The Fearful (27 page)

‘I need to talk to your dad, but I'm sure it can wait until later.'

Tim had lost track of the argument now; Sarah had distracted him. ‘How come you're not at school?'

‘I'm helping my dad organize things for tomorrow. It's weird; I've never seen him so nervous before. You know, he's really worried that you're not going to want him as your Underbearer. Apparently Cagey Brown has been telling everybody you're going to choose him instead. You do still want my dad though, don't you?'

‘Well, yeah. I guess so.' The truth was, he hadn't really given it much consideration yet.

‘I was thinking about what you were saying the other day, about wanting to go and see other places. I reckon if Dad was your Underbearer he'd be fine looking after things if we wanted to go away. I think he was always disappointed your dad never went on holiday more often – he never really got the chance to do his Underbearing stuff.'

Tim was half listening to her, half listening to what was going on in the garage. He nodded at her distractedly, heard the garage door open, slam closed a second later, then peeked round the corner to see his father stalking away towards the feeding pier and the
Bonnie Claire
.

‘I have to talk to my uncle,' he said.

She followed him into the garage. It had been tidied up after the earthquake, tools put back on hooks, but there was still a large crack in the far concrete wall that would need mending. It ran from the ceiling to behind the large chest freezer. Doug was leaning back on the freezer, arms folded, staring at the floor. He was dressed in jeans and black leather jacket, which seemed to be
de rigueur
for most of the newspapermen Tim had seen this week too.

‘Uncle Doug?'

He glanced up. ‘Tim,' he said. ‘How are you this morning?' His voice was completely flat and devoid of feeling. He sounded worn out. ‘Oh, and Sarah. Sorry, love, didn't see you there for a second.'

‘Is everything all right?' Tim asked.

‘Everything being all right is what your dad and I seem to be disagreeing on at the moment.'

‘I heard you talking about Marshal,' Tim said.

‘Oh yes?' The name meant nothing to Doug.

‘Mrs Kirkwooding's golden retriever.'

‘Oh,' he said, and his expression instantly became guarded.

Tim moved further into the garage. ‘What's happening? Did you put Marshal's head near the marker stone?'

Doug stood up straight. He pulled in a big breath, then let it out again – slowly – before answering. ‘I did, yes. And although your dad won't believe me, I did it for the good of the family.'

Tim still wasn't sure if he was quite grasping all of this. ‘Did you cut it up yourself?' The thought turned his belly, remembering the gory state of it.

Doug nodded. ‘It wouldn't stand up to close examination – anybody with a magnifying glass and ten minutes of their time could probably work out the bite's not real teeth marks. But it was another way to keep the press interested in us. Your dad, however, was right. I didn't consider him knowing which bits of feed he put into the sacks.'

So the half of Marshal in the sack on Saturday had been the tail end; Doug had just dug the head out of the freezer.
Tim glanced at Sarah, needing her to share in his dumb-foundedness, and her face showed that she readily obliged.

‘All I thought,' Doug continued, ‘was that a dog's head would be far more dramatic for the papers to photograph than a hedgehog or crushed blackbird.'

The world felt worryingly unsteady beneath Tim. ‘Is Dad going to tell the truth?'

‘To be honest, I'm not sure. Do you think he should? Would you?'

Tim stood rooted to the spot. ‘I . . . I don't know.'

Then he suddenly remembered something he'd overheard Bill saying about ‘a
couple
of foolish pranks'. And at the same time cottoned on to something his uncle had said just a moment ago. ‘Another way? You said,
Another way to keep the press interested
.'

Doug looked a little taken aback himself by Tim's realization. ‘Did I?'

Tim's stomach felt hollow when he asked: ‘Do you know the nurse from Manchester? Did you get her to make it up?'

Doug attempted a joke at first. ‘When did you become Sherlock Holmes?' But maybe the look on Tim's face made him understand how difficult this actually was for his nephew. ‘She's a friend, yes,' he admitted.

‘So she didn't see
anything
? Did she? She lied. You asked her to lie.'

Doug stepped forward. ‘Okay, Tim – so let's talk about this man to man, yes? You're sixteen tomorrow; let's talk about what you're going to do as the Mourner.'

‘No, let's talk about you lying to everybody! Did you just make it all up? You couldn't have, could you?'

Doug admitted he had.

He'd almost been expecting it, but even so Tim was stunned into silence. He didn't know what to do, what to say – just stared at his uncle. At last he managed, ‘But I believed her.' Even though what he really meant was that he'd forced himself to believe her. Then another thought: ‘What about Gully? Did you—?'

‘Of course not. No.' At least this Tim believed. ‘Our problem was that everybody talked about the earthquake more than the Mourn. But I knew that if I could get just one person to see it, then more sightings would follow. The more attention something gets, the more people will want to be involved – that's the way of things. I was doing what I thought was best for everybody. I want the tradition to
survive
.'

Tim was angry. ‘And it'll help sell your book too, won't it?'

Doug nodded, gave a loud sigh. ‘Yes. Yes it will. But the greater payback's for the Fearful, and for
our family.
Your dad doesn't seem to see that – I don't know why not. But you must, surely. I only care about how many copies my book sells because that's more people who'll want to visit this place and keep giving their tourist pounds and pence to the
family
.'

‘Dad wouldn't want it like this. It's not what he'd want.'

Doug snorted through his nose. ‘And hasn't he made that abundantly clear! Look, Bill wants the family tradition to survive; he wants Mourn Home and the Mourner to
have the same respect as they used to have. But money and celebrity
are
respect these days. And this is the only way to make money and keep the tradition alive.'

‘But it's all a lie, isn't it?' He needed to lash out. There was a large cardboard box on the floor and he kicked it as hard as he could. ‘It's just one big
lie
!'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, you obviously don't believe in the Mourn if you think you've got to do all this.' He searched his uncle's eyes, challenging him.
‘Do
you believe?'

Doug considered the question for several full seconds. ‘One day yes, one day no. But not completely since I was your age, I think.'

‘Why not?'

‘It started off with me being jealous of Bill, I suppose. I was a normal kid. How come my big brother always got all the attention? Nobody took any notice of me. So I just told myself I wasn't ever going to believe in it. Then as I got older I saw too many holes in the stories, and just didn't believe in
any
monsters any more.' He shrugged. ‘And writing the bloody book didn't help. All that research just threw up more questions than it answered. But I've met plenty of sane people who are cleverer than me yet they still passionately believe in all kinds of crazy notions – and that makes me reconsider my ideas every single day.'

‘And does my dad know?'

‘I don't know what he thinks I feel these days. We don't talk about it. But I made sure he knew exactly how I felt when we were younger.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘We fought a lot about it. One day I was just that little bit too fed up with his sanctimonious claptrap and cracked him round the head with one of the oars from the
Bonnie Claire
.'

‘He lost his hearing because of
you
?'

Doug nodded the tiniest amount. ‘But whatever you may think of me, Tim, lad, I'm telling you honestly that what's happened this week wasn't only done for the sake of my book sales, okay?'

Tim didn't answer him – couldn't, not really. What did all this mean? How on earth was he supposed to sort his spinning head out now?

I've lost my proof
, he thought.

He wanted to stay angry – because it was easy be angry. ‘What do you want me to do? I don't know what to do any more. I don't know what you expect from me.'

Sarah was at his shoulder. Both he and Uncle Doug had forgotten she was there. ‘Tim . . .'

He pushed her away. ‘Everybody wants something from me. I just wanted to be like Dad. But I can't be, because it's all a lie.
I
really wanted to believe as much as
he
did.'

The earthquake had been the start of it. He'd thought he'd be able believe after that. But now he understood he'd just been one of the new Fearful, somebody who'd felt forced into believing. It had never been a choice. Even when he'd heard about the nurse and seen Marshal's head he'd had to keep reminding himself he believed, he'd had to bury his doubts. But now his doubts overwhelmed him. He was back
at square one – as though this last week had never happened. He was as confused and lost as he'd been last Friday when Roddy had humiliated him in front of the whole school.

The anger drained, left him cold. There was an intense sadness in him too. He knew he would never again get to feel the same way with his father as he had done these last few days. He realized that now he would never be able to be what Bill wanted him to be, and he would for ever be a disappointment to him.

It was a painful realization. It broke his heart.

Doug looked surprised and concerned when Tim started crying. He took a step back and let Sarah put her arms around her boyfriend.

‘Maybe I should leave the pair of you alone.' But he hesitated, perhaps wondering about Sarah's integrity – wanting to know whether she'd expose his fraudulence to the wider world. Eventually he said, ‘Come find me if you need to talk. Okay, Tim? You too, Sarah. Any time.' Then with a small, uncomfortable cough he headed outside. Sunlight all too briefly lit up the garage's gloomy interior as he opened the door wide, then let it close again behind him.

All Sarah could do for Tim was hold him. ‘Are you okay?'

‘I don't know.' He thought he should still feel angry. He thought he should be fuming. But he just felt drained. He felt disappointed and defeated.

He noticed for the first time that the cardboard box he'd kicked had a flash of colour inside. When he pulled back the lid it was full of bunting and tangled strings of decorative
flags. This was what would be strung around Mourn Home tomorrow, to celebrate his Carving. He showed it to Sarah, who smiled awkwardly.

He swallowed hard, brushed his tears aside. ‘I can't do it,' he said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I can't be the Mourner. You heard what my uncle said . . .'

‘Maybe he's done the right thing.' She saw the argument rising in his eyes and carried on quickly. ‘Maybe all he's done is help more people believe in the Mourn. And we need more people, don't we? If everyone who thinks like Vic Stones or Roddy Morgan had their way we wouldn't even have a Mourner, and there'd be no Feed. We have to have a Feed.'

‘But the nurse and the dog's head were
lies
.'

‘But like your uncle said, they were told for a good reason. Isn't making more people Fearful the best reason there is?'

He stared at the box full of bunting. ‘I don't know.' He really hadn't expected Sarah to think like this. He was amazed at the aggressive nature of her own belief. If ever he'd felt the two of them were ill-matched as boyfriend and girlfriend, that feeling was strongest now.

‘And what happened to Gully wasn't a lie, was it?' she said. ‘You said you thought you'd actually summoned the Mourn.'

‘I don't believe I summoned the Mourn because I don't believe there is a Mourn.' He prodded at the box with the toe of his trainers. ‘I can't be the Mourner. I can't do it.'

Sarah was silent for a long time. When he looked at her he saw the way her eyes glistened with tears.

‘Sarah, I—'

‘Are you going to go away?'

He took a deep breath. ‘I suppose I'm going to have to.'

‘So we're finished, then, aren't we?'

He didn't answer, but their eyes met. She could read everything in his look. She stood very still, just wiped at her wet cheeks quickly. He stepped forward but she wouldn't accept his comfort like he'd accepted hers.

‘Who's going to be the Mourner?' she asked.

Tim shrugged. ‘Jenny?'

‘Your dad would never let her. It's only men who are allowed to be the Mourner?'

‘My dad will keep doing it then, I suppose. As long as he's able to anyway. I'm just scared what he's going to say.'

‘You've left it a bit late to drop this bombshell,' she said with a strained smile.

‘True. But it's not just about me. I'm scared
for
him – when Stones's survey proves there's no such thing as the Mourn.'

‘Who says it will? Maybe you just want it to.'

He bowed his head, squeezed his eyes shut. When he looked at her again he said, ‘I know you probably hate me right now, but whatever happens can you please not tell anyone until I've had the chance to talk to my dad first?'

She bit her lip, fighting her own tears. ‘But you better tell him – you have to. I don't hate you now, but I promise
I will if you sneak off without saying anything. I'll hate you for ever if you run away.'