“Where’s he going then?” said Paul.
“Dunno.”
“He looks as if he knows where he’s going.”
“That’s Jake for you.” Barry shrugged.
“What do you mean?”
“Always got his head in the clouds.”
They both looked up to see the thunder clouds were finally breaking up, being replaced by patches of blue, and the sun seemed to be getting larger and hotter at the same time.
“Jake looks as if he’s on to something,” said Paul.
“He’s just getting fed up.”
Paul sighed. “It’s obvious Joe isn’t here.” But now he simply sounded as if he was trying to reassure himself.
“Let’s get after Jake,” said Barry.
“Hang on. He’s stopped. Now what’s he gone and done that for?”
“We’d better go and see.”
Paul didn’t move.
“Come on!” yelled Barry.
They both began to run.
There was nobody there. Except Jake.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Joe isn’t here.”
Barry gazed out at the reeds, a little to their left. A tiny breeze had blown up and they were beginning to move listlessly, rustling in a whisper of wind.
“Don’t you remember,” he said. “We used to fish down there.”
“That’s right.” Paul spoke too brightly. “Maybe that’s what Joe’s been up to all this time – doing a spot of fishing.”
“He tried most things,” said Barry. “Then he got tired of them.” The sun was getting even hotter now and Barry felt so stifled he could hardly breathe.
Paul began to call out. “Joe! Where are you, Joe?”
But the only response was the croaking of frogs, a harsh jarring sound in the close air that seemed to get inside them, creating a gathering apprehension.
Then Jake began to walk towards the reeds and Paul and Barry watched him curiously as the frogs continued to rasp.
Jake turned back to them with a kind of satisfaction, as if he had been wanting to get to the lake for a long time, as if he had just been avoiding the place.
Suddenly Barry saw the thing floating amongst the reeds and at first he thought he was gazing at a half-submerged log. Then he realized he was staring at a leg and his apprehension tightened.
Barry glimpsed another leg and then arms and a torso and a T-shirt he was sure he recognized. He knew it read DON’T MESS WITH ME. His throat was now so dry he couldn’t speak and he felt as if he had got heat-stroke, sick and dizzy with a pounding in his temples like a drum beat.
“There’s Joe,” said Jake woodenly. “We’ve found him at last.”
Paul was staring at the thing in the reeds now, gasping for breath as if all the oxygen in the air had been eaten up by the stinking marsh.
“What are you on about, Jake?” Barry managed to get words out at last, but his voice was like that of an automaton, completely devoid of expression.
“Can’t you see?” Jake was very calm, even trying to be reassuring. “It’s all OK now. We’ve found him.”
The surface of the lake winked and glimmered in the sunlight.
The leg had a boot that was trailing in fronds of weed.
“There’s Joe’s bike.” Paul walked stiffly across to the familiar battered old mountain bike that lay half under a bush.
Barry followed at once, and Jake more slowly. Reluctantly.
The heat seemed to fill their throats again as they stood over Joe’s bike, not wanting to look back at the lake and the floating thing.
The frogs stopped croaking and there was silence apart from the far-away drone of traffic.
The silence was as hot as the sun, as solid as a wall.
After a long time, Paul managed to blurt out, “What happened?”
“He said he wanted to talk. To apologize,” said Jake.
“Apologize for what?”
“What he did to me. So we went fishing. But it was a trick.”
“What kind of trick?” asked Barry gently.
“He was laughing. Calling me a wimp for doing so badly in the marathon. He said I was nothing. That my dad despised me.” Jake’s sentences were short and choppy. “Joe told me I’d never be anything, so I grabbed my bike. He was angry. Really angry. He started to shout stuff at me.”
“Swearing?”
“Worse. Stuff about me. I pedalled fast round the lake and he got his bike and came after me.”
“Then?” asked Paul gently.
“Joe skidded and came off his bike. He rolled off this steep part of the bank and hit his head on that rusty old car wreck that’s sticking up out there. You can see it now.”
They followed his gaze unwillingly.
“There was all this blood. Then he started drifting into the reeds. He was face down – like he is now.”
“So why didn’t you get him out?” half whispered Barry.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Jake said nothing and they walked back towards the floating thing.
A dragonfly buzzed over Joe’s head. A single frog croaked. Water beetles just grazed the scum on the surface of the lake.
“So what did you do?” asked Paul.
“Nothing,” said Jake. “There wasn’t anything to do. So I watched him. Didn’t I?”
“Watched him?”
“What was he doing?” Barry was incredulous.
“Joe? He wasn’t doing anything. For once.”
They began to walk away, too numb to take in what had happened. The last few days were somehow unbelievable, as if they had been travelling in a distant land. All they could remember now was the old Joe they had known so well. And it was the old Joe they took away from the lake, took away in their hearts.
A Note on the Author
Anthony Masters was renowned as an adult novelist, short story writer and biographer, but was best known for his fiction for young people.
Many of his novels carry deep insights into social problems, which he experienced over four decades by helping the socially excluded. He ran soup kitchens for drug addicts and campaigned for the civic rights of gypsies and other ethnic minorities. Masters is also known for his eclectic range of non-fiction titles, ranging from the biographies of such diverse personalities as the British secret service chief immortalized by Ian Fleming in his James Bond books (The Man Who Was M: the Life of Maxwell Knight).
His children’s fiction included teenage novels and the ground breaking Weird World series of young adult horror, published by Bloomsbury. He also worked with children both in schools and at art festivals. Anthony Masters died in 2003.
Discover books by Anthony Masters published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnthonyMasters
Confessional
Finding Joe
Hidden Gods
Murder Is a Long Time Coming
The Men
Children and Young Adult Books
Cries of Terror
Dead Man at the Door
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark
Nightmare in New York
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 2000 by Scholastic Press
Copyright © 2000 Anthony Masters
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electroni
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printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448209057
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