled himself into the little boat.

Looking back towards WetFun he was amazed at how
far out they now were. And there was no one on the shore. No one to help them.

‘Roddy!' he called. ‘Roddy! Swim to me.'

Roddy was scrabbling at the slippery inflatable. ‘I can't swim.
I can't fucking swim!
'

Tim took up the oars and tried to get as close to Roddy as he could, but the barely submerged inflatable blocked him. He couldn't get closer than a couple of metres, but that was still too far for Roddy.

Tim shivered violently. The freezing water was in his bones. ‘You're going to have to try,' he called. He saw Roddy still had that bulky underwater camera around his neck and thought it must be dragging him down. ‘Dump the camera and kick over to me.'

Roddy seemed to galvanize himself as the inflatable twisted almost completely over. He made a sort of leaping, pouncing movement but his feet slipped from under him and he splashed full length into the black water.

‘Grab the oar. Get hold of the oar,' Tim shouted.

Roddy was flailing madly, his head all the way under. But by some miracle his fingers closed on the flat of the wooden blade and held on. Tim used all his strength to pull him up to the surface and drag him through the water to the rowing boat. Roddy was pale and spluttering.

‘Grab the sides. Just don't tip me in.'

Roddy floundered.

‘
Don't tip me in!
' Tim had to roll his weight back against the opposite gunwale or he was also going to be in the water once more.

Roddy scrabbled at the sides of the rowing boat and it lurched again. His hands and clutching fingers were everywhere at once, but he managed to get his head up. Without warning the camera around his neck flashed. A pop of light that the dark lake instantly gobbled up. Tim fell backwards. Roddy yelped and sank beneath the water again.

‘Roddy! Roddy!' He held the oar over the side. The camera flashed again under the water. And again. Then Roddy burst up to the surface and managed to clamp his hands onto the
Bonnie Claire
with such a fierce grip Tim didn't think he'd ever let go. But what was more frightening was what Roddy was trying to say.

He spluttered and choked on the water. ‘It bit me! It bit me!'

Tim wrestled him into the rowing boat.

Roddy had shocked tears in his eyes. ‘It bit me!' The leg of his jeans was ripped and they could both see a deep gash and blood running down his shin.

Tim said, ‘Let's just get to shore and get dry.' He was shuddering, his clothes feeling like they might freeze to him. He turned the little boat towards the feeding pier and rowed hard to help keep himself warm. He could see real terror in Roddy's eyes. His tears weren't from pain, but were hot from confusion, disbelief. ‘You must have scraped it on the wood of the boat,' Tim said. ‘You were kicking about a lot.'

Roddy watched the water, shivering, miserable, scared. ‘I felt it bite me.'

Tim stayed quiet, just rowed. He kept checking over his
shoulder for Mourn Home, kept looking across at WetFun, but everything that had happened seemed to have gone unnoticed. It was amazing to him, because he'd been in the middle of it. He tried to look for the inflatable in the dark and thought he could see the silhouetted hump of the last couple of air cells that would not let it sink completely. But he knew the equipment would be ruined. Except for the camera Roddy had taken from around his neck and flung in the bottom of the boat.

Roddy was gripping his leg just above the wound with both hands, as if it would help the pain, or the confusion. Had he been attacked by the Mourn? Had he? Really?

They bumped against the feeding pier and Roddy was quick to leap out.

‘Roddy. Wait.'

He didn't say a word, didn't even look back. He ran down the feeding pier. Tim was in two minds whether or not to give chase, but saw him run across the garden and head towards the town, not back to WetFun. Tim was in too much of a hurry of his own so let him go. But he realized Roddy had told the truth earlier, because his bag was nowhere to be seen. It had been thrown into the lake.

Tim climbed out of the rowing boat, but reached back for the underwater camera. He dropped it over the side into the lake as well, but not before taking out the roll of film and pushing it into his pocket.

HE STILL HAD
time to get to the bus, but he needed dry clothes first. As he ran along the feeding pier he saw people emerging from the bright lights of WetFun and faintly heard their voices carry. He had to be quick before his dad came back. He sneaked into Mourn Home and was upstairs in his room before he remembered it wasn't just jeans and jumpers, but all his money had been in his bag as well.

He changed anyway, shoved his wet clothes under his bed. He was tempted to search his uncle's suitcase, but didn't think he could bring himself to be a thief on top of everything else he was being right now. He pulled more clothes from his wardrobe to fill a plastic carrier bag. Was he really going to leave home with just that? He kept checking the time. He had to move if he was going to get that bus.

Maybe Doug would understand if he took some money. Tim would pay him back the first opportunity he got. He dithered. He looked out of his window to see Bill and Doug at the water's edge by the foot of the feeding pier. Cursing himself he opened his uncle's suitcase and searched inside.

He rummaged under the clothes and in the side pockets. He found a cheque book but that was no good. He was beginning to panic. There were voices at the bottom of his stairs, then heavy footsteps coming up. He'd only just managed to get the suitcase closed and fastened again when Bill came in without knocking.

He was pale, tired. He noticed Tim's wet hair, but only said, ‘Downstairs. We need to talk.'

It was probably to tell him about the meeting, Tim thought – hoped. He followed his father down to the kitchen. Roddy wouldn't have grassed him up – there hadn't really been enough time and he'd not gone in the direction of WetFun. He wondered if he'd ever find it funny that Roddy was now the one who believed. It was probably something Roddy would want to keep to himself for a long time yet.

Anne and Jenny were sitting at the table, both in their dressing gowns. Doug hovered near the back door, still in his coat. Tim was about to say hi, but then he saw his open bag, wet and dripping, on the tabletop.

‘What's going on, Tim?' Bill asked. Not angry – not quite, not yet. ‘I fished this out of the lake by the feeding pier not two minutes ago.'

Tim hung his head, stayed quiet. Roddy had thrown it in, but all it had done was drift ashore. He couldn't believe he'd not looked harder for it. But then he hadn't been thinking straight; he'd been in a rush, and freezing cold.

‘Tim?' Anne asked.

But he shook his head.

Bill pulled soaking T-shirts and socks out of the bag. ‘I want to know what's going on.'

Anne said, ‘Sit down, Bill. You're making everyone nervous.' But her husband ignored her. She turned back to her son. ‘You need to tell us what's going on, Tim.'

‘Is it because of Sarah?' Jenny asked.

‘No,' Tim said.

But Bill rounded on his daughter. ‘What's that?'

Jenny gave Tim an apologetic look, as if she wished she hadn't said anything now. ‘They've split up,' she said. ‘They broke up earlier this morning.'

‘What's that got to do with anything?' Bill growled. ‘There are more important things in the world than that sort of thing.'

‘Bill, please,' Anne said. ‘Will you sit down and talk about this in a way that—'

‘No, Anne, I won't. I've just had to spend over two hours with Vic Stones and his imbecilic cronies talking at me like
I'm
the idiot, then I come home to find my son's clothes are packed into his bag and washed up on the shore. I want to know what's going on.'

Tim stared at his hands. Cold water ran from his hair down the back of his neck.

When the telephone rang, everyone jumped.

Anne stood up, but Bill said, ‘I'll get it.' Even so he let it ring three times, four, while he stared at Tim. At last he went out to the hall to answer it. The kitchen stayed silent, although Bill's voice was too indistinct through the wall to hear anything.

‘You're going to have to tell us something,' Anne said to Tim.

He looked at his watch. He was never going to get that bus, so what did it matter? And with that admission he felt exhaustion flood through him.

‘I agree with your father that we need to know what's been going on,' Anne said. ‘I don't think there's anybody in this house who isn't concerned about you. We've all seen you've been worrying a lot recently. You know, this may be your last chance to get those worries off your chest.'

He knew she wanted to help, wasn't offering him an escape route exactly, but perhaps a way to open up. And he dearly wished it was that simple. But maybe his mum just thought it was nerves; a touch of anxiety because of the Carving, butterflies about his first public reading. He wondered if she knew how deep his misgivings ran.

The door slammed back on its hinges as Bill shouldered his way into the room again. ‘What do you know about Stones's boat?' He leaned over the table towards Tim, his clenched fists on the scarred wooden surface. ‘The survey boat. Do you know anything about it?'

Uncle Doug and Anne exchanged confused looks. ‘What boat?' Anne said.

Bill breathed heavily through his nose. ‘The survey people had a boat with a couple of thousand pounds worth of equipment on it, and it's been sunk in the lake. They thought it had just come free of its mooring, but it's been purposely wrecked.' He forced Tim to meet his eye. ‘
What
is going on?'

It was well beyond the point of Tim not being able to tell the truth now. He felt overwhelmed with weariness and he gave himself up to whatever consequences would follow. ‘I did it for you,' he said.

‘What? What did you do for me?'

‘I sank the boat so they couldn't do their survey.'

The silence in the room lasted for only the briefest moment before everyone's voices erupted at once.

Tim carried on talking – they could listen if they wanted to. ‘I was scared the scientists would prove the Mourn was all just a story. I thought if I sank their boat and wrecked their equipment they might not be able to do the survey. I didn't want people to think Dad was crazy any more. I didn't want that.'

Bill's voice was the loudest, so he won. ‘What on earth are you telling me? Are you stupid? Look at me.
Look
at me! What were you thinking?'

Tim shook his head; couldn't explain.

‘How do you think this makes you look as the new Mourner? That's going to look bloody marvellous at the next town meeting Stones decides to hold, isn't it? The thirteenth Mourner is a bloody thief and vandal!'

‘I did it for you.'

‘Don't be so bloody ridiculous.'

He looked at his mum and Jenny and Uncle Doug, but none of them seemed to be able to help him.

Bill paced like a grizzly bear. ‘And what do you think the police are going to say? We can't have a Carving if the new Mourner's got himself banged up in jail, can we?' He
smashed his fist down on the table. ‘Are you
stupid
?' He didn't seem to be able to contain himself and had to storm from the room.

The rest of them seemed to suck in a fresh, much-needed breath of air when he'd gone. His furious presence had seemed to starve the kitchen of oxygen while he'd been there.

‘What were you thinking, Tim?' Anne asked. Her anger wasn't as strong as the worry, the shock.

‘I did it for Dad,' was all he could say. ‘Dad believes, and I want him to always believe – because it's who he is, it makes him my dad.'

‘Do you really think he would care what that absurd survey of Vic Stones's will show? He will believe until the day he dies, no matter what.
That's
what makes him the person he is.'

Bill strode back into the room. He dropped something down onto the table in front of Tim. It was Old William's diary. ‘Show me your reading,' he said. Then when Tim didn't move he flipped the book open and pushed it towards him. ‘Come on. I want to see which reading you've chosen for your Carving.'

‘I haven't chosen one.'

Bill's face flamed red behind his beard, even though it seemed to be the answer he was expecting. ‘I'm sick and tired of your—' He slammed his fist down next to the diary, banging it loud enough to wake not just their guests but the whole of Moutonby. ‘This is a duty carried by better men than you for many years. Men that have made
this house proud. I just can't seem to get it through to you how important you are going to be to this town. You don't
care
for the tradition. You don't
care
that lives depend on you.'