had the gusts at their backs as they skimmed and leaped over the chop. It had stopped raining. For the briefest of moments the sun broke through a tear in the clouds. Its thin rays sharpened the edges of the water. The white tips of the shallow waves glittered like myriad knives. And the Hundredwaters threatened, was boastful of its danger.
Donât fall in.
But that was ridiculous. That was his father talking. That was sixteen years of conditioning, sixteen years of having the legend pounded into him. All his life heâd been told how unsafe it was to go near the water. He shook his head as if to dislodge all that talk. It was just a lake. There were lots of lakes in the world, just like this one. It was no more dangerous than any other.
Because I donât believe in monsters.
He didnât have to dig too deep to stir up the anger and resentment again. Right now it was the most important thing in the world to do what
he
wanted to do. And he wanted to go to WetFun. So he turned his back on the house and pushed himself on around the shore.
It might have only been a fifteen-minute walk from Mourn Home but Tim had never set foot on WetFun property before. Yes, heâd wandered as close as he dared (as close as he thought he could get away with without being spotted and bollocked by his dad) but this was his first step across the invisible border and onto forbidden soil, as it were. And during the short walk he checked over his shoulder eight, ten, twelve times, cautiously looking back at the house.
The building site for the new hotel was cordoned off behind a temporary chain-link fence. The JCB was idle, but it had already ripped up a sizeable patch of land â large enough to prove the extent of Vic Stonesâs ambition. The doors to the three grey metal storage sheds where Roddy Morgan spent so much of his time with a screwdriver orwhatever were padlocked up and Tim was happy to guess it probably meant Roddy wasnât around today.
But this was WetFun, this was enemy territory. Was he a different person now that he was here? He doubted it. Perhaps the lack of ringing alarms exposing his presence was an anticlimax. Or maybe it was for the best. He was certainly wary of the clubhouse. If there just happened, by chance, to be anyone who might recognize him sitting at the bar, gazing out at the lake through those huge plate-glass windows, heâd be hard to miss. It wasnât like there was a summer crowd of trippers he could lose himself amongst. The kiosk where ice creams were sold and fishing rods rented during high season was closed for winter. A speedboat, looking to Timâs eyes like a sleek, silver bullet of a machine, rested on its trailer high up the shore. He couldnât help thinking it seemed unnatural on dry land somehow, as it waited impatiently for a water-skier brave enough to hang on. It was a little disappointing that the one time heâd managed to pluck up the courage to come here was the time when so little was going on. The only activity this morning was happening around the two narrow jetties where the small sailboats were tied up.
At the near jetty was a group of about fifteen little kids who appeared to be part of a sailing club. They all wore matching orange and yellow life jackets and were gathered around a small dinghy that had been dragged onto the pebbly shore, high up out of the water. Two of the group sat inside the boat practising with the sail, following the shouted orders of one of the adult instructors. They seemed to passthe test because as Tim approached they were allowed to clamber out, and then the whole group trooped off along the jetty to the dinghies moored there. Everyone called enthusiastically to bagsy the boat they wanted â obviously excited to be having a go at the real thing. And Tim couldnât ignore the flicker of concern he felt at the thought of them out on the lake, but he managed to push it deep down. It was that sixteen years of
Donât fall in.
But that was ridiculous. That was his father talking. That was sixteen years of conditioning, sixteen years of having the legend pounded into him. All his life heâd been told how unsafe it was to go near the water. He shook his head as if to dislodge all that talk. It was just a lake. There were lots of lakes in the world, just like this one. It was no more dangerous than any other.
Because I donât believe in monsters.
He didnât have to dig too deep to stir up the anger and resentment again. Right now it was the most important thing in the world to do what
he
wanted to do. And he wanted to go to WetFun. So he turned his back on the house and pushed himself on around the shore.
It might have only been a fifteen-minute walk from Mourn Home but Tim had never set foot on WetFun property before. Yes, heâd wandered as close as he dared (as close as he thought he could get away with without being spotted and bollocked by his dad) but this was his first step across the invisible border and onto forbidden soil, as it were. And during the short walk he checked over his shoulder eight, ten, twelve times, cautiously looking back at the house.
The building site for the new hotel was cordoned off behind a temporary chain-link fence. The JCB was idle, but it had already ripped up a sizeable patch of land â large enough to prove the extent of Vic Stonesâs ambition. The doors to the three grey metal storage sheds where Roddy Morgan spent so much of his time with a screwdriver orwhatever were padlocked up and Tim was happy to guess it probably meant Roddy wasnât around today.
But this was WetFun, this was enemy territory. Was he a different person now that he was here? He doubted it. Perhaps the lack of ringing alarms exposing his presence was an anticlimax. Or maybe it was for the best. He was certainly wary of the clubhouse. If there just happened, by chance, to be anyone who might recognize him sitting at the bar, gazing out at the lake through those huge plate-glass windows, heâd be hard to miss. It wasnât like there was a summer crowd of trippers he could lose himself amongst. The kiosk where ice creams were sold and fishing rods rented during high season was closed for winter. A speedboat, looking to Timâs eyes like a sleek, silver bullet of a machine, rested on its trailer high up the shore. He couldnât help thinking it seemed unnatural on dry land somehow, as it waited impatiently for a water-skier brave enough to hang on. It was a little disappointing that the one time heâd managed to pluck up the courage to come here was the time when so little was going on. The only activity this morning was happening around the two narrow jetties where the small sailboats were tied up.
At the near jetty was a group of about fifteen little kids who appeared to be part of a sailing club. They all wore matching orange and yellow life jackets and were gathered around a small dinghy that had been dragged onto the pebbly shore, high up out of the water. Two of the group sat inside the boat practising with the sail, following the shouted orders of one of the adult instructors. They seemed to passthe test because as Tim approached they were allowed to clamber out, and then the whole group trooped off along the jetty to the dinghies moored there. Everyone called enthusiastically to bagsy the boat they wanted â obviously excited to be having a go at the real thing. And Tim couldnât ignore the flicker of concern he felt at the thought of them out on the lake, but he managed to push it deep down. It was that sixteen years of
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