The Fearful (7 page)

Bill was saying, ‘The reading I've chosen for this morning is from July 1704, Old William's fifth year as Mourner. The creature had invaded his dreams while he slept, but he'd defeated it even in this shocking nightmare manifestation, and he awoke feeling anxious yet stronger for the new knowledge he'd gained.'

He was holding the pages he'd copied from Old William's diary. The diary itself was the most precious possession in the Milmullen household. So much more than a simple heirloom, it was kept locked in a glass cabinet in Bill's study. Each of the Mourners over the years had kept their own diary but it was obviously Old William's which held the most significance. It was all in there: the tragic day in 1699 when the ‘dragon in the lake' had risen from the depths and devoured the five schoolboys, the building of Mourn Home, the laying down of the tradition of the Mourners . . . Everything.

‘“Yet the more ways the Mourn found to besiege me, the greater it revealed itself,”' Bill read. ‘“Every layer of its
malevolence that was peeled away, I took as victory, for the Beast was permitting me closer observance of its unnatural being. I was gladdened to know my children would inherit many of the ways to protect our lives.”'

He paused long enough to allow everyone to turn to look at Tim. Who looked at his feet. Then Bill continued with the story of Old William's dream victory. ‘“My days as a schoolteacher seemed so very far from me now . . .”'

Tim only looked up again when he was sure all eyes were back on Bill. But he wasn't really listening any more. He let his gaze drift among the people gathered. He wondered if they knew all the crap he had to go through because of them. He didn't owe them anything, he didn't even
like
half of them, yet he was supposed to let Roddy Morgan do and say whatever he wanted just to keep them happy by being their Mourner.

He knew that if he could find a way out before his birthday, before his Carving, he'd take it.

Bill finished the reading. He folded the pages and put them back inside his cagoule. ‘May I have the lists of names?'

Everything was running the same as it always did, step by step. Tim watched his father and couldn't help but feel a little impressed by him. His demeanour hid his true feelings of anxiety. No one would guess the amount of upset and worry the news of Vic Stones's hotel had caused yesterday. He looked tired around the eyes maybe, a little rumpled, but still every bit the strong, reassuring Mourner.

Earlier he'd asked Tim and Jenny not to mention any of
it to any of the Fearful; he wanted to deal with the implications himself first. Those implications being, of course, that if all their guests went to WetFun's hotel, Mourn Home would certainly go out of business – Roddy had been right about that. The Milmullens would no longer be able to afford to live in their house. And the idea of Mourn Home without a Mourner was unthinkable.

He'd checked on the builders' progress this morning as soon as he'd got up and was guiltily disappointed to see they took weekends off. There was a small, albeit completely naive hope that they'd build the hotel before next Saturday and scupper his chances of being the Mourner. But
Dream on,
he thought.

Bill nodded to Sarah's father. Mr Gregory had been standing at the front of the gathering, just to one side of the Stone; as the Underbearer he had to collect the lists. He was a plump man with wispy, curly blonde hair and a doughy face – he looked like a fifty-year-old baby. He owned the butcher's in the market square and was often helpful in filling the feed sack. He moved among the people gathered, thanking them for their lists, then handed them to Bill. Tim had a sickening feeling Roddy would somehow have got his single-name list in there as well, but Bill read aloud the usual names the Fearful cared for and fretted over. The only difference being that everybody had included Tim.

Everybody wanted their new Mourner safe. Bill had warned him to expect it, but Tim blushed all the same. Not out of modesty; more out of guilt.

Following the traditional structure as written down by
Old William in his diary – each step in turn – Bill said, ‘Now we thank those who have gone before.'

Engraved into the flat, north-facing side of the Mourn Stone were twelve names that spanned more than three hundred years. The list of Mourners, Tim's ancestors, Milmullen fathers and their sixteen-year-old sons. The people gathered recited the names in chorus, out of respect, lifting their voices above the wind. There was room enough on the Stone for Tim's name (number thirteen – now that was a laugh). In a single, solitary week's time he'd see his father take a hammer and chisel and carve it into the granite – where it would be fixed, immutable, everlasting.

He read the list silently to himself after everybody else had finished, trying to remember a time when he'd wanted to see his name there too.

Again he let his eyes roam over everyone standing respectfully in front of the Mourn Stone, staring out at the lake. Nana Dalry, the Jessop family, Sarah and her mum. Was it really just him who wondered and questioned?

One by one those people who had brought an offering stepped up to the stone clutching their plastic bags and dropped their gift to the Mourn into the feed sack: Mr and Mrs Hinton, Clive Tucker the librarian. When ninety-three-year-old Eileen Such was helped forward by Sarah's father she looked so grey and feeble that Tim wondered why she didn't just climb into the sack herself and be done with it. But she'd brought a chicken carcass instead.

‘Thank you. Thank you all,' Bill said.

Old William had slit a lamb's throat open and let it bleed
to death on the stone while he'd chanted at the lake with his arms held high. It was just polite thanks these days. The feed sack was more than likely filled with roadkill and helpful offerings from the friendly butcher or a sympathetic vet. Squashed hedgehog, a couple of pounds of tripe and poor old Hammy Hamster, weighted with a rock which would quickly drag it down deep.

Bill struggled to heave the sack up onto his shoulder again, then he and Sarah's father headed for the feeding pier and the little rowing boat tied up at the far end. The Underbearer would row the Mourner out into the centre of the lake, where the feed could be tipped over the side. Meaning, for one week more, the town of Moutonby would be safe from the creature these people believed lived somewhere in the cold, dark waters of Lake Mou.

Bill and Mr Gregory hadn't quite made it as far as the pier when someone shouted, ‘Wait. Wait! We missed it!'

Everybody turned to see the American couple hurrying down the garden towards them. Sylvie was waving her arms, even though she hadn't quite managed to get all of her coat on just yet. Mike was trying to keep up with her while holding a digital camcorder at arm's length and not tripping or slipping over. He wasn't doing a particularly good job.

‘Oh, we missed you. We
missed
you. Can you do it again?' Sylvie was distraught.

The gathered Fearful didn't look impressed.

Tim's mother was quick to intercept Sylvie because it
really looked like she might make a dive for Bill. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I'm sorry, Sylvie, but we've finished now.'

Sylvie shook her head in dismay. ‘Can't you do it again for us? The folks back home just won't believe us unless we get a movie of you doing your, you know . . . your
thing
.'

‘Come and join us inside.' Anne tried to lead her away by the flapping arm of her coat. ‘We always have tea and scones afterwards. We like to have a bit of a feed ourselves.'

Sylvie wasn't paying her much attention; she was too busy directing her husband's camera-work. ‘Make sure you get them out on the lake.' She waved at Bill and Mr Gregory. ‘Go out with them. I want you to get him feeding the monster.'

‘There won't be enough room for him in the boat,' Anne said as politely as she could. ‘The
Bonnie Claire
only just manages Bill and Mr Gregory with the sack of feed between them.'

Sylvie frowned, frustrated. She wasn't happy. She lowered her voice. ‘Why do you need the fat guy anyway, honey? I'm sure he could—'

There were indignant gasps from one or two people who overheard. Luckily Sarah and Mrs Gregory were well out of earshot.

‘He's very important,' Anne assured Sylvie. ‘Oh, we couldn't do without Mr Gregory. If anything had happened to my husband he would have been the one to look after Mourn Home until Tim turned sixteen.' She noticed Nana Dalry, one of the most ardent and vocal of the Fearful, stepping forward and getting ready to open her mouth, so quickly
added: ‘Everything is very traditional for the Feed. Shall I explain what the significance is?' She gestured for Sylvie to follow her.

Mike had continued his slip-sliding way down to the shoreline with the camcorder up to his face. He stood with the water soaking his slippers and the bottom of his pyjamas, which were poking out from underneath his trouser legs. Tim realized he must have pulled his clothes on over the top of what he wore to bed in his hurry. Or rather, in Sylvie's hurry.

She sighed heavily. ‘We came all this way off our route and we missed everything. I wish you'd told us you were doing your thing.' She followed Anne towards the house only reluctantly.

Tim stayed where he was, watching his father. Next week, he thought, that'll be me. And that made him feel . . .?

‘That'll be you next week.' Jenny was standing next to him. She grinned widely, wanting him to join in.

‘Hmm,' he said.

She seemed put out by his lack of enthusiasm, but ploughed on regardless. ‘I know you're looking forward to it.'

He met her stare, wondering how well she could read him. ‘I'd be mad not to be, right?'

Again her face said she was taken aback by his attitude, but: ‘You'll be good, you know. I'd be nervous too, but I think you'll make a really great Mourner. Dad's always said so.'

He realized she simply thought he was nervous about taking over their father's role; she didn't know what his true feelings were. And that surprised him. He'd believed for
most of his life that his twin could read his mind. It was a sad and disappointing realization.

‘Hi.' Sarah had joined them but stayed a few tentative steps away.

Jenny grinned at her. ‘I was just telling him how exciting it was going to be next week. My favourite brother's having his Carving!' She honestly sounded proud. She actually clapped him on the back.

Tim noticed Sarah was unsure of how to approach him after he'd ignored her calls and not spoken to her so far this morning. She smiled as brightly as she could. ‘I'm really looking forward to it.'

‘Let's just hope it's still out there, then,' he said.

The two girls looked confused.

He nodded at the water. ‘The Mourn. Can you imagine how embarrassing it'd be if it had gone somewhere else? Or if it had died or something? There I am, dropping dead rabbits and stuff into the lake, and it's not even
there
any more.'

Jenny said, ‘Tim . . .' but didn't seem to know where to go from there.

He shrugged. ‘Nobody would need me then, would they?' He turned away, gave a quick snort of laughter. ‘I'd have to go and work in McDonald's or something. Do you think collecting feed is good training for making burgers?'

Jenny was going to argue: she pulled a face which looked a bit too similar to Nana Dairy for comfort. But then Gully and Scott came strolling out through the main door towards them and she immediately became that demure young
woman she always was around them. Part of Tim was impressed by the swiftness of the transformation, while another part was appalled.

‘What's been happening here?' Gully asked, yawning. He was wrapped up in a thick jacket and scarf and obviously hadn't combed his hair this morning. It stuck up all over the place – not that he seemed to care. ‘We missed a party or something?'

Scott looked much the same as he had yesterday morning. His denim jacket was too thin for the sharp weather and he shivered as he stood there, hunched up, his hands shoved in his pockets. Even so, he was watching the Fearful with a sly twinkle of amusement in his eye. ‘Tourists?' he asked.

Tim waited for Jenny to reply. She fussed with her hair, brushed it back off her face and smiled. He tutted at her, but felt obliged to say something in reply. ‘They're locals,' he said. ‘They come every week.'

‘Right. Mugs, then,' Scott said.

Tim didn't reply, not liking the way the two of them made him feel young and stupid. He stood up straighter, as if that would help.

‘So, have you made it safe for us?' Gully asked Jenny with a smile.

Jenny gave a small shrug. ‘Maybe.'

‘You've done your monster stuff and now we can have some fun out there without getting eaten, right?'

She laughed – not that Tim had found anything particularly funny. He saw the look in Gully's eye, the way he
was forcing Jenny to lock her gaze with his. He realized Gully knew exactly how his sister felt. He was obviously no slouch when it came to these things.

As if to prove it he asked, ‘Why don't you come with us?'

‘Where?'

‘WetFun.' He nodded in the general direction of the club.

Jenny was doing her best to look casual, cool, to look as though this happened every day of her life, but she couldn't hide her pleasure at being asked. Even so: ‘I can't. It's my mum and dad; they don't get on with the man who runs the place.'

Gully rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah. Parents and all their shit. Why do we always have to put up with it?' He grinned at her.

Jenny was gazing up at him through her long lashes – and it was Tim's turn to roll his eyes. She was as good at this as Gully. Where on earth had she learned it all? ‘I'm really not supposed to,' she said.

Gully glanced over his shoulder at the house, by way of pointing out that everybody had gone inside. And on the lake Bill and Mr Gregory were already too far out to be able to see what was happening. ‘Who's gonna know?' He made a point of looking at Tim and Sarah in turn. ‘Nobody'll say anything.'