The Well (16 page)

“Can’t see me?” said the voice. “I can see you,
girl
.”

“No!” screamed Becca, shaking uncontrollably from both cold and fright. “You’re not real.”
It’s in my mind
, thought Becca.
A dream, a nightmare – or because of lack of food and water. I’m going mad.

“Real enough,” said the woman, standing. The dark shape moved and Becca felt an iron grip encircle her throat. She tried hard to pull the hand away, but couldn’t. Even to her numb fingers, the hand around her neck felt icy cold. It squeezed, slowly but firmly. Becca couldn’t breathe. Then, without warning, the hand relaxed – and was gone.

Becca doubled over, coughing and wheezing. A hand grasped her shoulder and pushed her upright, back against the wall. She struggled, but the one hand easily held her tight. Becca screamed again. Another hand came to her mouth to silence her and the shape moved closer until its dark face was just inches from Becca.
Oh my God
, thought Becca,
her breath is freezing.

“Shhhhhhhhuuusshhh,” said the voice. Becca tried to bring her breathing under control but couldn’t stop shaking. Hyperventilating, she became distantly aware that a warm stream of urine was running down her leg.

“Shhhhhhhhuuusshhh,” said the woman, stepping back and releasing her grip. “Now’s not your time to die. You just need to know how close you are. When I want you, I will take you.”

The woman’s voice was soft, clear and oddly accented. It was like a jumble of French, German, Spanish, Russian and even Italian – yet it had a distinctive tone of its own. For long moments, they stood facing each other in the dark. All Becca could see was a fuzzy shape. Becca rubbed her neck; it was sore and tender.

“Go on,” said the voice.

Becca had no idea what to do. The fear inside her rose.

“Go on. You want to look at me.” The woman prodded Becca’s pocket, where the lighter was, rocking her backwards slightly.

“No, I don’t,” stammered Becca. In a way, it was true. She didn’t want to look at the woman, in the way you instinctively didn’t want to watch open-heart surgery on the television. But, in the same way, she was drawn to look.

“In truth, you do. I show you.”

The hand took the lighter from Becca’s pocket and flipped it on. Becca backed away, her imagination tricking her senses. The light danced wildly – and what had at first seemed to be an old woman flickered into something else.

Becca was facing a woman who she guessed was in her early twenties, perhaps a little younger. Long, dark, curly hair fell around her shoulders. She was slim and attractive –
stunning even
– although the dress she wore was dirty and raggedy. She regarded Becca with large, dark eyes.

She smiled at Becca, her lips full and sensual. “Not so bad?” The light flipped off and Becca felt the warmth of the lighter as it was replaced in her pocket. A hand patted the pocket.

Becca shuddered. “What do you want?”

“Just to show you the truth,
girl
. The truth looks good, but it isn’t. It’s bad. Worse than you can imagine. Here’s another truth. Your –
boyfriend
.” The woman lingered on the word. “He no love you. He barely liked you. He just wanted to
fuck
you.” She spat out the last words.

“No,” sobbed Becca, “it’s not true.”

“And the real truth is,” said the cold voice, “you didn’t really love him either. You just wanted the same thing.”

“Enough!” shouted Becca, rushing at the shape, banging its chest with her forearms. It was like hitting a statue.

Cold hands gripped her arms and forced her back against the wall. She felt the frozen breath of the woman on her face.

“All true.
You know it
. Also true – your time is nearly here. The boy is already mine. You will be mine.”

The woman’s cold, flat, extended hand rested on Becca’s breast. “Feel it. In your heart. You
know
it.”

Far above, the bird cawed.

The woman released her grip. Becca massaged her arms roughly to take away the pain.

“And,” said the woman, “so you don’t forget –”

Becca felt a solid hand hit her face hard – as if it were the flat edge of a cricket bat. She fell backwards, both into the water and against the wall, screaming. Becca broke down completely. The pain was crippling. She felt dizzy and sick. The previously solid walls of the well seemed to spin around. When she did manage to look up, a few minutes later, she was alone again.

14

Sleeping between Abby and Helen, Sammy was extraordinarily restless. She’d fallen asleep in the car once they had started back from the seaside and, back home, Abby had slipped another sedative into her bedtime drink. Sammy had slept soundly until around midnight, when she started to toss and turn in her sleep, mumbling loudly in a distressed voice.

Abby stroked her daughter’s fevered forehead, whispering “Shhhhhhuussshh,” every so often. Helen switched on the bedside light, looking on anxiously.

Abby gazed at Sammy intently, trying to feel with her mind what was going on in her daughter’s head, to understand the connection between her and the trapped girl. She caught some of it, like loud music in the distance.
Sammy feels exactly what she feels
, realised Abby, without fully feeling it herself.

After a few minutes, Sammy became almost tormented, writhing around in the bed, shouting, without fully waking. She started to calm, and then screamed, sitting bolt upright in the bed. Abby pulled Sammy to her, and held her close while she sobbed. Yet, all the while, Abby was convinced that her daughter was still asleep.

Eventually, Sammy settled. Abby lay her back down on the bed, where she curled up, sucking her thumb for the first time in four years.

“Ab, look,” said Helen, gently pulling back the neck of Sammy’s nightie.

Abby drew a sharp breath.

Around Sammy’s neck were red, raw marks – just as if someone had tried to strangle her.

1

Although Becca had sat awake in the dark for over two hours, restless, terrified and in agony, sleep finally claimed her weary body.

When she woke – coughing violently – it was, she guessed, maybe mid-morning. It was hard to tell. The previous days’ sunshine had vanished and the once-blue sky was now grey, cloudy and overcast. Deep inside the well, it seemed colder than ever.

Becca felt truly awful. Not only was she freezing from the inescapable cold, sore and hurt from her injuries, but she was now also sweating and coughing profusely. She hawked phlegm from her rasping chest into her mouth and spat it out. Her shivering body felt alternately hot and cold – and she struggled to think clearly.
Just great
, she thought, bitterly.
It just gets better
.

She tried not to think about the previous night, but the impression of the woman seemed to be burned into her mind, like the afterimage left dancing on the inside of the eyelids after staring at a bright object.
If she walked down the street
, thought Becca,
she’d really turn men’s heads. But if they looked into her eyes, she’d freeze their hearts. Very poetic
, she thought, coughing again. Becca felt sure that the woman could easily tear someone’s heart right out.

It was easier when I thought I might be going mad
, thought Becca, sure that everything she remembered had in fact happened.

She stood, her feet shaky, trying to gather her thoughts.
Even if this is just a cold,
she thought,
down here it’s serious.
But, after being sat in rank water for days, she also knew it might be more than a cold – although there was little she could do about it.

Food and drink first
, she thought.
If I’m getting sick, it’s what I need the most.
She ate the crisps as slowly as she could, while moving around within the confined space of the well. When she’d finished, she turned the empty bag inside out and licked it clean, savouring every last speck. The salt had worsened her thirst – she drank the last of the orange and even some of the water.

Becca coughed again. She considered finishing off the water – not that there was much left – but determined to leave the last few mouthfuls until later. She could almost hear Doctor Armstrong telling her to “drink plenty of fluids”.
There was plenty of water alright,
she thought,
I just can’t drink any of it.
Even as the thought crossed her mind she realised that, by tomorrow, she would have no clean water whatsoever. She would almost certainly drink the rank water from the well if that’s what she needed to do to stay alive. She began to regret scraping the moss from the wall into the water.

The thought of yet another day, stretching out before her with nothing to amuse her but her own thoughts, filled her with dread. But it was infinitely better than the thought of the night that would follow.

Becca coughed again, her chest tearing painfully.
Hang on
, she thought. She felt the clean towel; the one that she hadn’t wiped her bottom with. Incredibly, it still wasn’t dry, but it was far drier than she was. She took the lighter from her shirt pocket and placed it on one of the shelves. Then she stripped off her shirt, peeling the clinging wet cotton away from her body. She took down the towel and placed the shirt where the towel had been. Next, she took off her skirt and then, self-consciously, she removed her bra. It was hard to undo the clasp: her fingers were numb, fat and rubbery. She put her bra and skirt with her shirt. Coughing continually, she began to rub herself as vigorously as her injured, aching limbs could bear. After some hesitation, she removed her knickers. She placed them with her other clothes and then dried herself as thoroughly as she could. She was still cold, but did feel better.

She grabbed her jumper, which was cold and still a little damp, but much drier than her other clothes. She pulled it on, feeling the material take the edge off the cold. It only came down to her waist and she felt both ridiculous and exposed.
Hang on
, she thought again. She fished Matt’s football shorts out of his bag and put them on. They weren’t exactly clean, but they were almost dry. Then she had another thought.
That’s not going to be easy. But I need all the heat I can get.
Slowly, Becca took the football shirt from Matt’s face, trying not to look at him. Even in the half-light, his face looked grey and lifeless. She covered his face with the faeces-soiled towel that had been on his shoulder, perhaps the ultimate indignity for this lifeless form. “I’m sorry, Matt,” she whispered between coughs.

She pulled the football shirt on over her jumper. It felt better than she could have hoped. It was wonderful to have dry cloth next to her skin; clothes that didn’t cling uncomfortably to her. She knew the sensation would be short-lived – she couldn’t stand out of the water all day and all night – but it provided a welcome respite. She wrapped the clean towel around her shoulders.

It was hard to stand when the thing she most desperately wanted was to lie down and curl up. Becca tried to keep moving but every so often her cough would halt her; sometimes it would almost double her up.

God the day’s going to drag again
, she thought.
Stuff it
–

She fumbled around for the iPod and clipped it to her shirt, switching it on. The glow from the display half-illuminated the bottom of the well. It had almost a full charge.
I’ll ration it
, she thought.
Half an hour at the most.
Then she thought
what the hell
and decided on an hour. Worried that she’d miss hearing anyone above, she only placed one of the earbuds in. Then she picked up her shirt, wafting it around to try to dry it, vaguely in time to the music.

Becca almost smiled, aware that if someone were to find her now she’d look pretty ridiculous.
The thing is
, she thought,
it might look funny, but it really isn’t.

2

Officers Carter and Greenwood – Stephen and Jenny – left at around two in the morning. Although tired and bleary-eyed, neither Jim nor Sarah even tried to sleep. They talked pointlessly (and tearfully) around the same topics all night long: wondering where the children were, why they’d left, if someone had taken them and – of course – if they were alright.

Sarah had desperately wanted to phone Rachel, her sister, but Jim had thought it best to leave it until morning. At first, reluctantly, Sarah had agreed – but then she thought
screw it
and called Rachel anyway. She knew Jim was being practical but now, more than ever, she needed a family closeness that she didn’t feel she could get from Jim. She knew she was being unfair to Jim but couldn’t help it. Even under pressure, Jim was able to think straight – which should have been comforting, but just seemed irritating.

Sarah had made an uncomfortable call to Will, who’d confirmed that Becca wasn’t with him – but had pressed Sarah hard to let him come round.

“Will, that’s not a good idea,” Sarah had said, firmly.

“Whatever happened between us,” said Will, “I’m still Becca’s father.”

“A father who she doesn’t want to see.”

“This isn’t about what Becca wants, Sarah,” Will had retorted.

Sarah swallowed hard. The last thing she wanted was Will,
in her house
, but she couldn’t see a way of keeping him away. Finally she said, “Look, Will – the fact is I
really
don’t want you here. This is hard enough as it is. You come through that door and – well, you’ll make things harder for everyone.”

“Except me.”

Sarah could tell Will was fuming.

“Granted. But there’s nothing,
nothing
, you can do to help. I promise, I’ll call you any time we hear anything. Right away. But I don’t want you here. It might not be fair, but –” Sarah stifled a sob.

“Sarah?”

“I can’t handle this as it is, Will. Having you here…
please.
For me.
I don’t want it. I can’t handle it. I promise I’ll call you the second we hear anything.”