The Fearful
Authors: Keith Gray
Contents
The legend says that in 1699 schoolteacher William Milmullen and his five pupils visited Lake Mou, but only William returned. He claimed that a terrifying
creature rose from the lake and devoured the boys. But did it? And if it all happened so long ago, does it really matter to anyone nowadays anyway?
The legacy of that tragedy lives on in the town of Moutonby: a town divided between those who believe in the legend of the lake monster, and those who don't.
Tim Milmullen wishes he knew the answer. Every day he watches the dark water, looking for a sign. Because if the stories are true, if the creature in the lake is real,
then according to the legend he's the only one who can stop it from killing again.
Biggest thanks must go to the effulgent Charlie
Sheppard, who fights very hard for me, and to
Carolyn Whitaker. They both deserve medals:
For tolerance in the face of extreme adversity.
Thank you to Miriam Hodgson for helping shape
the idea in the beginning, and to Harriet and Lucy
for eleventh-hour inspiration; to the Scottish Arts
Council for their support; and to Andy Briggs and
Steve â for being Andy Briggs and Steve.
But I'd like to dedicate this book,
with all my love, to Jasmine.
Friday 17th November
Tim Milmullen's Monster
WHATEVER IT WAS,
it could only have been dead for a couple of hours. But in those couple of hours it had obviously been re-run over at least half a dozen times. Animal pancake. Either a fox or a cat, way too big for a squirrel. It took a lot of elbow grease to get it up from the road, the spade's metal blade ringing harshly against the tarmac in the early morning hush. And even then there were sticky bits of fur or something still left there.
Tim grimaced as he dumped it into the sack.
He stood in the lamppost light; even the sun wasn't up yet. It was six-thirty in the morning of what looked like turning out to be a particularly miserable November day. The tail end of last night's storm still whipped its chill wind around the tall elms and horse chestnuts lining either side of Park Avenue. It rattled the branches high above Tim's head and bit right through his cagoule and all four of his jumpers. On his I-hate-this-job scale of 1 to 10, he rated this at a 9, easily. Maybe even a 9½. He refused to give it a 10. Not that he knew a job worthy of a full 10; he just hated the thought that he could be doing
the worst job in the world
.
A car passed by on the road, kicking up leaves. He turned his back on its headlights in case it was someone who might recognize him.
Last night's storm had ripped the last of the leaves from the trees and they covered the avenue like a soggy blanket, making his task even more difficult. He slushed through the thick drifts in the gutter with his wellies, spotted the stiff, crooked body of a blackbird amongst all that brown, and tossed it quickly into the sack to join the fox or cat or whatever it was. He hated these mornings when he was forced into helping his father with the collecting; he tried not to think about having to do it for the rest of his life.
But he was determined
not
to have to do this for the rest of his life â that was the point. He'd do anything to stop it from happening. Anything. He'd change his name; he'd leave home if he had to. He just had to do it soon, because in only a few days he'd be sixteen and then, for what it was worth, the rest of his life would be over.
His father appeared from out of the darkness of the bushes at the edge of the park and Tim immediately felt guilty, worried his father would be able to tell what he was thinking. But the man didn't show any sign of it if he did. He was carrying a spade and a sack of his own. He stopped to kick around in the leaves by the roots of an old elm, aiming his torch, but didn't see anything interesting so walked over to where Tim was standing shivering in the road.
Bill Milmullen was a couple of centimetres taller than his son, with a black beard and slightly scruffy-looking hair that came down over his ears. He grew it long because he'd always
been self-conscious about the hearing aid in his left ear, something he'd had to wear since he was a child. He wasn't a man who usually drew attention to himself, but he looked conspicuous enough today in his yellow waterproofs.
âAny luck?' He took Tim's sack to feel the weight.
âNot much,' Tim said.
Bill shook his head, tugging gently on his beard. âNot a good day,' he said. âNot a good day at all, eh?' He turned to Tim, who simply shrugged.
He looked back across the park, tapping the toe of his boot gently with his spade, deciding what to do next. Tim watched him, wanting to force a decision on him; thinking,
Let's go home. Just say, âLet's call it a day,' and head for home
.
But his father was no mind reader. And Tim didn't have the courage to voice his thoughts. The wind stirred the leaves at their feet.
âDidn't you manage to find anything?' Tim asked.
âHalf a hedgehog,' his father said with a sigh. He took his spade up again. âWell, the way I see it, we've got a choice. I checked the freezer before we came out, and it's full enough for tomorrow as it is, so we could always head home now. It's next week that worries me â if things are still no better we could end up with only half a feed for your Carving.' He raised his eyebrows at Tim, who was looking at his feet. âSo maybe it'd be best to head for the playing fields and hope we're luckier there. What do you think?' He checked his watch. âWe've got plenty of time before breakfast. It's not even seven yet. What do you reckon? See what we can
find at the playing fields? That's going to be the best bet, isn't it?'
Tim didn't say a word as he trudged after his father back towards the van. He knew it wasn't as if he'd really had a choice anyway.
I'm going to leave home, he thought.
I'm going to have to get away.
And the thought shocked him a little. Not because it was a new thought â he'd been thinking it for months. It shocked him because he suddenly realized he could; he really and truly, honestly
could.
He trembled slightly inside his thin cagoule and four jumpers. If push came to shove, he had to get away.
âMr Milmullen. Hello! Mr Milmullen.'
Both Tim and his father turned at the sound of the voice. Mrs Kirkwooding was standing at the top of the driveway of her large, austere house that overlooked the park. The elderly lady waved again, clutching a purple dressing gown around her skinny frame. Bill hurried over and Tim was quick to follow. At last, this was a stroke of luck. He realized her appearance could mean he got to go home early, so he put a spring in his step to catch up with his dad.
âMrs Kirkwooding; how are you this morning?'
âAh, Mr Milmullen, good. I'm so pleased to have caught you.' The old lady fought with the wind for the hem of her dressing gown. âI'm afraid I've lost Marshal,' she said. âI was hoping you could help.' Tim's father looked dubious. But the old lady was already walking away up her long driveway, expecting the pair of them to follow.
Mrs Kirkwooding was a friend of the Milmullens, a regular on Saturday mornings: one of the Fearful. She lived alone in her grand house, had done ever since Dr Kirkwooding died. She kept the house itself spotless, even had a girl from Tim's year at school help her with all the dusting and polishing, but she refused to touch the garden. She'd left it to grow and sprawl exactly as it wanted to over the years, saying that it had always been her husband's passion and she had no right to interfere even now. But she sometimes prowled through the unruly bushes and overhanging trees, searching for small dead things â frogs, or birds, or mice. And of course anything she found was saved for Saturday mornings.
They left their sacks and spades outside when she ushered them through the back door into the kitchen. She shivered and closed the door behind them to keep the weather in its place. Tim's father nudged him with a discreet elbow to remind him to wipe his feet on the mat. He shuffled them quickly, glancing around the kitchen. It looked almost as old-fashioned as theirs back home, but he got the feeling the pipes under Mrs Kirkwooding's sink didn't leak, and he reckoned the toaster probably popped up without the help of a fork jammed in its side.
âHe passed away in his sleep,' the elderly lady was telling his father. Her dark, permed hair was wind-blown and showing its steely roots. âI'm sure it was peaceful enough.'
Tim stepped up behind them. The dead golden retriever was in his basket in front of the washing machine.
Bill knelt down and gently stroked the dog's ear. âYes,'
he said quietly. âHe certainly looks peaceful enough, doesn't he?' Without turning to look at the old lady he asked, âAre you sure you want Tim and me to take him?'
Mrs Kirkwooding nodded. âOh, yes. It's what I decided a long time ago.'
âMaybe burying him â or cremation maybe? â would seem more respectful.'
âNo, I'd like you to take him.'
âIt's just a thought, Mrs Kirkwooding, but in the past when anyone's allowed a family pet to be eatenâ'
The old lady folded her arms and stood her ground. âIf you are anxious about what my neighbours may think, Mr Milmullen, then thank you for your concern. But my family has lived in Moutonby just as long as yours, and my sisters and I were all brought up to believe in the legend just the same as
you
and
your
brother were. We have always been proud to be Fearful.'
Tim's father rose to his feet, nodding quickly, smiling widely, trying to placate her. âYes, I understand that â of course I do. It's just that with times being like they are, certain people may see feeding Marshal to the Mourn as, well, a rather callous thing to do.' He turned to Tim. âWouldn't you agree?'
