The 12th Mourner

BILL WAS FIRST to break the silence. ‘Maybe you could help out downstairs,’ he said to Sarah.

She dithered for a second or two, then said goodbye to Tim. He didn’t answer.

Bill sat down on the edge of the bed. Tim watched him over his shoulder. His back was rounded, his chin close to his chest. He looked slightly deflated, as though he’d lost some air. ‘People are asking for you downstairs,’ he said.

‘I’m not feeling very well.’

‘Yes. Too ill to keep your room tidy by the look of things.’ He tutted at the mess.

Tim didn’t like his father being in his room, felt uncomfortable with him finding fault. This was his room, his retreat. Bill picked up a discarded jumper from the floor and folded it neatly before placing it on the bed next to him. Tim recoiled slightly at his father’s intrusiveness.

‘Are you going to start or am I?’ Bill asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you going to explain what happened, or should I tell you what Colin Gregory told me?’

‘It was just Roddy Morgan being Roddy Morgan. It’s what he does.’ There was still part of him that didn’t want to admit how bad it had been yesterday.

‘Is he the lad Stones has got working at WetFun?’

Tim nodded. ‘I’m not the only one he likes to have a go at. I’m not worried about it.’

‘But more often than not, it’s you who’s on the receiving end when he does decide to have a go.’ Bill sighed. He steepled his fingers and stared at them. ‘There were a couple of Roddy Morgans when I was at school, a couple of people who knew how to make life tough for me. I can’t count the number of times I got it in the neck from some mean-spirited bugger or other.’

Tim had never heard his father talk like this before. It surprised him, but intrigued him more. ‘Was it bad?’ he asked. He’d always imagined everybody in Moutonby to be Fearful in those days, and that the town’s disregard for the legend was a particularly recent feeling.

‘It was, when I was younger. Younger than you, I mean. The town still paid the Monster Tax back then, but no one was happy about it. The government taxed them enough; they didn’t like giving up extra pounds and pence for something that, even then, they thought of as just an embarrassing folk story. I can remember the kids at school picking fights with me because their mum and dad had to pay for my mum and dad. At least, that was the reason they gave. I always thought most of the insults they threw in my face in the playground were the things they’d heard their parents complaining about over the dinner table. I had my fair share of black eyes and bloody lips. And the problem was, you see, that there were one or two of the teachers who agreed with them.’

‘Didn’t they try to stop the other kids from having a go at you?’

Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe not as much as they could have done. But I was thirteen when the vote to abolish the tax went through, and over the next couple of years things slowly got better for me.’ He tugged on his beard; a line in his brow creased and deepened. ‘Didn’t get much better for your granddad, that was the pity.’

Tim knew the story. Granddad Arthur had been so sick with worry when the Monster Tax was abolished that he’d eventually become bedridden. Granddad’s Underbearer should have been the one to take on the responsibilities of the Feed, but Bill had stepped in to become the Mourner a year early, at the age of fifteen.

‘It was your Uncle Doug who had the big idea of turning us into a guesthouse,’ Bill continued with a small, private smile. ‘And he was only twelve at the time. I wasn’t having any of it at first; just another of his wild notions – he was full of them even back then. But your granddad said it could be the best solution to our problems. Well, it certainly didn’t solve all of them, but it’s kept us going ever since.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Not that he’s ever been seen as the hero, eh? If there’s ever a black sheep in the Milmullen fold, Douglas certainly does his best to fit the bill.’

Tim smiled too, but he’d heard his uncle labelled as such before. He was, however, still intrigued by his father’s confession. Maybe they had more in common than he’d thought. ‘Did Uncle Doug get bullied too?’

Bill thought about it. ‘Yes. Yes, he did. Though maybe not as much as me.’

‘Because he wasn’t going to be the Mourner?’

‘Maybe. But your uncle gave as good as he got. He was bigger than me, more reckless than me, and he knew how to hit back.’ He saw the thought that crossed Tim’s face. ‘But that was Doug. As you say, he wasn’t going to be the Mourner. Even if I had been as big as him I couldn’t have gone around fighting everyone. What’s the point in having someone to protect the town from the Mourn only so he can harm or hurt them himself?’ He caught Tim’s eye. ‘You see what I’m saying?’

Tim nodded. It was as direct an order as he’d ever really been given.

‘I knew there’d be people who’d make life hard for you. But because you never talked about it I thought you were handling things well enough. I guess I was wrong – and I’m sorry for that. Sorry for you. I should have remembered a bit clearer what happened to me.’

Tim wasn’t sure how obvious he was being, and he held onto the question for a good few seconds before asking, ‘Did it ever make you not want to be the Mourner?’

His father wasn’t stupid. Tim saw the look in his eyes and instantly regretted the question. He opened his mouth to say something else, to backtrack, but couldn’t think of a single thing. It was a big clumsy boot stepping over the invisible line.

Bill wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to his words. ‘I was always very proud to be the Mourner.’ He sat up straighter, squared his shoulders.

‘Yeah, of course. I know. I just meant . . .’ But he knew his father understood exactly what he’d meant.

‘Even when I lost my hearing,’ Bill continued, unconsciously raising his hand to his left ear, ‘I knew how special a task it was to be the Mourner.’

This was something else Tim had never known his father talk about. He’d always thought he’d been born with his dodgy ear. ‘Did someone—?’

‘I was walloped around the head with an oar.’ He snorted a half-laugh through his nose. It wasn’t really funny – just a long time ago.

‘Because you were going to be Mourner?’

Bill nodded.

‘Who did it? Was it Vic Stones?’ Tim knew they’d been at school together.

Bill ignored the question. ‘Being the Mourner is a special task. It’s a duty, but it’s an honour too, passed down a long line of good, brave men. And I can understand how overwhelming it must seem, how big the responsibility is to you as a young man. Don’t forget, I’ve been there myself.’

Tim could hear the conviction in his father’s voice, but it didn’t move him like perhaps it should have done. Because no, Bill never had been in his position. Because, as far as he knew, Bill had never questioned the legend. And wasn’t this Tim’s biggest problem? Weren’t these the thoughts that really kept him awake at night?

He wanted to go out on the lake like Gully and Scott because he’d told himself he wasn’t scared. He was embarrassed by the Feed because he thought it was pointless. He’d looked for the creature every day for as long as he could remember, but he’d never seen it. He didn’t want to be the Mourner . . . Because I don’t believe the Mourn is real.

His father knew nothing of these thoughts. He said, ‘And I do know what people say about us. I don’t have my head buried in the sand.’ He pointed at the floor and down to the kitchen below. ‘The people in this house are the only ones who still follow the tradition, but thank goodness for them. You know the legend better than anyone: if we don’t feed the Mourn it will kill again, like it killed those poor schoolboys. Thank goodness for the people in this house who won’t stand by and let that happen, don’t you think?’

Tim didn’t – couldn’t – reply. He didn’t think anything would happen to anyone if they never had another Feed again.

‘You’ll be a fine Mourner,’ Bill said.

The words stung. He knew they hadn’t been intended to hurt, but the fact that for his father this statement had never been in question was very obvious and painful. Tim was never going to be a pilot, or an architect, or a teacher, or a journalist. Not in his father’s mind.

Yes, Bill had suffered too; he’d been bullied, picked on, even lost his hearing. But it had all been for a greater outcome in his eyes. An outcome Tim didn’t want, so why should he have to suffer in the first place?

He spoke carefully. ‘Hardly anyone believes in the Mourn any more.’

‘They’re fools to themselves.’

And now, suddenly, there was a huge precipice in front of Tim. Did he speak the truth and plunge headfirst into it? Or did he shuffle backwards and hold his tongue? His father was sitting on the end of his bed, right here, right this very second.

He took a small step closer to the edge. ‘What if they’re right?’

Bill’s face showed genuine surprise.

‘I’ve looked every day, Dad, honest I have. But I’ve never seen it.’

‘Neither have I. I thank my lucky stars I’ve never had to look at it. I hope we never see it.’

Tim teetered on the edge. He knew that if he took too big a step he’d be beyond the point of no return. ‘Maybe it’s dead.’

Bill got to his feet; clearly uncomfortable with what was being said. He reached for his hearing aid, and Tim thought he might pull his old trick of pretending he couldn’t hear. But he seemed to change his mind.

‘Read the book,’ he said, turning to face Tim. ‘I’ll give you the key to the cabinet in the study and you read for yourself Old William’s exact words from his diary.’ He managed to smile at his son. ‘They can move you, those words. The Mourn is a frightening thing, but I’ve often found that what Old William writes can help me overcome the worst of it.’

Tim took a step back, physically and mentally. His father’s belief in the Mourn, in the tradition, was like fog. It couldn’t be dented or cut or punctured.

‘And it’s not just a book about a lake monster,’ Bill continued. ‘It’s about growing up; it’s about becoming a man. At sixteen a Milmullen son has to be man enough to bear the weight of the responsibility. Old William talks a lot about how well his son took over the role from him, and about his grandson Henry. He talks about the Carving being a proud moment for both father and son.’ He patted Tim’s shoulder. ‘And I know they are men whose lives seem daunting, no doubt about it, but you’re just as much a Milmullen as they were. I’ve got faith in you, just so long as you accept that you’re a man now, not a little boy any more.’ He searched his son’s eyes for his answer.

Tim held his father’s gaze, but only because that was what Bill wanted him to do. The truth was he didn’t have the courage to prove his real feelings by looking away.

‘Good. I’m proud of you.’ Bill’s smile widened, strengthened. ‘I’ll get you that key. A week today and it’ll be your study anyway, I suppose. I just hope you can find some odd jobs for your old man to do. I still reckon forty-six is far too young for retirement. But that’s what it says in my contract.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

He left Tim alone. And the second the door clicked shut, Tim grabbed that jumper his father had so neatly folded and flung it with all his strength against the wall across the other side of the room. Whenever he couldn’t understand his feelings, whenever his head didn’t seem to be coping, he got angry. Anger was straightforward. It was less complicated, easier to deal with than the scary tangle of emotions that wrapped up and constricted his real thoughts.

He couldn’t believe he’d been told to read the book – not after yesterday, after the childishly vicious thing Roddy had done to him; after all that humiliation. He was furious at his father.

But not just him. At Sarah too, for not feeling the way he did. And at the Fearful for trapping him. And at Jenny for breaking the rules when he didn’t dare.

Although the people he was angry at were nowhere near as important as the anger itself. He could fool himself into believing that it had a purpose, a momentum – feeling like this was almost as good as actually doing something about it. He punched his pillow, battered it flat; slammed his wardrobe door, savoured the bang. And, of course, blaming everyone else stopped him from blaming himself.

He’d missed his chance. He hadn’t had the courage to tell his father what he really felt. Next Saturday was still next Saturday. He was still going to be the Mourner.

It hadn’t just been an argument he’d been worried about; he could handle raised voices and a slanging match. The truth was, he didn’t think his father would have started shouting anyway. It would have been a much worse reaction. Bill wouldn’t have believed that Tim didn’t believe – it was an impossible thought. There would have been a complete lack of understanding and an almost palpable disappointment.

He thought about his father sitting on the edge of his bed, about how he’d looked. Apart from one or two stray threads of grey in his beard he looked exactly the same as he had last year, and the year before. Bill didn’t change.

When Tim was younger Bill used to tell him scary adventure stories about being an explorer. Tim had believed them completely, because with his scruffy hair and beard his dad looked just like explorers should look, hadn’t he? But the stories were all about exploring the lake shore, because Bill had never travelled far, never seen much of the rest of the country, and had certainly never been abroad. Not that Tim cared. The stories were too good to worry about that kind of thing back then. Now, however, they seemed like such small stories compared to the ones that could have been told.

Old William’s diary was a small story about a small legend.

Read the book, Bill said. Read the book. The diary was his answer to everything. But what hurt most was the way he’d told Tim to grow up. ‘You’re not a little boy any more. The book is about growing up. You’ve got to be a man now.’

Well, when Sarah stayed over tomorrow night, that would be being a man, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t be a boy any more after that, would he? There were plenty of ways to be a man.

Read the book.

FUCK the book!

But throwing tantrums in his bedroom was no way to deal with all these feelings, all this anger. He needed to react. He needed to lash out, fight, hurt someone back.

Out of his window he could see a couple of windsurfers skimming across the lake, the people on the shore at WetFun. If Jenny could go there then so could he. If she could break the rules, he could too.

Mutiny seemed like an excellent choice. He grabbed his coat.