The Fearful (12 page)

‘But why did you go with them in the first place?'

‘You knew I fancied Gully. And he was paying me attention. How many boys do you know around here who bother paying me any attention?'

‘Going to WetFun, though? Dad would—'

‘I wanted to see what was happening at the building site. I wanted to see how big the hotel was going to be.'

‘Massive. Bigger than this place.' He was back looking out of the window. Bill was halfway home along the shore already.

‘So what made
you
come to WetFun? Did you fancy Gully as well?'

He almost laughed, but not quite. ‘I'd had an argument with Dad. I wanted to be a rebel like you.'

‘What were you arguing about?'

‘Next Saturday.'

‘Your Carving?'

He nodded slowly, not wanting to elaborate – he'd learned his lesson trying to talk to Sarah and his father. And just looking around Jenny's room proved how big the distance between the two of them had become, twins or not.

‘You're nervous about becoming the Mourner?'

‘It's a bit more complicated than that.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Doesn't matter. It's all messed up anyway.' He saw the way she was looking at him and her sympathy embarrassed him. ‘And anyway, shouldn't it be me comforting you?'

She managed a small smile at this. But it only made him feel guilty again because he was so completely
dry
.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I should have tried to save you. I should have jumped in to, you know . . . I should have been in the water to help you.'

She sat up straighter, sucked in a big breath. ‘First off: the feminist in me would have something to say about the man always thinking he has to save the woman, and about male dominating behaviour.' She didn't give him the chance to ask if she was joking. ‘And secondly: I don't blame you for not wanting to dive headfirst into the Hundredwaters. It's
the Hundredwaters.
It's where the Mourn is. Gully's just too stupid to care.'

Through the window Tim watched as their father stopped and shielded his eyes with one hand, scanning the lake, probably making sure there was no problem with the kids' sailing school. He had his back to her when he said, ‘That's the problem. Up until Gully and Scott chucked you in I'd convinced myself the Mourn didn't exist.'

‘What do you mean?'

He was at the bookshelf again, purposely looking at the books and not at her. ‘It's why I don't want to be the Mourner. One of the reasons, anyway.'

The silence that greeted his admission felt horribly heavy. He fidgeted.
Said too much. Shitshitshit.
He hadn't meant to say anything. ‘Don't tell Dad. You won't, will you?'

There was an audible clunk as Jenny managed to close her mouth. At last she said, ‘He's going to find out sooner or later.'

‘Later would be great,' Tim said with a failed chuckle. He shrugged a single shoulder. ‘I tried to talk to him, but he didn't really want to listen.'

‘I mean, I knew you were worried about becoming the Mourner, but I just thought you were nervous. I didn't realize . . .' She shook her head, obviously taken aback. ‘You really don't believe in it?'

‘I didn't think I did. I kept telling myself I didn't. But then I didn't dare jump into the lake to help you. Everything Dad had ever warned us about just kept running through my head.' He was miserable and ashamed when he admitted: ‘I was too scared to help you.'

‘So you
do
believe in it?'

‘I don't know.' He slumped down onto the bed beside her, leaned back against the wall. ‘I honestly don't know what to think any more.' He went on, ‘When you were in the water, did you . . .? Did you see it?'

‘No.'

‘But was it there? Did you feel it? You know, sort of
sense
it?'

‘Maybe. I kept thinking it was behind me, getting closer. Although part of my head kept saying it wouldn't attack me because we'd just had a Feed.'

‘But it could have just been your imagination, couldn't it?'

‘Maybe.' She changed the subject. ‘And you really don't want to be the Mourner?'

‘If I don't think the Mourn's real, there doesn't seem much point, does there? But you've got to admit, it's probably the worst job in the world anyway, isn't it? Spending most days with a spade and sack collecting dead stuff, and having everyone laughing at you behind your back all the time.' He wanted to explain it to her as best as he could. ‘I love Dad,' he said. ‘I just don't want to
be
Dad.' He was worried by the look on her face. ‘You promise you won't tell him?'

She shook her head.

But he didn't know what that meant. Did she mean no, she wouldn't tell him or no, she didn't promise?

She asked: ‘Are you sure it's not just because of Roddy Morgan?'

‘Well, stuff like yesterday kind of helped me make my mind up, obviously.'

‘But it's such a special thing to do,' Jenny said. ‘When I was little I always used to hide under the covers when I went to sleep, because I was scared that if the Mourn looked in through my window and saw me, it would come and get me. I knew it would never eat you, because you were going to be the Mourner, but what was to stop it eating
me? I was just an extra. That was how I felt, being your twin. Then I remember there was a really loud storm outside and I was curled up under my sheets listening to it. I suddenly realized that Dad's job was to stop the Mourn from attacking the town, and I was part of the town, wasn't I? So I stuck my foot out – and nothing happened. And so I poked my head out. Dad would never let the Mourn get me because that was what Dad did. Other dads worked in shops or offices, but my dad kept me and everybody else safe. So I kicked back all my blankets and lay in the dark for ages, just listening to the wind and the rain. And nothing happened to me. I knew I'd always be safe because Dad did what he did.'

‘Okay, that's all great, but—'

‘No; listen. I worried at some point about him not always being around, but I soon realized that when Dad wasn't here, you would be. And I began to think what a fantastic thing it must be to be the one person who could make everybody else sleep safe at night. That's what the Mourner does, that's why it's such a special job. It must be great to read the list of names at the Feed and know it's you who's keeping those people safe. For me it feels good just to be one of the Fearful and know I'm doing my bit to help others too.'

Tim thought about it. After a while he asked: ‘Is that all true?'

His sister nodded. ‘Cross my heart.'

‘Maybe it's you who should be the Mourner, then.'

‘Don't be stupid! There's no girls' names on the Mourn Stone, is there? There's never been a woman Mourner – it's
always first-born
sons
.' She pulled a face. ‘But I'm sixteen next week too, don't forget. And I've got no idea what I'm meant to do, or where I should go, or anything. At least you've got something to do with your life – something that matters. You're lucky; there aren't many sixteen-year-olds who can say that.'

Tim was sceptical. ‘But if the Mourn isn't real, then it's all just a massive waste of time, isn't it?'

‘Why don't you think it's real?'

‘Because I've never seen it.'

‘So?'

‘So everything. I want some proof. Where's the proof?' He was annoyed she couldn't see it from his point of view.

‘This house is proof, isn't it? And the Fearful. And Old William's diary. Even Dad's proof, because of what he does.'

‘But he's never seen it either!'

‘Exactly. What more proof do you need? Why would all this be here if it was all just a story? There's over three hundred years of proof, isn't there?'

He jumped up off the bed, feeling twitchy all over again, and stalked over to the window. He saw that Bill was almost home. ‘So you're saying you don't care what Gully and Scott, or Roddy Morgan, or whoever else are all saying behind your back.'

‘No.'

He searched her face, looking for the lie he thought must be there. He couldn't find it, which agitated him further.

‘I'm glad I'm different to them; I don't want to be anything like them,' she said.

‘Yeah, well, like I said yesterday, nobody calls you
Monster Girl,
do they?' He didn't let her answer. He paced the room. ‘It's just after what happened yesterday. It's just everything. I hate it. It's just so shit, isn't it? And look at today. It's getting worse, isn't it? I'm up to here with it – everybody always having a go. All because of the Mourn, and I didn't ask to be its keeper or anything; why get at me all the time?'

‘It wasn't about you. They threw
me
in the lake, not you.'

‘I know, but—'

‘They didn't do it to get at
you.
Not everything that happens around here is about
you
.'

‘But they're probably laughing right now, aren't they? Thinking they're funny. Having a laugh at all of us, but I'm the one who's got to be the Mourner, and I didn't ask to be.'

‘And I never asked to be your sister either.'

That confused him. ‘So?'

‘So I'm fed up of hearing about you all the time. I said it's my birthday too next Saturday, didn't I? Have you bought my present yet? What have you got me?'

Tim hadn't got her anything – because he'd not even thought about it. He knew she could tell by the look on his face.

‘How many people came up to me this morning to tell me they're looking forward to my birthday, do you think? How many people will remember, or even know it's my birthday too?'

‘Well, maybe you really should be the Mourner, then. I'll go ask Dad now, shall I? You know, see if it's okay with him?'

She tutted. ‘Grow up.'

That hurt. He remembered what Bill had said to him earlier. ‘You grow up!' It was such a feeble retort but the anger had flared inside him again. ‘You grow up! I'm not the one who believes in monsters, am I?'

‘So why were you too scared to jump into the lake?'

He slammed the door on his way out.

Then instantly regretted it. Tentatively he poked his head back inside her room. ‘You're not going to tell Dad, are you?'

‘Get
out
!' She hurled a book at him, and only just missed.

His head fizzed. He felt hopeless with confusion. Had he been kidding himself when he'd said he didn't believe in the Mourn? Maybe he did believe.

Did he?

Maybe.

Would it help if he knew for certain? Would it be easier to be the Mourner if it was proved to him that the Mourn was real? His spinning mind fixed on this. He might be happy to do the worst job in the world if he truly believed in the Mourn. He could make himself happy to do it.

To his anxious, muddled mind this thought seemed to make perfect sense. He clung to it. Everything would be simpler, easier,
happier
if he knew for definite the Mourn was real.

It couldn't be so wrong to want some proof, could it? How could he be expected to dedicate his whole life to something he'd never seen? He was just a bit different from Jenny and their father. He needed proof.

He doubted he'd find it in Old William's diary and knew it was something Bill could never give him, because it came back to the same point over and over again: Bill had never seen the Mourn.

But as he stood there he realized there was somebody who claimed he had.

TIM WAS SUDDENLY
in a hurry. He was getting his hopes up. He wanted something to happen
now
.

Suddenly, after years of not knowing exactly what was wrong with him, months of drifting helplessly not knowing which way to turn even when did understand his problem, he might have actually found an answer. Or if not an answer, at least some way of doing something about it. Because maybe Jack Spicer could offer him proof, could convince him in a way his father had never been able to.

And Tim had to talk to him
now
.

He hurried downstairs to find out which room Mr Spicer was staying in. He was going to check the guest book on the table by the main entrance but heard the side door open and close and voices in the kitchen. Both his mother and father had returned home. Tim waited at the bottom of the stairs to see where they were going – in case he needed to go the opposite way.

‘Somebody's dumped a couple of filthy mattresses up in the trees,' Bill was saying. ‘I'll need to use the van to get rid of them.' He saw keeping the lakeside rubbish-free as much a part of the job as keeping it safe.

The kitchen door was slightly ajar; through the slim gap Tim saw his mother heave three hefty plastic carrier bags up onto the kitchen table, letting them go with a relieved breath. ‘I would have been a bit quicker if I'd known, but Mum wanted to talk about next Saturday. And the queues in the cash-and-carry were ridiculous.' She took her coat off, turned to hang it up.

Bill was behind her, still wearing his yellow waterproofs, helping carry another two stuffed-to-bursting bags. He put them on the table next to the others. ‘We could maybe do with talking things through later as well. I'm worried about Tim. I had a chat with him earlier and he's been having a harder time of it than either of us have realized.'

Anne took one of the shopping bags out of Tim's line of vision. He heard her open the fridge door and bottles chinked together. ‘It's understandable. Of course he's going to feel a little anxious with only a week to go.'

He wasn't usually the type to sneak or spy. He hesitated, in two minds what to do. The hurry to see Jack Spicer faded a little as his curiosity took hold of him. He wanted to know what his father thought about him after his near confession earlier. Jack Spicer's story could wait two or three minutes more. He crouched at the bottom of the stairs and held his breath to listen.