The Well (25 page)

Outside the bedroom door, Sammy decided that it was time to go back to the lounge and again pretend to be asleep.
If Mummy knew that I’ve been listening
, she thought,
she’d be upset
.

16

Day had turned to night an hour ago and still the rain was relentless.

The water within the well was so high that Becca had to stand; within the last few hours it had risen up to her chest and Matt’s head had disappeared under the water. The image of Matt’s lifeless body, below the water’s surface, played on Becca’s mind. It was perhaps the ultimate reminder of the miserably short distance she was away from sharing his fate.

Becca was drained. Even just standing on her feet took enormous effort. Every so often, she would wipe the water from her face, her eyes stinging from being wet for so long. She’d had to move some of her tiny store of items to gaps in the wall further up from the rising water – and all of the spare clothes and towels were now totally drenched.

Becca firmly believed that she wouldn’t see the night through; more than once she’d seriously considered sitting down in the water to let herself drown. Whether it was the fear of drowning that stopped her, or a desperate need to cling on to life – no matter how futile that life might seem – she didn’t know.

Either her fever had topped out, or she’d got used to it. She was still coughing hard, hawking thick phlegm, but nowhere near as frequently. And although she had as much water as she could drink, she was desperately hungry.

It’s not fair
, she thought to herself, deeply miserable. Becca had considered trying to climb out again – after all, she had nothing to lose – but she knew that the wet wall was now far too slick and, in any event, she just didn’t have the strength.

Even the sound of the rain was a kind of torture; an unrelenting white noise that drowned out everything apart from the occasional peel of thunder.

It’s not going to be long before the water’s up to my mouth
, she thought.
And then, I’ve got nowhere to go.

17

Randle had arrived home drenched, the disquiet within him growing. He still felt confident that he could handle any conversation with the police, but he had realised that his home contained a glut of incriminating evidence. Against that, he had decided, his innocence would count for very little.

He made a hasty meal, his mind working hard, fretting about what to do. His tiny flat had few places in which to hide anything. He had no relatives and although he had a few acquaintances who might store a few ‘bags of keepsakes’ while he redecorated, he wasn’t sure that he could trust anyone not to open them and take a peek.

I mustn’t overreact
, he thought.
I’ve not done anything
.
They’ve got no reason to search the flat. Still, better safe than sorry.

The thought that he might destroy his trove of pictures and keepsakes didn’t even occur to him. They were too precious, too much a part of him, for that.

His computer, he decided, was the first place that the police would look if they decided he was a suspect. So he carefully copied all of the photographs from his hard disc to a backup disc before deleting them from the computer. While he was working, he realised that he had access to the ideal place to store his collection: Arthur’s flat. It wouldn’t do as a long-term hiding place, but it was good enough for a couple of weeks at least. And, as far as he knew, no one at the school was aware of any connection between himself and Arthur – although they were known buddies at the gym.
It’s not perfect
, thought Randle,
but it’s better than here.

So Randle gathered up all of his photographs, albums and keepsakes and put them into two large heavy-duty dustbin bags.
It’ll take a couple of trips,
thought Randle, unsure of whether he could carry more than one bag at once.

He made himself a cup of tea and thought hard. Had he overlooked anything? He didn’t think so.
The camera.
He realised that he had some photographs still on the memory card of his camera – including the ones he’d taken of the friend of the missing girl the other day. He pulled the camera out and placed it on the table next to his computer to remind himself to copy off the photographs and delete them from the memory card.
I’ll sort that after I’ve moved the bags,
he thought.

Randle drained the tea from his mug and put on his raincoat.
At least no one will be out tonight,
he thought, recalling how he had heard at school that the rainstorm was hampering the search. He heaved one of the bags over his shoulder. It was heavier than he’d thought, but he could manage.

He opened the front door to the flat and stepped outside, awkwardly negotiating the narrow doorway with the bulky bag, not immediately noticing the man walking towards him.

“Hello, Mr Randle,” said Ed. “I wonder if we could have a chat.”

18

When she recorded the appeal, Sarah thought that it was the hardest thing that she had ever done – until the time came to watch it replayed on television.

She’d been grateful for the sleep she’d had and didn’t know how Jim had managed to keep going, although he now seemed to be running out of energy. When it came to record the appeal, he had let Sarah do most of the talking.

“Becca. Matt,” she’d said, unable to stop the tears rolling down her face. “We just want to hear from you. We don’t care where you are or why you’re not here. Just pick up the phone and give us a call.” She had been holding tightly to Jim’s hand and felt him squeeze hers.

Jim picked up the baton from her, and continued, his voice quivering although he was more composed than Sarah. “If you’re with someone else, could that person please contact us or the police.”

Sarah continued, more or less repeating what she’d already said. “We just want to hear from you, either of you. Please. We’re so scared. We need to know that you’re alright. Please call us.”

The cameraman had wanted to try another take, but Jenny had stood firm. She knew that once was more than enough for Sarah and, to be honest, the more raw it was, the more effective it would be.

Although the reporters had wanted to ask questions, Jenny hadn’t allowed it. Sarah and Jim had been flanked on screen by herself and George Wilkins, the Deputy Chief Constable for Lancashire. Part of her resented this – Wilkins had appeared towards the end of the day and, naturally, both she and Sergeant Hutchinson had stepped aside to let him speak on behalf of the Bankside police. But part of her was also relieved. Although liaison officers were supposed to remain detached, it was nigh-on impossible to not invest yourself emotionally in such an investigation. She wasn’t entirely sure that she could have spoken in front of the cameras without breaking down.

“Rebecca Richards and Matthew Bradshaw were last seen on Friday afternoon, outside Bankside High School. Regional police have been drafted in to help the local police force and a thorough search is being made of the school and surrounding area. We appeal to members of the public to contact us if they have any information whatsoever.” While he was talking, a freephone number flashed on screen.

There had been no mention of the gap between the children going missing and Sarah and Jim notifying the police. The press would probably find out soon enough, but right now it would be an unhelpful distraction.

The recording seemed to take ages, but now, on television, the whole thing was over in less than a couple of minutes. Sarah found it excruciating to watch. She’d seen many similar appeals, and couldn’t recall many (or, in fact,
any
) occasions where the children had been subsequently found. She watched, crying, while Jim held her close, his arm tightly around her quivering shoulders. The video was occasionally overlaid with photographs of Becca and Matt. The news item finished with the presenter voicing over a video of Becca and Matt taken at Matt’s sixteenth birthday party, not long after Jim and Matt had moved into Sarah’s house.

“Do you think it will help?” Sarah asked Jenny.

Despite having been off duty for almost two hours, Jenny had hung on with Sarah and Jim until the night-time news broadcast – the interview hadn’t been quite ready for the early evening news, although the children’s disappearance had been covered.

Jenny nodded, but Stephen Carter answered for her. “It will get the news out faster than anything else. Right now, the more people who know the better. You don’t know who could be watching.”

In the centre of town, a couple of miles away, Sammy watched the broadcast intently. She noted down the telephone number on a scrap of paper and took it to Abby, who was making bacon sandwiches. “Mummy, look. The girl’s on TV.”

Sammy all but dragged Abby into the living room just in time to catch the last few seconds of the news story.

Abby stared, hand to mouth, at the photographs of Matt and Becca on the screen. Although a television presenter was talking, Abby didn’t hear what he said: she felt queasy, seeing for the first time the
real
people who were caught up in what she had believed to be her own personal ordeal. Seeing the photographs made a knot in her stomach.
Keep it together
, thought Abby.
If you think this is bad, think what it would be like with ten pictures up there.

Sammy handed the number to her mother. “They gave out a number to call. We have to tell them, Mummy. To help the girl. I think she’s dying.”

19

The water was now up to the top of Becca’s neck.

Weary though she was, she felt that there must, somehow, be a way out of her predicament. The water had risen faster than she could have imagined and there was no sign of the rain slowing down.

She moved around the well, stones moving under her feet.
Perhaps if I build them up?
she thought, but she knew that not only weren’t there enough loose stones, she couldn’t build anything solid enough to stand on for long.

She reasoned that if she could hold on to the wall, she didn’t need to keep her feet on the bottom – like being in the deep end of the swimming pool. But, tired as she was, she knew that she couldn’t do that for long. She might buy herself another hour at the most.

Her cough had eased and was now only occasional and also far less savage, though her throat was still sore.

She bumped into a large solid shape, and backed away instinctively.
Matt.
Then the thought hit her: as repulsive and unthinkable as it was, she knew it was her only hope.

Dear God,
she thought.
Am I really, really going to do this? You have to, have to,
she told herself.

Becca carefully climbed on top of Matt. His body was quite solid, more solid than she would have imagined. It yielded only slightly under her weight.
Rigor mortis
, she guessed.

With some effort, Becca managed to sit balanced on his lifeless shoulders almost as if he were carrying her, legs wrapped around his cold, rigid neck. She was, she realised, sitting on a carcass rather than a person. She sat, sobbing, her tears mingling with the rain. She leaned her weight against the wall, her head resting against a slightly protruding stone; her hand holding on to Matt’s head. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, but her legs were extremely grateful for the rest.

The rain continued to pour down and Becca began to wonder if the extra height gained by sitting on Matt would actually be enough to save her. She supposed that she could stand on him if she had to, but she doubted that she would be able to maintain her balance for long.

Rebecca Richards, aged fourteen (almost fifteen), had learned something that most people many times her age fortunately never have to: that to survive, you really will do almost anything.

20

“Taking out the rubbish?” asked Ed.

Randle nodded. “Having a bit of a clear-out,” he said, raising his voice above the rain.

Randle’s heart rate seemed to double and he hoped that he looked calm. “Come on in,” he said, hefting the bag back into the flat and dropping it down gently onto the hall floor. “You look drenched.”

Ed stepped into the flat, dripping water on the floor.

Randle could smell the beer on Ed’s breath. He took off his raincoat and hung it up, then walked ahead of Ed into the flat, scanning around to see if he’d left anything incriminating in view. As far as he could see, he hadn’t. “Cup of tea?” he shouted.
No point in trying to rush him out,
he thought.

“That would be great, thanks.” Ed made his way into the small living room as Randle stepped into the kitchen. He noticed the other bin bag. “You really are having a clear-out,” he said.

Randle put his head around the door. “Small place like this, it soon piles up. I have to throw stuff away every so often, otherwise there’s no room to move. Sugar?”

“No thanks, just milk,” replied Ed.

Randle went back into the kitchen. Ed took the opportunity to look briefly around the flat. It was small – tiny, really – only just big enough for the small collection of furniture within it. A battered two-seater sofa, a small corner table with a lamp on it, a sideboard and desk with a computer and camera on it.
A pretty decent camera for a man on a very low income,
thought Ed. He picked it up. It was, as Randle had said, a Canon, and a far better model than Ed’s battered old Nikon.
More than just a hobby,
thought Ed.
A real passion.

“Nice camera,” said Ed, appreciatively, as Randle came into the room carrying two mugs of tea. Ed slurred his words slightly, Randle noticed.

Randle wasn’t a fool. He could tell instantly what Ed was digging for. “You have no idea how many years it took me to save for that,” he said.

“And these days, you don’t just need a camera, you need a computer, too,” said Ed.

“Tell me about it,” said Randle. He didn’t have to feign exasperation – he doubted that the policeman appreciated quite how hard it had been to save the money for both the camera and computer. He desperately wanted Ed to put the camera down but tried not to let his anxiety show.