Whale Pot Bay by Des Hunt Page A

world can have particularly nasty thoughts.

Chapter 8
    I slept late the next morning. Normally, on the first day of the holidays I would get up early, excited about all the things I was going to do in the coming weeks. I felt none of that excitement. Instead, I half-wished that school had continued, for it would have helped take my mind off my worries.
    I was deep into blaming myself for the whole mess. If I’d reacted differently during Vicky and Stephanie’s visit, then things would have been altogether different. Also, I should have told Scatworm to go away and make an appointment with my father. Then there was that stupid message I’d left on his voice-mail; that was a mistake and was probably why Scatworm had written that nasty bit at the end of the article.
    My self-pitying thoughts were disturbed by the sound of a car pulling into our driveway. A moment later there was a knock on the front door, followed shortly afterwards by Dad inviting someone to come in. For half an hour I could hear the mumble of conversation from the kitchen without having any idea who the person was. Then Dad came to my room and said there was a visitor to see me.
    After dressing hurriedly, I walked into the kitchen to find Milton Summer sitting with Dad at the bench. A copy of C’leb Investigate was open in front of them.
    ‘Hello, Jake,’ said Milt in a serious voice. ‘I think weneed to have a discussion about this.’ He pointed to the magazine. ‘Have you read it?’
    ‘Only on the web.’ I picked it up and looked at the article. It was the same as on the website, but it all seemed worse when printed on paper.
    ‘It’s horrible,’ I said putting it down.
    Both the men nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, it is,’ said Dad, grimly. Then after a pause, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’
    ‘What? That I was giving surfing lessons?’
    Dad nodded.
    ‘I didn’t think it was any big deal.’
    ‘Well it is now, isn’t it?’
    ‘Only because that magazine wants it to be,’ I countered, feeling my face tighten in the first stages of anger. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. If I’d given lessons to anybody else, nothing would have happened.’
    ‘You told other people about it,’ Dad accused. ‘You told Steph.’
    I took a deep breath. ‘I was only trying to make her feel better. I didn’t know that she’d blab it all over the place.’
    ‘We don’t know that she did,’ said Milt, quietly. ‘There are other possibilities.’
    I waited for him to say more: maybe he wasn’t blaming me for everything.
    ‘It could have been somebody at the surf shop,’ he went on. ‘We need to talk to your friend Stephanie.’
    I wanted to say that she was no friend of mine, but let it go.
    ‘We’ll be able to do that soon,’ put in Dad. ‘They’ll be arriving any time now.’
    That threw me. ‘Are they coming to stay?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You could have told me,’ I said angrily. Who was he to blame me for not talking about things?
    ‘I would have, if you hadn’t shut yourself in your room so much.’
    Milt was obviously getting impatient with our family squabbles. ‘What we’ve got to do,’ he said forcefully, ‘is make sure the story doesn’t get any bigger than it is now.’
    That shut us up and got our attention.
    ‘First, my lawyers have made contact with C’leb Investigate, and after a few threats C’leb have agreed not to continue the story. That doesn’t necessarily mean that they’ll stick to the agreement. They probably lie as much in their business dealings as they do in the stuff they print.’
    ‘Have you made contact with the photographer?’ I asked, thinking of the phone number I had.
    ‘My lawyers have. He was not particularly cooperative. He says he has other photos and he’s within his rights to sell them.’ Milt gave a little snort. ‘He even offered to sell me the ones showing me surfing properly.’
    ‘Do you want to continue surfing?’ asked Dad.
    ‘Yes,’ Milt replied without hesitation.