The Fearful (28 page)

She walked past him to the door. The bright sunlight flooded in as she stepped outside, then seemed to evaporate as she swung the door shut again. He stayed staring at his feet. He knew she might have to hate him for ever.

IT WAS A
little before ten at night. There was decorative cloth draped over the Mourn Stone which would only be removed when Bill took a hammer and chisel to it at a little after ten the next morning. Colourful, if slightly damp, bunting hung around the garage and Mourn Home. Folding seats had been set out and filled the garden all the way down to the shore. There was even a special area just between Anne's flowerbeds for press and TV cameras, all organized by Uncle Doug. Everything was set. Everything had been arranged. But Tim had decided he wasn't going to be there.

He stood for a moment in the dark of the house's shadow and let the complete realization of what he was doing wash over him, in case he was going to change his mind. His bag seemed heavy even though it only had clothes and money stuffed inside, but his mind was made up. The last bus passed through the market place at 11.30, and although he hadn't really planned what he was going to do once he was on that bus, he knew it wouldn't stop unless he was there waiting for it.

Sarah would keep her promise; she would hate him for sneaking away in the dark. He doubted she'd be the only
one. He'd resigned himself to his own cowardice by putting up barriers in his mind. Of course his feelings for his father were the hardest to ignore, the most painful – his betrayal the most difficult to reconcile.

Bill and Uncle Doug were still at Stones's meeting at WetFun. Bill hadn't wanted to go but Doug had managed to persuade him, because most of the Saturday morning regulars had said they were going. There seemed to be an uneasy peace between the two men at the moment – Bill probably undecided as to how things should be handled, wanting to get the Carving out of the way first, and then worry about it. Ideally for Tim the meeting would already be over and the water-sports club deserted, but he couldn't risk waiting any longer. Because before he went, there was something he needed to sort at WetFun. He'd just have to hope there would be enough noise from inside the clubhouse to cover what he was doing. And what he was doing, he believed, was for his father.

He didn't see how the tradition could prove itself The scientists would trawl the lake back and forth, and like the police divers they would come up empty-handed. What would Bill do when the scientific data, the displays and read-outs and charts, all said that there was no creature anywhere in the Hundredwaters? No matter how much he played with his hearing aid he would not be able to avoid that definitive, black-and-white proof It would snuff out what he held dearest, wouldn't it? It would be proof that his life had been lived mistakenly. It would prove his duty was a falsity.

Maybe it was guilt on Tim's behalf – he was the one who was sneaking away in the middle of the night after all – but he didn't want Bill to have to face such facts. He wanted his father to believe for ever, because Bill was the tradition, and the legend was Bill. Just because Tim couldn't believe, it didn't mean his father shouldn't. Tim wanted Bill to be able to believe for ever. Tim loved his father for everything that he was.

He stayed in the shadows a few moments more, making certain there was no one else around. As satisfied as he could be, if not quite satisfied enough, he hurried down the garden, having to thread his way between the lines of chairs, and out along the feeding pier. At the far end the
Bonnie Claire
bobbed gently on the deceptively peaceful lake. He swung his bag off his back, dug in the side pocket for the hammer and chisel he'd taken from the garage earlier and placed them in the bottom of the rowing boat. His bag, however, he left on the end of the pier, reasoning he had to return here anyway. He checked the lighted windows of the house behind him because Anne and Jenny were still up, but saw no one. Then he climbed into the boat, picked up the oars, and pointed himself in the direction of WetFun.

It was a clear night; no cloud to hide the moon or stars – or him. He had to force himself to row as quietly as he could, which forced him to row slowly. It was frustrating going. He kept dipping the oars gently, but his nerves got the better of him and he held his breath with every clumsy, audible splash. He cut straight across the lake, keeping well away from the shore, wary of the dark, silent tents
even though he reckoned most people would be at the meeting.

It was an easier row than the last time he'd been out on the water, but it seemed to take him a long time to travel the short distance. He didn't row to the shore when he at last got close to WetFun, but carried on to the nearest jetty, and the boats that were moored there. He aimed for the outsized inflatable with its outboard motor and low cockpit – the boat Stones had boasted was to be used for the survey. The
Bonnie Claire
bumped gently against its tubular side and Tim tied up quickly before climbing aboard.

He forced himself to crouch down and silently wait – to watch for movement on the shore as well as calm his thumping heart. The clubhouse windows were misted over with the heat of so many damp bodies packed inside, and at the end of the jetty in the dark he felt sure he wouldn't be seen. There was a burst of muted applause and raised voices and now he didn't want the meeting to end, not yet. Just give him ten more minutes.

He didn't really know what he was looking for on the boat. There were a couple of metal boxes near the outboard motor, but they only contained life jackets. He investigated the tiny cockpit to discover it had a small hatchway door that was locked. It took him three fretfully loud but quick blows with the hammer and chisel to break in.

He hid behind the inflatable's high sides to wait again in case he'd been heard. When he was convinced he was safe, that he hadn't disturbed the meeting, he ducked inside the canopy shell. And here was what he'd been looking for.
Two laptops, one connected to a printer; instruments he guessed to be underwater microphones, or maybe even sound-wave transmitters – he didn't know, he was guessing. He did recognize a bulky underwater camera. This was the equipment the survey would use to prove the Mourn didn't exist, and therefore the equipment that would harm his father. The only thought in Tim's head was to destroy it.

Adrenaline made him rush, gave him confidence. He moved quickly now. Speed was what was important. He saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, but just thought it was the moonlight on the water.

He knew he couldn't start the motor – that was bound to bring someone running. But he had it all planned. He untied the inflatable from the jetty and re-tied its painter to the
Bonnie Claire.
Feeling his skin literally prickle with goose pimples he began to row out towards the centre of the lake. The inflatable tugged at the rope but moved surprisingly easily. He was going to sink it. Stones might bring more equipment and experts, he might have another boat they could use, but this one was going straight to the bottom where it could do no damage to his father's beliefs.

He pulled hard on the oars, facing the shore but checking over his shoulder that he was still pointed in the right direction. He was aiming right for the very heart of the lake, where it was as deep as one hundred waters. And he'd only managed seven or eight metres when he saw a shadow, movement, on the inflatable. There was someone on board.

‘What do you think you're doing with our boat, Monster Boy?'

If it hadn't been for the adrenaline he was sure he would have stopped rowing, frozen up, probably dropped the oars into the water in shock. But his heart pounded hard enough to keep him going. Roddy Morgan shouted again. Tim knew he hadn't rowed far enough yet, not by a long way. He dug the oars in hard, trying to get as far from shore as he could.

He could see Roddy's black outline moving around on the inflatable. He pulled again and again at the oars with all his strength, gaining another few metres, then some more. Roddy was looking for something; his silhouette ducked in and out of the small canopy. There was a sudden flash that briefly, shockingly illuminated Tim in the rowing boat. Roddy shouted, too loud for Tim not to worry. Yet he pulled again on the oars. And again. Another camera flash lit him up for the whole world to see.

‘Monster Boy!'

Tim let his arms sag; his muscles felt stretched. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing he wasn't as far out as he wanted to be, but realizing Roddy was not going to let him get any further. He slowly manoeuvred the
Bonnie Claire
back to one side of the inflatable.

There was a third blinding flash, but this time only centimetres from his face, dazzling him. His eyes watered with the brightness of it.

Roddy laughed. He loomed over the side of the boat. ‘Just wanted proof it was you in case nobody believed me. You're in deep shit, Monster Freak.'

Tim blinked rapidly, desperate to clear his vision. The white spots quickly faded and he climbed back on board the inflatable, bracing himself for the fight of his life.

Roddy had the large underwater camera hanging around his neck. ‘I saw you,' he said. ‘I was in your garden – I was going to rip all your stupid decorations down. But when I saw you sneaking about I thought, Aye aye, what's he up to? And I followed you. You're a crap rower; I was at WetFun ages before you. I sneaked along the jetty and you kept looking right at me – you must have been blind not to see me.' He seemed especially pleased with himself.

Tim knew he'd not been looking for anyone actually on the dark jetty, though. He'd been looking beyond it to the shore and the clubhouse. He cursed himself for not being more aware, for being too hasty, too nervous.

‘I had to run to get on board, but I've caught you now, haven't I, Monster Boy? What are you up to then? Doing a bit of monster hunting yourself?'

Tim didn't answer. He was panicking inside – he could feel the sharp fluttering in his chest – but there was no way he was going to admit it. He reached back into the
Bonnie Claire
for the hammer and chisel.

‘I think you're running away,' Roddy said. ‘I saw you had a bag full of clothes with you. I kicked it in off the pier, by the way. It was heading to the bottom last time I saw it.' He laughed – because he thought he was funny. He nodded at the tools in Tim's hands. ‘I saw you breaking in too.' He spun on his heel and took a photo of the hatchway's
smashed lock. ‘You're up to your neck in shit, Monster Boy. You're crazier than even I thought you were.' It was a great big joke to him.

Tim glanced around, trying to gauge their distance from the shore. It still wasn't quite as far out as he'd have liked, but he had to do it now. He placed the sharp edge of the chisel against the inflatable's air-filled side and dug the sharply wedged point in.

Roddy was at last quiet. Probably confused more than anything. And Tim hammered the chisel with all his strength. But the blade just skittered away across the tough, rubbery material.

‘What d'you think you're doing?' Roddy was shocked, but still confused.

Tim ignored him. He hadn't pierced the inflatable, but he could see he'd left a jagged scratch. Pushing the blade as hard as he could into the material, angling it sharper, he tried again.

There was a
pooff
and a rush of air.

‘Hey!
Hey!
' Roddy wasn't impressed.

Tim knew that just one puncture wouldn't sink the boat. The tubular sides were made up of different cells, each filled with air. He guessed he might have to put a hole in them all to be completely sure.

But Roddy wasn't happy about it. He tried to grab the chisel out of Tim's hand. Tim shoved him back with all his strength, sending him sprawling on his backside. He had time to burst two more sections before Roddy was on him again, and by this time the inflatable was listing.

‘What are you doing?' Roddy shouted. ‘What d'you think you're doing, you mad bastard?' He snatched a mobile phone out of his pocket, but Tim knocked it flying out of his hand with one swing of the hammer. Roddy yelped, clutching at his battered fingers. He called Tim every name he could think of

Tim ignored them all. He put another hole in the inflatable and with a rush of air the whole thing tipped precariously to one side.

Now Roddy was on him again; harder, quicker, fighting for the hammer and chisel. He hit Tim in the chest with his shoulder, slammed him backwards and down. Tim cracked his head against the outboard motor and the world fogged around him for a second. They tumbled together in the bottom of the boat, which heeled under them. Roddy cried out at the way the deck tilted unexpectedly. He staggered to his feet, trying to hold onto the side. Tim had lost the hammer but started gouging at the sides with the chisel, desperate to tear them open. It was all he could think about.
Sink it. Sink it!
The inflatable dipped so low on one side that water rushed over their feet. Roddy yelled; yelled for help. But by now they'd drifted a long way out from the shore.

The water was freezing cold. Tim realized the inflatable would never sink completely without all the separate cells being punctured, but he had to admit the boat was pretty much beyond repair. It slid away beneath his feet; water was filling up the pod-like cockpit behind him, twisting the inflatable over in a corkscrew motion as the still-inflated cells on one side tried to keep the whole thing afloat. He
had to get to the
Bonnie Claire,
but he couldn't find the rope to pull it to him.

Roddy was trying to climb onto the inflatable's tubular side as it rolled underneath him. He splashed and kicked. Tim had to get on his knees in the water, feeling around for the rowing boat's painter; it was still tied to the inflatable – he didn't want the inflatable to pull the
Bonnie Claire
under. At last his numbed fingers found the rope. He yanked on it, but finally the deck of the inflatable went out from under him and he sprawled face first into the lake.