The Fearful (30 page)

Tim was rocked back in his seat by his father's anger. ‘I do care,' he said. ‘I do. And I've tried to talk to you about how I feel, but you won't listen. You just keep shoving that book at me, over and over again.' He looked at his sister for help; she knew. But she was just as shocked as he was. Her face was white, eyes wide. And when he turned to Uncle Doug the man was staring down at the tabletop, not meeting anybody's eyes.

Anne tried to put a hand on her husband's arm but he shook her off.

‘This book is what makes us a family. And if you don't care about this family then you are no son of mine.'

Tim stared at him, feeling sick inside. He couldn't have stopped the tears even if he'd tried.

Bill brought his angry face close to Tim's. ‘
Do you think
—?'

Are you blind as well as deaf?' At last Uncle Doug came to the rescue. ‘Can't you see the boy doesn't
want
to be the Mourner?'

Bill's rage was as free-flowing as Tim's tears. He turned it quickly on his brother.

Uncle Doug was unperturbed. ‘Open your eyes – the boy's the same as me. He doesn't believe in the bloody thing.'

Bill looked as though he was being attacked from all sides.

Very quietly Jenny said, ‘He told me he didn't.'

Bill actually staggered on his feet. He didn't know who to shout at, who to aim his anger at. He sat down suddenly on the nearest chair. The anger was still there, but it had been popped like an over-inflated balloon.

‘I was running away because I don't believe in the Mourn,' Tim managed in a whisper. ‘I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really sorry.'

Anne was next to him. ‘Tim, please, think about what you re saying.'

He was shaking his head. ‘I don't believe in it. I've tried to – I wanted to be like Dad. But I don't.' He wasn't sure if he could explain this to others out loud; he'd found it difficult enough for himself inside his head.

Anne had her arm around his shoulder, but she was looking at her husband. ‘Bill . . .'

‘Of course he believes.' He sounded a little calmer, but the veins in his forehead throbbed. ‘He's my son. His Carving is tomorrow. He has to believe because he's the next Mourner.'

‘You can't force him to do anything, Bill,' Doug said.

‘
He is the Mourner!
' Bill exploded again. ‘He has been since the day he was born.'

Tim was shaking his head; the tears ran and ran. ‘I don't want to be.'

Bill tried to force Old William's diary on him. ‘Read it!
Read
it! As my son, you
are
the Mourner.'

Anne took the book and came in between them. ‘We are going to have to talk about this sensibly, when we've all calmed
down a little, yes?' She handed the diary to Jenny, then took Tim's shoulders to make him stand. ‘Let's talk this through.'

Bill strode to the opposite end of the table as if staying close to his son caused him pain. ‘You are the new Mourner. There is no way around it. Your responsibility is not just to us but to all the Mourners who've gone before you.'

Tim was clutching at straws. ‘Jenny believes. Let her be the Mourner.'

‘Don't be ridiculous!
Read the book.
Only you can be the Mourner.'

Again Tim looked around the room for help. His eyes met Jenny's, and she held his gaze.

‘I'm the Mourner now, am I?' he asked.

His mother took his arm, worried he'd make things worse.

Bill only scoffed at the question.

‘So as Mourner, I get to choose my Underbearer. That's the way it goes, isn't it? Yes?' He swiped at his tears. All eyes where on him. ‘And I don't want Mr Gregory. I choose Jenny. Jenny is my Underbearer.'

Bill gripped the back of a chair. ‘Tim . . .' he warned.

Tim stood up slowly. ‘Yes, I'll be your Mourner, and I'll have my name carved into the stone tomorrow morning, if that's what you want. But I'm not staying here. I don't want to be here.' He reached out and took the handles of his bag. ‘Jenny is my Underbearer, and when I leave home tomorrow it will be her job to take over my duties.' He waited for somebody to say something, but nobody seemed to know what to say. So he left them to dwell on their own silences and went upstairs.

TIM WAS SITTING
on the end of the feeding pier in his best suit, his feet dangling over the side. Behind him on the shore there was quite a crowd gathering for his Carving – old and new Fearful alike. In his hands he was holding a small, rolled, black cylinder. He turned it over and around between his fingers. It was the film from the underwater camera Roddy had been messing with last night.

Earlier he'd had two separate visitors to his room, both asking the same question. First had been his mother.

‘Are you sure you're doing the right thing? None of us want you to leave home,' she said.

‘Dad says he can't bear to be around me.'

‘He needs time, that's all. Time to cool off.'

‘Maybe he'll cool off quicker if I'm in London with Uncle Doug.'

Anne hadn't looked happy. ‘Just so long as you know we'll miss you. And I'll look forward to the day you come home again, as our Mourner.' She saw him open his mouth to speak. ‘Just let me believe you'll come home again. I'm your mother, don't forget.'

He nodded, held back the tears because it was obvious
that once he started she would too. ‘You don't hate me, do you?' He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but he needed someone to reassure him in the most basic way.

‘Never, never think that,' she'd said.

Tim stared at the film in his hands. She'd also told him she'd persuaded Bill to keep what the family knew about the survey boat to within the family, but that could only happen if Roddy Morgan also stayed quiet. Tim reckoned Roddy very probably would.

He remembered the flash going off three times when Roddy was in the water last night. Three pictures had been taken while he'd claimed he was being attacked by the Mourn.

Jenny had been his second visitor. She'd knocked, come into his room without asking and sat next to him on his bed.

‘Are you sure?' she'd asked.

Then when he'd nodded: ‘Thank you.'

There was nothing Bill could do about it. Old William had written himself that the Underbearer would take on the duties of the Mourner if for some reason the Mourner wasn't around. Richard's wife had been his Underbearer, back in 1834, so there was even a precedent for women taking the role. And Tim wasn't planning on being around much at all any more. He didn't know what he wanted from the world just yet, but he didn't think he was going to find it in Moutonby or Lake Mou.

Jenny had said, ‘Your name will still be on the stone, you know.'

‘It's just ticking the right boxes, though, isn't it?' he'd
told her. ‘Keeping the Fearful happy by doing what the tradition says. Give them a couple of months and they'll all know you were the one who was meant to be the Mourner anyway. We both tried to summon the Mourn – maybe they'll come to believe you actually did. Especially if that's what they want to believe.'

‘It's not going to solve all our problems. There will still be a WetFun hotel some day, probably another survey too.'

Tim had shrugged. ‘Don't even get me started about what's going to happen if I ever have a son . . .'

They'd laughed. These would be bridges they crossed in time. For now, Tim was doing what he felt was right – for everyone.

She'd hugged him and whispered, ‘Happy birthday.'

‘Happy birthday,' he'd said.

He heard Uncle Doug's footsteps on the planks behind him. He knew it was time. He'd have his Carving, watch as his father engraved his name into the Mourn Stone. Then he'd announce Jenny as his Underbearer, and get ready to leave.

He stood up and brushed himself down. He looked out at the police boats still searching for Gully's body. This was the last day they were going to look – and nobody was hopeful. Tim considered the tube of film in his hand one last time. Maybe this had been what they were looking for; it might give them a few answers anyway. Those three photos could be duds – worthless shots of empty, black water, taken accidentally by Roddy as he'd panicked. Or they could show a picture of the Mourn as it had attacked him: definitive proof.

He slipped it into his pocket.

Uncle Doug was at his shoulder. ‘Ready?' he asked. ‘A few people are getting antsy.'

‘Your publishers, or the TV people?'

‘More like Mike and Sylvie. They've cancelled two flights already this week.'

Tim smiled. Then asked: ‘And my dad?'

‘I think he just wants to get it over with now.'

Tim knew how he felt. The cameras and reporters still made him nervous but he needed his father to know he was willing to have his picture beamed around the world, his face in all the newspapers, because he wasn't ashamed of what his family did. That wasn't the reason he was leaving.

‘Has he spoken to you at all this morning?' Tim asked.

‘Only to say he wants us to leave as soon as the Carving is over. He doesn't want me speaking to the Fearful; he says he'll tell them about my friend the nurse – and the dog's head palaver – when I'm already long gone.' Doug pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, rocked on his heels. ‘Which I can't help feeling is probably for the best.'

‘But you got what you wanted: loads of publicity for your book.'

‘For my book, yes. Let's hope I also got what I wanted for the family, eh? Time will tell, I suppose.'

They stood for a moment, staring out at the lake and the valley. Tim knew he'd see this view again, he just wasn't sure when.

‘It's beautiful, isn't it?' Doug said. ‘A fine place to grow up.'

‘Yes.' But Tim's eyes were on the water again, his gaze drifting back and forth over the restless waves.

Doug was watching him. ‘You can spend the rest of your life looking if you're not careful.'

Tim didn't doubt that for a second. He saw flickers and shadows, but nothing solid.

Doug sighed. ‘You know, a wise man once said, “For those who want to believe, no proof is needed. But for those who can't believe, no evidence is enough.”'

Tim thought about it. He guessed he probably agreed.

He turned to follow his uncle back along the pier. But before he did he took the roll of film out of his pocket again. He'd stopped searching, he'd made his decision. His decision was not to believe.

He dropped the film into the water.

As they walked together towards the shore he asked, ‘What you just told me – who was the wise man who said it?'

Uncle Doug smiled. ‘Ah, well. That'd be me. It's the last line of my book.'

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