The Fearful (24 page)

It was a bright day, but cold. He could see his breath. The evergreen smell wasn't as heavy as it would be in the summer but there was little wind to stir whatever fragrance there might be. This far from Mourn Home the world seemed particularly silent.

Looking back that way he could see the sightseers, the rubbernecks, the gawpers and the
ghouls
, all still chasing shadows with their cameras along the stretch of shore from the building site for the new hotel to the edge of the woods; but he couldn't hear their constant buzz. On the Hundredwaters itself, over towards WetFun, were the boats being used by the police divers, with the speck that was the
Bonnie Claire
bobbing watchfully close by. Bill had insisted that if people were in the water he needed to be there with them and the police had eventually acquiesced. Anyone else was forbidden from taking to the lake because it would only make the divers' task all the more problematic. Which hadn't pleased Vic Stones – he knew he could fill his yachts, dinghies and pedaloes twice over right now, no matter what price he charged.

Tim stood for a minute or so watching the restless surface of the water. He was carrying a rucksack filled with feed and it was surprisingly heavy, making the back of his neck and shoulders ache. He would walk as far as the marker stone then head home again. He wouldn't say he was enjoying himself exactly, but it did feel as though he was doing something rather than nothing now. And doing something his father approved of.

Last night had been a good night. Bill and he had talked. They'd made plans for Saturday together. He hadn't realized just how lonely he'd been these past months when that barrier had been growing between them. But now he felt like his father's son again – the greatest feeling in the world.

Because it was going to happen: he was going to be
Mourner. Because he couldn't deny the Mourn's existence now, could he? He might not have seen it with his own eyes, but . . . But all this
was
proof. He couldn't abandon Moutonby to the creature. Gully had to be the last.

He watched the police boats. How long would they keep searching? he wondered. And what would he feel if they did find the body? What if the opposite proof was given: that the earthquake killed Gully?

‘They won't find him,' he said aloud. And hearing it out loud made it convincing somehow.

He'd found it was important to keep convincing himself. There was still that irritating niggle at the back of his mind, reminding him how he'd felt this time last week. There was still a rational part of his mind telling him that the Mourn was impossible, but he knew the Mourn would never be a
rational
thing either. He buried the questions he had. He told himself his doubts would fade; they were leftover thoughts from how he used to think, and of course it was going to take him time to get used to his new beliefs.

He stared out at the water. The rucksack full of feed dragged his shoulders down.

It would be so good to see it, though. Because he knew doing this for the rest of his life was going to be so hard. If only he could see it with his own eyes.

He shook himself. It was no good to think like that any more. He had to be more like his father.

He climbed down off the rocks and continued through the trees. The marker stone wasn't far. He checked his watch.
He'd pay his respects to Moutonby's lost children, maybe tell them who he was, then head back.

The sound of somebody else up ahead surprised him. There was the snapping of branches and the rustle of waterproofs. He thought it might be a journalist – a reporter could have followed him. But it had been unexpectedly simple to keep out of their way. When he'd set off on his patrol earlier he'd happily strolled through the straggly crowd around Mourn Home without actually drawing a second glance. Mainly because they'd all been too busy staring at the lake, but also because hardly anyone really knew what he looked like. It was always Uncle Doug or Bill who got snapped by the photographers. Only one photo of him had appeared in the papers, a blurry image that had been blown up from a picture taken when he'd been an extra in the school production of
Bugsy Malone.
The caption underneath had read ‘Can this teenager keep a whole town safe from the supernatural predator?' Jenny had agreed it was an odd thing to print underneath the picture of an eleven-year-old gangster.

He saw the fishing rod first, the slender tip bobbing among the trees; then the pale, bespectacled middle-aged man in a baseball cap and wellingtons carrying it came hurrying along the path. Tim didn't recognize him, didn't think he was local. And this assumption appeared correct because the angler didn't know who he was either.

The man was carrying a large wicker fishing basket on a thick strap over his shoulder. It banged and bumped against his back. His haste was a stumbling run in his knee-high
wellies. ‘No, no,' he said. ‘I wouldn't go down there if I were you, sonny.' He used his rod to bar Tim's way. He spread his arms wide to usher Tim back along the footpath.

‘Is everything okay?'

‘It's not safe.' He took his cap off to mop his brow, and his salt-and-pepper hair was a sweaty mess underneath. ‘That thing must be close by. Don't go anywhere near the water.' He looked around with wild eyes, flinched when he saw the water was only a few metres away through the trees.

Tim realized this man was genuinely frightened. ‘Have you seen the Mourn?'

‘As good as, I'd say. Nigh on had myself a bloody heart attack! It must be close by.'

His father had insisted Tim take his mobile with him, in case of emergencies. He surprised himself by not immediately grabbing for it. He wasn't nervous – it was more important to see the Mourn. But the man wouldn't let him pass.

‘No, sonny, I can't let you go that way. It's too dangerous. Come on back this way and we'll get that Mourn man, or whatever he's called.'

‘I'm his son,' Tim said. And for the first time in recent years felt proud to say it. ‘I'm the new Mourner.'

The angler wasn't sure how to react to this and just stared as Tim squeezed past him on the footpath.

‘What did you see?' Tim asked. ‘Where were you?'

‘It's near that gravestone,' the man replied. He was still looking slightly bewildered. ‘You shouldn't go there. I'm not going back; I'll tell you that for nothing. Are you sure you'll be all right?'

Tim didn't answer as he hurried through the trees.

He started thinking the worst. It's one of the schoolboys, his mind told him – it's one of Old William's pupils finally washed up after three long centuries. It's Gully, his head insisted. Dead and bloated Gully. He followed the path at an awkward sprint, trying to both watch where he was going and fumble a lump of meat out of his backpack. It's the Mourn itself.

Maybe as much as two hundred metres further on he ducked through the trees to a spot he knew all too well. He'd been here many times with his father, many times alone too. The slowly crumbling, grey marker stone had so much foliage wrapped around its base it looked like it was rooted as solidly as any tree, no matter how worn its weathered surface.

He stopped by the stone, panting quickly, looking around cautiously. If it really was the Mourn he didn't want it to see him. He tried to steady his adrenaline as he crept the final few steps through the tangled undergrowth down to the water's edge.

And that was when he saw the mutilated dog's head bobbing gently against the shingle. He recognized Mrs Kirkwooding's golden retriever, Marshal, even though its fur was a matted, dirty brown.

He used his phone to contact Bill, made sure he was moving away from where the police divers were still searching and rowing in the right direction, then stepped back from the water's edge himself. He stayed a few paces
away from the water but swept his eyes across the waves. The angler could be right: the Mourn could still be close by after all. He watched for any kind of suspicious movement on the surface – dark patches, ripples.

Was it a coincidence that the head had washed up here, by the marker, at the exact same spot all this had begun in 1699? Tim didn't know. Did the Mourn know? Perhaps that was the real question. Was the creature sentient enough to do something like this by design? And was it coincidental that this had happened just when Tim was having doubts again?

It was probably just his imagination getting the better of him, but he felt a cold shiver run up his spine, as though he was being watched. He scanned the water. But there was nothing to be seen.

He couldn't help feeling sorry for Marshal, even though the dog had already been dead. He remembered how he'd looked in Mrs Kirkwooding's kitchen, and then remembered standing among the Fearful on Saturday morning wondering which half of the golden retriever was in the feed sack. He supposed he knew now. It was the Mourner's job to prepare the feed sack and he wondered how long it would take him to become as immune to squeamishness as his father obviously was.

Looking out at the lake again he saw it was going to take Bill a good few minutes to reach the shore. The wind was against him. He also realized he wasn't the only one watching the
Bonnie Claire.
The journalists were good at spotting stories; it was what they were trained to do, after
all. So it wasn't too difficult to get the idea that only the juiciest titbit would make Bill leave his tireless vigil. The angler might easily have told his story to whoever he'd run into as well. Both observant journalists and over-excited spectators came running.

Bill barely managed to make it to shore before the circus arrived. He leaped out of the
Bonnie Claire
and waded through knee-high water. ‘Couldn't you have covered it up?' was the first thing he said. ‘Put it in your rucksack.'

‘It's still full of feed,' Tim said, showing him the bulk of it on his back. And part of him was glad he couldn't fit that gory, stinking mess in there. The punctured eyeball stared blindly up at him, the ripped flesh around the mouth seemed to grin.

Bill tutted as though he was to blame. Then swore under his breath at the sound of snapping branches as two burly photographers pushed their way off the footpath and through the undergrowth.

Tim stood, startled, as the flashes lit up the dimness underneath the trees.

‘Have you caught the monster, Mr Milmullen?'

‘Don't be bloody ridiculous!' Bill spat.

The photographer didn't even flinch at his anger. ‘Can we get you next to the gravestone, Mr Milmullen?' Bill chose to ignore him but the cameras flashed anyway, shattering the quiet with their brilliant white. Then one of them spotted Marshal's head. ‘Is that a dog? Has your monster killed a dog, Mr Milmullen?'

‘Tim,' Bill ordered. ‘Get in the boat.'

‘This your son, is it, Mr Milmullen? Can we get a shot of the two of you together? Old Mourner and new together.' Flash, flash. ‘Maybe holding the dog's head?'

Tim's eyes flared with sparkled white and silver. He had time to realize that he wasn't going to see pictures of himself dressed as a gangster in the papers any more.

There were more people arriving, crashing along the narrow path between the trees; the tiny inlet was suddenly crowded.

Tim stepped forward. ‘Please, keep back,' he said. ‘Please.' He didn't know whether he was trying to help for his father's sake or for Marshal's. The cameras went off inches from his face. He couldn't understand what everybody wanted. Why they were all there.

‘Is it the Mourn?' someone shouted. ‘Can you see it? Where is it?'

‘Is it the student? Have they found his body?'

‘Can you see it?'

‘It's the monster! It's the monster!'

Bill was physically pushing people away. ‘There's nothing to see. What's wrong with you people?'

An elderly man with a tousle of white hair only just clinging to his scalp shoved Bill back. ‘I demand to see the body. I have every right. This is history happening here.'

For a second Bill was too stunned to speak. When he managed to get his mouth working again he bellowed, ‘What on earth do you want, man? His ripped and bloody T-shirt, or the stump of his leg? Get out of here, you
vulture
!'

But he couldn't hold everybody at bay. He took Tim's
arm and dragged him back to the water. He took off his cagoule and threw it over the poor dog's battered head, then picked it up and waded out to the little rowing boat with it under his arm. They clambered in, not caring about the sloshing of cold water, and Bill gave the head to Tim as he took up the oars. Tim could feel it even through the cagoule's thick, waterproof material and quickly placed it at his feet. The cameras still flashed and popped.

‘Ghouls,' Bill snarled, digging in the oars, pulling hard. ‘Bloody ghouls and vultures!'

Tim turned to look for the old marker stone but it was completely surrounded, lost in the fray.

TIM WAS UPSTAIRS
when his father called for him. He'd been trying to tidy his room but it wasn't easy with Uncle Doug's gradually exploding suitcases. He found Bill sitting at the kitchen table with the phone held a little too hard against his good ear. His voice was calm but he spoke through gritted teeth, as though he'd much rather be bellowing.

‘Can you spare half an hour or so this evening?' he asked.

‘Yeah. If you need me.'

Bill spoke into the receiver. ‘Yes. We can come now.' He kept his eyes on Tim while he listened to the reply. ‘Well, you think about it. You need to speak to my son more than you do me, because it's him who's going to be running the show from Saturday.' Another pause, still watching Tim. ‘Yes. We're on our way.'

He cut the call. Tim hovered, waiting.

‘Get your coat on,' Bill told him, getting up.

They were about to leave when Anne came in from the driveway.