The Fearful (23 page)

‘Are you in any position to turn that kind of money down?' Doug had asked.

The thing was, Bill had been wary of allowing the BGS people rooms anyway – he'd already insisted that all journalists and TV people be refused accommodation. It wasn't until the scientists had assured him personally that they weren't here because of the Mourn, they were solely interested in the earthquake, that he'd acquiesced. Everybody agreed there
had
been an earthquake and they were here to collect data on it, not to join in the discussion of the Mourn, or give evidence for or against.

But he'd still not allowed Doug to turf Mike and Sylvie out, and in the end the only solution had been for Uncle Doug to give up his own room. He now had a sleeping bag on Tim's floor.

A room had been offered to Gully's parents but they'd decided to stay in the Travel Inn on the road out of town, away from what was now the folly of the lakeside,
but still close. Scott had gone with them. When they'd told Bill last night that they would be staying in the area until Gully's body was recovered, he'd stayed quiet. Tim knew his father didn't believe the body would ever be found.

Jenny tugged the sheets Uncle Doug had slept in from the bed and set to with clean ones. ‘At least we're not at school,' she said. ‘I guess we should be grateful for small mercies.'

Tim bobbed his head in agreement. Life certainly seemed to be a case of spotting and extracting the good bits when you could.

‘I hope Sarah's been okay. The resident arseholes all know she's the next best target after us.'

‘Give her a ring later,' Tim said. ‘See if she's been getting
any
hassle.'

‘You
ring her. She's your girlfriend.'

He nodded absently, because he was thinking whether or not he would ever get back to school himself; whether he needed to; whether or not Bill would let him.

‘She still
is
your girlfriend, isn't she?' Jenny asked.

He was surprised by the tone of her voice. ‘I suppose so, yeah.'

‘You suppose so?'

‘Well, okay then.
Of course
she's still my girlfriend.'

‘It's just that I can't work the two of you out sometimes. She's idiot enough to adore you – why, I don't know – but sometimes you . . .'

‘Sometimes I what?'

Jenny shook her head. ‘Doesn't matter.'

‘No, come on. Sometimes I what?'

‘I don't know. Blow a bit hot and cold, I suppose.'

‘Do I?' He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘And what would you know about it?'

‘She
is
my best friend. We
do
talk.'

He was paranoid now. ‘Has she said something?'

‘Just that things have changed. She said you seem such a different person from who she started going out with in February.'

‘Well, things have been a bit weird recently, haven't they?'

Jenny shrugged. ‘She says you don't laugh any more.'

He didn't know how to answer that.

‘I've noticed it too. We used to always have a laugh together, but I hardly ever see you any more – even though we live in the same house. You just lock yourself away in your room all the time. You've got to admit, we don't act much like twins any more.'

Tim stared at her, a little thrown by what she was saying. He'd spent so long recently blaming Jenny for changing, but maybe he'd been doing quite a bit of his own changing too. He said: ‘It's because of the Mourn and everything, isn't it? And Sarah's part of it all because of her dad.' It sounded lame and Jenny didn't look particularly impressed by the answer. But it was the only answer he had. ‘I was going to leave home,' he told her. ‘When I didn't think the Mourn was real I just wanted to get as far away from here as I could.'

‘But you've changed your mind now?'

His first instinct was to say,
I think so.
But instead: ‘Well, everything's changed now, hasn't it?'

‘For you, maybe. Not necessarily for the rest of us.'

The utility room had originally been a privy years ago; now it held the industrial-size washing machine and dryer. They were kept in here because the walls were thick enough to deaden the incredible noise they made.

Jenny and Tim were stuffing the washing machine with probably far too big a load when Uncle Doug appeared at the door. ‘Tim, lad; Timmo – found you. Need you for a sec – is that all right?'

Happy to get out of any more chores, he jumped at the chance. ‘Yeah. Fine.'

Uncle Doug clapped him on the back. ‘I knew you wouldn't let me down.'

‘What's happening outside?' Jenny asked. ‘Is it as bad as it looks from in here?' What she was really asking was, could she come too?

But Uncle Doug didn't seem to realize. ‘You could say that. About five minutes ago we had somebody else shouting that they'd seen the Mourn.'

Jenny and Tim exchanged an almost comical look of surprise. ‘Who? Where?' they said in unison.

‘Just some little lad who should rightly be at school. He's only about ten or twelve so nobody's taking him seriously. Even I'm finding it tough to believe that after all this time the Mourn's decided to lose its stage fright.'

‘Did it attack him?' Tim asked.

Doug shook his head. ‘No, no. But it's caused a bit of fuss, if you know what I mean. So come on, Tim, lad. Got to stay ahead of the game.' He virtually dragged him away by his arm.

They left Jenny and went through to the kitchen, where Doug told him to shove his coat and shoes on – quick. ‘Is everything okay? Is it Dad?'

‘Your dad's fine. We're not going to disturb him.'

‘Nothing's wrong?' His uncle's urgency was making him edgy.

‘No, nothing to worry about. Just need you to talk to someone for me.' He had his hand in the middle of Tim's back to gee him along, but when his mobile phone trilled in his jacket pocket he dug it out to answer it. ‘Yes, we're on our way . . . No, no problem . . . No, away from the house. That pub I told you about . . . Dows Bridges, that's right . . . Okay, see you in ten.'

‘I'm not allowed to talk to anyone.' Tim couldn't help but feel suspicious.

Doug dropped the tiny phone back into his pocket. ‘Why not?'

‘Dad said so.'

‘He'll be okay with this. He'll understand when I explain it to him.'

Tim wasn't being given a chance to argue as his uncle steered him out through the back door.

His eyes went straight to the water, to the two police boats. So what if the lake wasn't really a hundred miles deep? It certainly seemed vast enough to make their job impossible.

He asked, ‘Dad does know, doesn't he?'

‘I'm sure he'll be fine.' Doug wanted to go in the opposite direction. ‘Don't you get yourself all worked up about it, but if we don't give the papers something they're not going to keep—' He shut up when he saw Bill striding towards them across the back garden. ‘Ah,' he said. Or perhaps groaned. Tim wasn't sure.

‘I thought I asked you to stay inside.' Bill glared at Tim. He'd only just rowed ashore; he was panting slightly, his face red and sweaty.

‘I know, but Uncle Doug—'

Uncle Doug stepped between them. ‘Bill, listen—'

Bill ignored him. ‘Come on, Tim. You can't leave all the chores to Jenny.'

Doug said, ‘I need him to talk to someone, Bill.'

And Tim realized he was in fact trapped.

‘No reporters,' his father said. ‘I've told you as much I don't know how many times.'

‘We have to give them something,' Doug insisted. ‘They're wondering why we're not talking to them, and if they get fed up they might decide to get nasty—'

‘Let them get fed up. Let them get so fed up they bugger off and leave us alone.'

‘We need them, Bill.'

‘I don't.'

‘They think you're being
aloof
. And they'll pay good money for an interview with the new Mourner. I'm talking
five figures
.'

‘Funny, that. I thought you were talking
shite
.'

Tim couldn't help letting a quick, nervous laugh escape.

His dad turned on him. ‘Go back inside and help your sister.'

Tim wasn't sure if this was the right time to start sticking up for himself or not. Still, he asked, ‘What if I wanted to talk to them?' But he spoke so quietly the breeze almost carried his words away.

Uncle Doug heard him loud and clear, however. ‘The lad's right, Bill. It's his decision, really.'

Bill's hearing aid was playing up. ‘There's plenty needs doing around the house.'

‘What are you going to do come Saturday?' Doug asked. ‘He's the Mourner then.'

‘He'll still be my
son
,' Bill growled.

‘No, Bill. He'll be your
Mourner
.'

There was a stand-off between them. Tim didn't like it at all, not one bit. He didn't want to be the piggy in the middle of their argument. He agreed with what Uncle Doug was saying: he would be Mourner; in terms of the tradition he would be head of the Milmullen household and Mourn Home would be his. Yet he was appalled at the way his uncle was using that fact as a weapon against his father. Bill was angry, but there was an uncertainty in his eyes as well.

He turned his glare on Tim. ‘Is this what you think too?'

‘I . . . I suppose so.'

Bill turned to walk away.

Tim grabbed his arm. ‘I mean, yes, I'm going to be Mourner. Like the tradition says. And if I am then I should be allowed to make some decisions, shouldn't I? I feel as
though I'm being treated like a little kid today. But on Saturday I'm meant to be one hundred per cent grown up and responsible.'

Bill was watching him carefully, was listening too.

‘It doesn't happen like that, does it?' Tim continued. ‘Growing up? It doesn't happen overnight, just because it's my birthday. Did it for you? Did you snap your fingers and become an adult?'

‘He's talking sense,' Uncle Doug said.

Both Bill and Tim ignored him. ‘I want to help,' Tim said. ‘I feel I
should
help.'

‘You think talking to reporters and getting your face on the television is going to help?' Bill asked.

‘No,' Tim admitted. ‘But I could help you, out on the lake, couldn't I? You can't watch everywhere at once.'

Bill's eyes softened the tiniest amount. He breathed a long sigh through his nose.

‘It's like the Mourn keeps popping its head out and you'd never know unless somebody told you. I can help you now; I don't have to wait until Saturday.'

‘Yes,' Bill said quietly. He nodded, once, making the moment of thought definite in head. ‘Yes, I suppose you're right, son. The bloody thing would have to be doing tricks and balancing a ball on its nose before I'd even notice.' He looked at Tim with an honest admiration and smiled.

Doug shook his head. ‘For what it's worth, I think you're both making a mistake. If you talk to them they'll print what you say, but if you don't, they'll just print whatever they want. They'll have a go at you, Bill, that's for sure.'

Bill wasn't even acknowledging him any more. ‘If I stay with the police divers out on the water, can you look after the shoreline?'

Tim nodded quickly. ‘Yeah. Of course. No problem.' He'd never believed he could feel so good about being his father's son.

ALONG THE WESTERN
side of the lake the shoreline had at least a dozen small but oddly uniform coves or inlets – geographical quirks which, when viewed from above, gave the water's edge the toothed appearance of a cogwheel. It was a rock formation peculiar to Lake Mou. The trees spilling over the top of the surrounding hills into the valley bustled all the way down to the water, making snug, shady bays between the rocks that were the preferred haunts of the local anglers.

They each had their favourite spot (or ‘swim') and were always mortified if some out-of-towner beat them to it during the high season. They'd steal a fellow's swim if they had to, if their hand was forced, and they would only ever share as a last resort. But there was one narrow cove they never used. This was the place where Old William had brought his pupils on that fateful day over three hundred years ago. It was marked by a simple stone, similar in height to the Mourn Stone, pale grey and crumbling as it stood amongst the shadows of the tall trees.

It was a pretty enough spot – easily as pretty as any of the other swims. But maybe the wood seemed denser here, the snug inlet that little bit gloomier under the trees. Maybe
the lack of sunshine made the air of this particular spot feel a touch cooler. Maybe for the same reason the shaded water seemed darker somehow. Even the out-of-towners who set up for the day only stayed a few hours. Maybe they noticed there was no birdsong here. Maybe they became frustrated when the fish refused to bite. But the local anglers would all tell you that no one liked sitting all day with their back to that damn gravestone. It was a feeling that for many would be made concrete after this day's discovery.

A dog's head had washed up on the pebbly shore. It rocked back and forth gently with the lapping of the water, the wavelets turned it gently. One side of its face was missing. The flesh was torn, the muzzle broken, the eye popped like an over-ripe grape – looking for all the world like it had been bitten, chewed and spat back out.

It was mid morning as Tim made his way through the woods along the western shore. There was a thread of a footpath that sewed its way in between the trees and he followed it as long as he had a decent view of the water. Now and again it fell back too far from the shoreline, got lost in all that green and brown, and when it did he had to scramble across the rocks until he could pick it up again. His father had told him never to lose sight of the water.