by Sam Haysom
‘It’s not my fault,’ Tim says, and for a moment Matt thinks he’s read his mind. ‘It’s not my fault Matt, you have to understand that, please. He’s in me, Matt. I don’t want to be like this but he’s fucking in me.’
He kneels there in the river, water dripping down his face to mix with the snot and tears and his fringe hanging in his eyes, and for a second Matt remembers the younger Tim. The quiet, 13-year-old boy who walked in his father’s shadow on that long-ago weekend. The tears sting his eyes so suddenly they take him by surprise.
‘You have to help me, Matt,’ Tim pleads. ‘Help me, you have to help me get rid of him. You have to help me.’
Matt shuts his eyes against the tears, opens them, then puts his hand on the back of Tim’s head.
‘Okay,’ he says. His voice cracks, but only a little. ‘Okay, I’ll help you.’
He tightens his grip and shoves Tim’s head under the water. James goes tense and tightens his own hold on Tim’s arm. He doesn’t look at Matt. Tim’s body thrashes back and forth in the water. Matt has to shift his weight a couple of times and at one point he thinks he’s going to lose his balance, but he holds on.
He can hear Tim’s garbled screams coming from beneath the water, but they’re distant. They’ll stop soon.
You have to do this, he thinks. And not just for the other children he’ll hurt. You have to do it for that boy who disappeared last year. You have to do it for the Plumber twins. You have to do it for Tom and for Gary, and for all the others who aren’t here anymore.
The sun beats down on the river and makes Matt squint. The bushes by the footpath rustle in a thin breeze. The river rushes along, unstoppable, its shushing noise drowning out the dwindling sounds of Tim’s screams. The whole thing takes longer than he expected it would. He wants to be sure.
When it’s done and they are, he lets go of the body without looking at James. It floats up to the surface, a black shape against the blue of the water, and begins to drift off down the current.
The two men watch it go without saying anything.
When it’s finally out of sight, they turn away and wade back to the bank. They climb ashore, pick up their rucksacks and tighten the straps, then head back along the footpath in silence.
Acknowledgements
Without the help, hard work and support of a number of people, this book wouldn’t exist.
The handful of friends, family and friends of friends who read the book when it was still in its early stages. You know who you are, and your feedback helped make The Moor better.
My agent, Zoë Apostolides, for believing in the book.
Kwaku Osei-Afrifa, who first commissioned it; Annabel Wright and Leonora Craig Cohen, who guided me through the editorial process; and all the brilliant people at Unbound who helped it along the way.
My developmental editor, Michael Rowley, whose insightful suggestions improved the story.
My family and friends, whose excitement and interest in the project made me want to make it the best it could be.
All the awesome people who pledged.
My partner, Keely, whose support has been invaluable. I love you, sweetheart.
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