The Well (14 page)

“Sorry, Abby – it’s just – well, as I said, I’m struggling with this. We’ve been together for five years. I thought I knew your values. This…”

“Helen,” said Abby softly. “You
do
know me. I’m no different today than I was last week. You have to trust in that; in us.”

Helen stayed silent, though she squeezed Abby’s arm to show she’d not meant to offend. Abby gently took hold of Helen’s hand and returned the squeeze.

“I know it’s not easy,” said Abby, “but the best thing we can do is just wait. And tire Sammy out. If the girl continues to survive, her dreams are probably going to get more frightening.”

“They’re worse for her, aren’t they?”

“Much.”

“Because she’s younger?”

Abby hesitated. “Maybe. Or partly. But mostly just because she’s
better
. To be honest, I’m an amateur. She’s gifted. I don’t – can’t – catch a fraction of what she does.”

Sammy came running back to them. “Mummy! Can I have an ice cream?”

Abby lifted her up, which wasn’t anything like as easy as it had once been. “Sure, Sams. And fish and chips for lunch. How’s that?”

“Yeah!” shouted a jubilant Sammy, jumping back down from her mother so that she could run ahead to the ice cream van.

They sat together on the beach, eating their ice creams, watching the seagulls fly and the children play. Sammy winced and rubbed her shoulder, as if she’d hurt it. “Ouch,” she said, her discomfort evident. For a fleeting second, Abby felt a whisper of pain in her own shoulder and instinctively knew it to be a shadow of what Sammy was feeling.

“What’s the matter, baby, did you fall?”

Sammy shook her head. “Not me, Mummy. The girl.”

Abby and Helen looked at each other.

Helen asked, “When did she fall, Sammy? Last night?”

“No,” said Sammy simply. “Just now.”

8

Randle found Sunday enormously difficult. He was becoming impatient – which, he knew, could be dangerous.

He wasn’t a fool: no young girl would ever surrender herself to him. And he knew that once he’d taken, he’d probably get caught. But he’d decided that it would be worth it:
better that
, he thought,
than this monotonous, celibate, sorry hamster-wheel of an existence
. But if he was going to get caught, it had better be good.

He’d lain awake much of the night, his mind skipping between fantasies. With each hour, he found himself grow more willing to be reckless.
That won’t do
, he thought. Rushing meant mistakes.

Once the day got going, he welcomed falling into his Sunday routine. His two hours at the gym were especially good.
Once a soldier, always a soldier
, he thought. For his age, he was strong and could be agile – just his knee let him down. He couldn’t afford to go to the more expensive health clubs in town, but the community gym was more than good enough for him. Like him, the equipment was ageing and bent out of shape, but it did the job. He kept himself to himself, working his way around the upper-body equipment and weights. Despite his lack of sleep, he worked himself much longer and harder than he would normally.

The exertion helped to calm the hunger inside of him; to balance him out.
I need to plan
, he thought, as he drove his fists into the old leather punchbag.
But I need to not let opportunities pass me by, either.

“Whoa, granddad, easy up!”

Randle slowed his punches and looked to where the voice came from. A younger man, waiting for the bag, was smiling at him. “Leave some life in it for me!”

Randle smiled back and gave as good a thumbs up as he could in his boxing gloves. “Five minutes and I’m done,” he shouted back.

He was glad that he’d kept in shape. Teenagers could be quick – and if there was one thing he couldn’t do, it was to outrun someone. He’d have to move in hard and strong – and not give her the chance to run. He’d need every ounce of his strength.

9

Becca knew that she had been extremely lucky. She’d again landed on her feet and, although it had been incredibly painful, she didn’t think that she had broken anything. When she had landed, she had fallen to one side, banging both her left shoulder and the side of her head sharply. Both throbbed horribly, but at least she didn’t seem to be bleeding.

Becca’s ankle felt cold and sore, as if icy fingers had left an impression where they’d grasped her.

She looked frantically around the well, panicking. Although she could now see more clearly, it was still a place of darkness and shadows. Sobbing, she flipped on the lighter, casting the well in a ghostly, dancing light.

Becca was sure, one hundred per cent sure, that she hadn’t imagined either the voice or the hand’s grip. But it was impossible.
I’m going mad
, she thought.
There’s no one here, other than Matt
. Reluctantly, she went over to Matt and felt under the water for his hand. It was as cold as stone and almost as solid.

I know what I heard; I know what I felt,
she thought, shaking with fear.

“Hello?” she said tentatively, her voice shaking. There was no response.

I can’t have imagined it,
thought Becca.
But – what’s worse? Imagining it, or it really happening?
She tried to inhale deeply, to slow her runaway breathing, but couldn’t quell the panic deep within her.
Get a grip,
she told herself, without success.
Deal with what’s real.

After a few minutes examining the empty well, Becca reluctantly flipped off the lighter and sat back down.
If I’m here for some time,
she thought,
I’m going to have to conserve what I have.
But in her heart, she knew the precious little she had would be unlikely to last more than another day or so. She brooded, worried that she’d imagined the voice (after all, she was tired and hungry) or, worse still, that she hadn’t. She really didn’t like to think about the local stories of the cottage and its well. A wave of deep dread, almost like a wind, ran over her. She shuddered, then shook her head.
Get a grip, girl
, she thought again, more firmly, the first faint sparkle of Becca’s usual defiance creeping back.

Sitting in the water, head in her hands, Becca cried for the best part of fifteen minutes, unable to shake the feeling of utter failure.

She reviewed her situation. She was exhausted, cold, hungry and almost every part of her was severely sore. She had very little left to eat or drink. It could be days – at the least – before she might be found. It became all too much for her. Her tears turned to anger and she shrieked loudly, slapping the water continually with the palms of her hands.
It’s not fair
, she thought.

She stood up, dripping wet, furious.
I am not going to die here
, she screamed to herself. As loud as she could, she shouted, again and again, “Help!!” With each shout, she invested more energy until, after half an hour, she was almost totally drained.

Although feeling drained and ready to sleep she pushed herself upright, deciding to check the mobile phones again – pointless though it seemed. She fumbled around and found Matt’s first. She replaced its batteries and switched it on, but it remained stubbornly dead. She sighed, replaced it and then picked hers up. Astonishingly, at the first press, it lit up. She held her breath, waiting for it to die. As the seconds passed, her heart soared.
It’s working
, she thought.
Holy Christ, it’s working.
Tears streamed down her face; she couldn’t remember ever, ever feeling so overjoyed. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, to no one in particular.

NO SIGNAL, said the phone, in bright text. She waited. NO SIGNAL.

“No!” she shouted, stamping her foot like a child. “No, no, bloody hell no!”

The phone remained unchanged: NO SIGNAL. She held it as high as she could. Still, there was NO SIGNAL. She wondered if she were able to climb up the wall a little, if that might change. She doubted it.
Aren’t telephone signals line-of-sight?
If they are
, she thought,
I’d have to be almost at the top of the well.

She sighed, and then wondered:
OK, if I can’t climb that high, can I throw it out?

Becca looked up to the top of the well. It was pretty high, she was very tired and she’d only have one shot – but she thought she could do it. She smiled to herself, heartened again.

She hit the button to compose a new text message.
What the hell am I going to say?
She imagined her mother, hundreds of miles away, suddenly getting the text. She’d think it was a joke.
Well, maybe at first. But when she tries to call
– Becca knew her mother well. It would probably be enough to panic her, if bloody Jim doesn’t convince her otherwise.
How much should I tell her? Should I tell her about Matt?

She decided that Jim hearing about his son’s death via a text message wasn’t a good idea and began tapping in the message.
Probably
, she reflected,
this is the most important message I’ll ever send.

MUM. AM REALLY SORRY. ME+MATT HAVE FALLEN IN THE WITCHS WELL NR THE QUARRY. HURT. STUCK SINCE FRI. NEED HELP. AM SERIOUS. PLSE BELIEVE ME. HELP.

Becca read it through twice. The message read like a joke, but she couldn’t think of any better way of wording it.

Well,
she thought
, here goes.

Becca looked up, calculating where to throw it.
One chance.
She was only just better than average at ball games, having put most of her effort into swimming, but she could generally throw a good enough ball at rounders.

She pressed send, and threw the phone upwards, underarm, as hard as she could, desperately trying to achieve an angle shallow enough for it to exit the well but deep enough for it not to simply fall back.

The phone disappeared from sight and she heard a gentle
thud
as it hit the ground.

“Yes, yes, yes, YES!” Becca punched the air in triumph. She knew that the phone would get enough of a signal to send the message at the top of the well; it may not find the signal right away, but the text would keep trying to resend until it did.

What Becca hadn’t seen was that the phone had landed hard, on its side, popping the battery out as it hit the ground. Its tiny screen went from NO SIGNAL to totally dark.

10

It took almost an hour for the police to arrive.

While they waited, Sarah and Jim telephoned more of Becca’s friends, each call with the same result. As far as Jim knew, Matt hadn’t really made any firm friends since they had moved to Bankside, so he had no one to call.

Then they searched the house for any kind of clues as to the children’s whereabouts. There was nothing unusual, although Jim found four packets of condoms in Matt’s room, tucked away at the back of the top shelf of his wardrobe in a paper bag. He wasn’t shocked (although he was a little surprised that Matt could actually be so responsible) but he wasn’t aware that his son had a girlfriend. Not for the first time, he felt downhearted when he compared the close nature of Sarah and Becca’s relationship to his and Matt’s. He wondered how it was possible that Matt had a girlfriend and he didn’t know.
Because he doesn’t want me to know
, thought Jim. He dismissed the condoms as irrelevant and didn’t even consider telling Sarah.

When the police arrived, their measured and professional nature went a long way towards calming Sarah. They introduced themselves more informally than Jim would have expected, as Stephen Carter and Jenny Greenwood.

Jim made everyone a cup of tea, while Sarah started to answer their questions.

“And how old are the children?” Jim heard Stephen Carter ask.

“Rebecca’s fourteen, fifteen in just under two months,” replied Sarah. “Matt was sixteen last month.” There was an almost imperceptible pause; Jim, out of eyeshot, didn’t see the police officers exchange a glance. Sarah did. Her nerves already frayed, she asked tersely, “Is that a problem?”

Stephen cleared his throat. “No, of course not,” he said, thinking that the children might have been a little young to be left alone. “Was anyone looking in on them?”

Sarah’s hackles rose. “What exactly are you saying?” Jim was about to come in from the kitchen to help calm Sarah down, when Jenny Greenwood interjected.

“Mrs Richards,” she said. “I’m sorry. We don’t mean to be either insensitive or rude. We just have to ask questions. We don’t know what will be relevant.”

Jim brought the tea in, passed the cups around and then sat down. “I think Officer Greenwood is right, Sarah,” he said. “It won’t help if we can’t keep calm.”

Sarah took a deep breath and Jim reached over to take her hand. “The most important thing,” said Jim, “is to find the kids, right?”

Sarah nodded.

“If it helps to find them, we’ll do anything,” added Jim.

Sarah nodded again and visibly relaxed a little.

Stephen Carter asked most of the questions and Sarah supplied most of the answers, losing her composure now and again, stammering out the answers tearfully. They went through everything that Sarah and Jim knew, little though it was – and then through most of the details again.

Stephen Carter scratched his head. “Can you think of any reason why Rebecca might lie about being grounded?”

Sarah shook her head and looked at Jim. He did the same, adding, “All I can think is that they were invited to a party or something that they didn’t want some of their friends to know about. But I can’t imagine why they’d do that.”

Stephen smiled. “I know it doesn’t seem to make any sense right now,” he said, “but you’d be amazed how these kinds of mysteries have a reasonable explanation.”

Sarah didn’t look convinced, but nodded.

“We’d like to talk to some of Rebecca and Matt’s friends,” said Stephen, “if that’s OK? Do you have their names and addresses?”

“Some,” said Sarah. “I think Hannah and Nisha were the last to talk to her, as I said.”