A Cry in the Night by Tom Grieves Page A

engine and let the boat drift. They were about halfway along the lake now, bang in the middle. He always used the same markers: the old stone wall on the east side and the dilapidated boathouse, half hidden among the woods, on the other.
    ‘You don’t think it’s too deep?’ Angus asked. Cameron just pulled a face, grabbed a rod and got down to it. Neither spoke and there was little noise except the waves against the boat, the sound of casting or reeling in, or a distant murmur of activity from the shore.
    Two hours later they’d had little luck. They’d caught a few tiddlers but nothing to take home. The boys peered down into the deep, still water and watched for the shadows that slipped beneath; the big ones who were too old and too wise to be caught by mere children.
    And then finally a shadow rose from the depths. It spun and twisted, a big one. But it wasn’t a fish. It was Arthur Downing.
    He rose with inelegant speed, breaking the surface with a slight hiss, and floated face-up, seemingly staring at the sun that now poured down from a cloudless sky. His bodybobbed in the water, slipping back just below the surface as though he were now part fish.
    Angus was sick and started to cry. The boys wailed and waved to the unhearing folk on land for help, but they knew it was in vain. Not sure whether they dared leave him there or not, Cameron eventually took the lead, tying a length of fishing line to his naked ankle and slowly dragging the poor little lad back to land.
    Cameron made Angus drive the boat. He held tight to the line, watching Arthur the entire time, scared that the boy would slip off.
    Later he told his friends that he was sure that the boy winked at him. But then he remembered that Arthur had no eyes, and he would fall silent, and no one around him could think of anything else to say.

TWENTY
    Zoe and Sam stood amongst the chaos. A forensics team were already on site and a white tent had been quickly assembled, covering the boy’s naked body. Locals had swarmed down to the lake, and after some brief, gentle questioning, the Farmborough boys had been released, emerging as local celebrities as they recounted their horror to everyone, over and over. Inevitably, their story lost nothing in the telling.
    The shoreline was crammed as everyone looked for their own slice of tragedy. Sam stood amongst them, almost unnoticed, and listened to their conversations.
    ‘Just rose up, from the deep.’
    ‘How did he get all the way out there, then?’
    ‘Underwater currents, aren’t there? Drag anything down to the bottom.’
    ‘Fish had pecked at him, Jack said.’
    No one mentioned witches, but Sam knew that he wasn’t the only person thinking about them; playing with the littlelad on the bottom until they’d had their fun with him. He thought about the other cases – the drowned children – and he felt an involuntary shudder shake itself out of him.
    But there was still no sign of Lily.
    Zoe nudged him and gestured to the path – Sarah and Tim were coming down towards them. She was dressed in a long coat and her eyes stared bleakly and hazily before her, as though she were drugged. Tim held her arm. Sam watched as everyone fell silent.
    ‘What’s she doing here?’ Zoe hissed. They’d visited the Downings earlier, explained that Arthur’s body had been recovered and had arranged a private viewing later in the day when the boy’s corpse could be made a less traumatic sight for the parents. Sarah had barely spoken when hearing the news. Tim’s pained reaction had been more obvious, but Sarah had just closed her eyes and laid her head on the kitchen table.
    Sam walked over to them, greeting them with a raised eyebrow.
    ‘She wants to see him,’ Tim replied tersely, and so Sam led them to the tent. He watched Sarah, saw her red eyes, her fluttering fingers and unsteady step. And then he looked to see the locals all watching her as well, all studying her in exactly the same way that he was.
    Sarah