The Well (20 page)

Jim nodded, but Sarah wasn’t to be put off. “I want to do
something
. I can’t just sit here. I
won’t
.”

“Of course. That’s why I said
not directly
,” said Jenny. “It would help if we drive around the various routes, to see if anything jogs your memory: shops, houses, parks – anything. Could you do that?”

Sarah nodded, glad to have some kind of purpose.

“I should stay here,” said Jim.

Sarah shot him an angry look. “Jim –!”

“In case they call,” he said, obviously hurt.

Sarah could see the sense in that, but didn’t seem entirely placated. “I’ll get my coat,” she said.

“Sarah –” Jim began. But she’d already left the room.

“We can’t go straight away,” said Jenny. “I’ll call for someone to stay with you.”

“There’s no need,” said Jim. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mr Bradshaw,” said Jenny, “we don’t know what’s happened to Rebecca and Matthew. For all we know you might get a phone call from a kidnapper. What would you do then?”

“Oh God,” said Jim, sitting down. “Do you really think so?”

“No, not really. But it’s one possibility I can think of and there might be dozens I can’t. Better to have someone here, just in case.” Since Jenny knew that – however unlikely it seemed – one or both of the parents might actually be responsible, neither was best left alone.

Jenny went into the kitchen to call the police station, glancing out of the window as she did.
Looks like it’s going to rain
, she thought.
That’s not going to help.

7

Abby had been anxiously awaiting Helen’s call, so, when her mobile phone rang, she answered on the first ring.

“Helen?” Despite being late morning, she tried to keep her voice down. After Helen had left, she’d gone to wake Sammy and found her hot and fevered. She’d helped her weary daughter eat some toast, then given her some paracetamol to try to get her temperature down. Although she’d drifted off to sleep again, she was restless.

Helen quickly outlined what was happening at the school.

“So they’re looking in the wrong place?”

“Yes,” said Helen. “From what I understand, even after drafting in more police – lots more police – the search could still take days.” A group of children went past, huddled in whispered conversation. Helen lowered her voice further. “It could be two, three or four days before they start looking anywhere other than likely routes home.”

“Well,” said Abby, “that’s good.”

Helen hesitated. “How is it good? This is a little girl we’re talking about.”

“Helen, I don’t like it any more than you do – I’m probably just more used to the idea. I’ve been dreading it for so long that it’s – well, almost a relief now. But you’re right, it’s not good. It’s just less bad.”

Helen was silent.

“What’s up?” asked Abby.

“Well,” said Helen uncomfortably, “this isn’t just some folk tale any more. This is a real girl we’re talking about.”

“I do know that, Helen,” said Abby, more sharply than she intended.

“Do you? Really? When I said a real girl, that’s what I meant. Someone with a family. A father. A
mother
.” Although she was emphatic, there was no anger in Helen’s voice; the questions were asked honestly, openly. “What if this girl were Sammy?”

Abby swallowed, took a breath and answered as evenly as she could. “Well, I’d have to deal with it. Like I’m having to deal with it now.”

There was a brief uncomfortable silence. “I’m sorry, Abs,” said Helen.

“Do you know the girl?” asked Abby, after a pause.

“Not directly. I don’t teach her – but I’ve seen her around and at sports days. Nice girl.” Helen couldn’t keep the sadness from her voice. “I’ve taught the boy, though, a couple of times when I was standing in for Marshall. I didn’t like him, to be honest, but I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Helen?”

“Yes?”

“I am sorry, you know. Really.”

“I know,” said Helen. “I just don’t know how you’ve lived with this. It’s awful.”

“I just have,” said Abby. “I’d no choice.”

Helen switched the subject. “How’s Sammy?”

“Not good,” replied Abby. “She’s running a temperature – around a hundred. I’d normally call Doc Armstrong. But I don’t actually think it’s Sammy who’s sick. I think it’s the girl.”

“The girl?”

“Whatever’s happening between Sammy and the girl, it’s way stronger than what she normally feels from others. It’s like some kind of bond. I’m scared. I told you I’m not that gifted – but I can normally
feel
Sammy, at least a bit. It’s like this thing with the girl is blocking me out. When the girl – when this all ends, what happens to Sam?”

Helen had no answer for Abby. The break in their conversation was ended by the loud ringing of the school bell. “I have to go,” said Helen. “Break time’s over. I’ll call later if I hear anything new. And Abby –”

“Yes?”

“You have to be strong.”

“I know, thanks.”

Abby hung up the phone. As she replaced it on the arm of the sofa, she noticed Sammy at the door. She looked a mess – sweaty, hot and bedraggled. Abby went to her.

“Oh baby, I didn’t see you there. Are you OK?”

Sammy shook her heed. “I feel really bad.” Sammy coughed, a liquid, congested cough.

Abby led her to the sofa and put her on her knee, hugging her. Sammy felt unnaturally hot. “Well, you don’t look great. But we’ll get you better. Want some orange juice?”

Sammy nodded. “I’m very thirsty. And hungry.” Abby wondered how much of what Sammy was feeling was because of the girl. She carried Sammy to the kitchen to get the juice. “How long were you listening, Sam?”

“Not long, Mummy,” lied Sammy. Abby knew the lie for what it was but understood her daughter’s fear.

“I was talking to Helen, Sammy,” said Abby.

“I know,” said Sammy. “About the girl. She’s real, isn’t she?”

Abby handed Sammy the glass of orange. “Yes, baby, she is.” It was pointless lying.
She probably knows more about her than we do,
thought Abby.

“Then why aren’t we helping her? She’s stuck. And upset. And frightened. Very frightened.”

Abby didn’t know what to say. “It’s complicated, Sammy,” she began.

Sammy coughed again, this time bringing up dark green phlegm into her hand. Abby got a tissue and wiped it away. She gave her daughter another tissue. “Here, Sammy, cough into this.” Sammy did so, filling the tissue.

Gross
, thought Abby.

“I know it is,” said Sammy, “I’m sorry, Mummy.” Abby still found it unnerving that her daughter so often knew what she was thinking.

“Can you always tell what I’m thinking?” asked Abby.

Sammy shook her head. “Not always. But often.”

“And other people?”

Sammy seemed uncomfortable.

“Sam, it’s OK to talk about this, to me and Helen, anyway.”

Sammy nodded. “Some other people. Not everyone. Some people a lot. Some just a bit.”

“Is it annoying?” Abby tried to imagine the voices of dozens of people in her head, all the time.

Sammy shrugged. “Not really – well, sometimes. I don’t always understand it, though. Some people think bad things. I try not to listen.”

“What about the girl?”

“She’s scared. It’s a small dark place. There’s someone else there –” the sudden fear in Sammy’s eyes was terrible. Tears were forming in her eyes. “A pretty woman. Well, pretty to look at, but bad inside. She’s
very bad
. And there’s a man. A bad man. He wants her too.”

Abby was surprised. “A bad man? In the – with the girl?”

“No. He’s somewhere else. I don’t know where. I don’t like the things he thinks. He’s – he’s full of bad thoughts, but he pretends to be nice and no one knows. He –” Sammy started crying, her sobs punctuated with deep hacking coughs.

“Shhhh,” said Abby. “Let’s not talk about this now.”

“And her Mummy misses her, she’s scared too. And her friends. Her best friend is really upset.”

“Sammy,” said Abby, softly, “let’s leave it. Hush now.”

Sammy nodded, sniffing.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” said Abby. “You need some more sleep.”

Abby picked Sammy up.
I won’t be able to do this for much longer
, she thought,
she’s heavier each time I lift her.

She carried Sammy to her bedroom and put her into bed, stroking her hair while she calmed herself. Eventually, her sobbing ceased and she closed her eyes. Abby waited a while, then left her to sleep.
It’s late,
she thought,
I need to open up the shop.

As Abby left, Sammy half-opened her eyes.
I don’t care what Mummy says
, she thought.
I want to help the girl.

8

Once Becca’s hour of music was up (and, truth be told, she had stretched it to another ten minutes) tedium returned. Her chest ached as if it were torn inside. Every so often she’d break into an uncontrollable coughing fit. She was desperate to drink the water, if only to ease her throat, but was mindful that there was very little left. Her next drink would be her last. After that, with no food or water and getting sicker by the hour, she didn’t think she’d last long. She shivered, her body hot and cold at the same time. Every so often, the well seemed to spin around her and she had to hold on to the wall to steady herself, determined not to sit down, but to remain dry as long as she could.

The day grew darker and colder. She had no idea what time it was. Her body clock couldn’t help her: her stomach was now always aching for food. The now forbidding, steel-grey sky gave away nothing. It could be lunchtime, mid-afternoon or later.

The smell inside the well had become inescapable, somehow making the air thicker. The last time she used the lighter, just after hanging her school clothes where she could around the well, she’d caught sight of Matt’s body. It was as if he wasn’t human any more, just a hunk of meat.

What day is it?
She thought. She couldn’t be sure. She worked her way back through the number of nights, but still couldn’t quite decide if it was Monday or Tuesday.

But Becca’s permanent, overriding feeling wasn’t hunger, thirst, cold or fever – it was fear. She’d never been so scared for so long. It wasn’t like the fear of a roller coaster ride, a fear safe in the knowledge that any illusory danger would soon be over. It cut far deeper: a fear that came from the near certainty that her life was now numbered in days – and those days would be increasingly torturous.

She bent double, coughing hard, spitting phlegm into the water. This time, the cough wouldn’t go away. Her chest kept hacking in a spasm she couldn’t stop as she agonisingly, but uncontrollably, brought viscous mucus from the depths of her lungs. Desperate, she reached for the last of the water and gratefully felt it roll down her ragged throat. For a moment, she had some relief – but there was instantly worse to follow, as she retched and vomited into the water. Whatever little she’d eaten in the last day was now floating, with the moss, on the top of the water – adding to the foul stench in the well. She heaved again and again, emptying herself until she was dry-retching, crying, sweating and panting. Her mouth tasted vile and dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.

Gradually, Becca steadied herself and, after perhaps twenty minutes, even felt a little better. It was as though her body had ejected something poisonous.

There was a familiar flutter of substantial wings above her. She looked up to see the large bird settle itself on the top of the well. It cawed, as if it had come to gloat. Then another bird joined it – and another, then another, until after two or three minutes, the well was encircled by birds. Their chorus was deafening and deeply disturbing.

“Go away!” she screamed. Her voice didn’t even dent the din above; there was no way she could rise above it. She reached around in the water for some stones. Finding some, she tried to throw them at the birds but she was far too weak. The stones bounced off the wall back into the well, Becca having to sidestep them to avoid being hit.

Then, all together, as if they had been disturbed, the birds left in a cacophony of frantically beating wings. Silence followed. Becca strained her ears, but heard nothing.
Was there someone above?

She looked up and could see only gloomy clouds.

Then, on her forehead, a fat splat of water landed. She squinted as it ran down into her eyes. She rubbed it away but the raindrop was followed by another. Within seconds, the raindrops were coming thick and fast.
Just fucking great,
she thought, knowing that not only would she get soaked again, but there was no way of keeping her school clothes dry.
Unless
– she quickly scooped up her clothes, not yet dry but at least not drenched as they had been, and bundled them into the remaining plastic carrier bag, with her iPod, which she then put into her schoolbag.

By the time Becca had rescued her clothes, the rain was coming down hard. Thunder growled above and the sky darkened further. The noise of the rain within the well was deafening. Even beneath the jumper and the football shirt her body was starting to feel wet. She cursed again – and then smiled as she realised that nature had delivered a great gift.

Becca whooped, elated. She cupped her hands together and let the water collect there, before drinking it deeply. It tasted cold, clean and good. She drank another handful, but her stomach twisted in protest. She didn’t want to bring it back up, so stopped.

The rain was now pounding down.
I need this
, she thought.
I can’t let it go.
She fumbled around for the lunchbox, removed its lid and held it level. Despite the now torrential rain, it seemed to take an age to fill. She emptied the rain into the water bottle, then did the same again, filling the bottle in a couple of attempts. Brushing away her drenched, tangled hair, she then filled the orange can. Finally, she let the sandwich box fill up and snapped the lid into place, satisfied.

Thunder rumbled above and there was a bright flash of lightning. The rain came down even harder.