The Well (32 page)

What she was about to do, she could almost certainly do without moving, if she were confident that she could contain her emotions – but she doubted that would be the case. She crept into the dark living room and sat on the sofa, her legs curled beneath her. Then she relaxed and let her mind explore, tentatively moving towards something so black and deeply evil that Sammy felt the room around her grow cold.

The easiest way to find what she was looking for was through the girl. Sammy hunted, with her mind, and found her: she was still digging hard, desperately tired, clinging on to one last hope for life. What she was doing scared Sammy: it felt as though the girl was literally digging her own grave. Somewhere nearby, yet not there at all, she could feel the woman; the same woman she’d felt before, hovering somewhere in the girl’s mind. It was like looking for nothing, looking for a black gap, the space between people. Finally, she saw the woman, watching the girl. The woman was grimly satisfied, feeling – as Sammy did – that the girl was shaping her own death. Her mind was unlike any other Sammy had ever seen – black and deep, dark and terrible, bitter and ancient, knowing and arrogant. It shifted, twisted and changed – not the mind of a person as Sammy understood it. In its presence Sammy felt tiny – insignificant and deeply vulnerable.

The woman sensed Sammy hunting around and immediately turned her thoughts to the little girl. Gripped by an awful fear, it gave Sammy some slight satisfaction to register that the woman was briefly shocked, scared even, to see her. Sammy now felt chilled to the bone and noticed that, when she exhaled, she could see her own breath like smoke in the air. The temperature in the living room was now biting cold, like a clear December night.

With a feeling of certainty and dread, she turned and looked at the seat beside her. The woman was there, sitting casually with her legs beneath her – as if mimicking Sammy’s pose. Terrified, Sammy fought hard to not back away – but this was not something she had expected, to see the woman so close.

She’s just in my head
, thought Sammy,
she just looks like she’s here.

She looked just as Sammy had imagined, tall and beautiful. An illusion, Sammy knew. This thing – whatever it was – had no shape. It had once been a woman, but no longer.

“Little, little girl.” Such innocent words, but they came from the woman’s mouth as if they were the foulest profanities. Sammy’s fear intensified and, for one heart-stopping moment, she knew for sure that she’d committed herself to something from which there was no going back.

Sammy remembered, when she’d been two or three years younger, how her mother had tried to help her overcome her shyness around strangers. In small groups, Sammy wasn’t shy at all – in fact she could be positively gregarious. In rooms full of people she didn’t know, she would cling to her mother and refuse to mingle. Her mother had told her to behave as if she were a princess – because little princesses would be scared too, but needed to show that they weren’t. They’d hold up their heads and appear calm. No one in the room would know what they felt inside – they’d just see the confident princess. Sammy lifted her head and held the woman’s gaze. “Old woman,” she said, evenly, though quaking inside.

The woman smiled. “I like that,” she said. “Brave little girl. Few are those who come looking for me. You are strong. I know your family. You know this. Strong family.”

The two regarded each other; there was a long silence, though the woman gave no indication of being impatient. Sammy kept quiet, feeling instinctively that to speak first was to surrender some kind of advantage. More than anything, she was conscious of her hands, empty, with nothing to hold for comfort. She wished she had Lady Mango – but part of her knew how ridiculous that would seem. Right now, and for longer, she had to be more than eight, much more.

Finally, the woman asked, “Why did you come looking for me, little girl?”

Without hesitation, Sammy replied, quietly, not wanting her mother or Helen to hear, “I want you to let the girl go. Let her live.”

The woman waved her hand, absently. “If she goes, she goes. I cannot keep her.”

“You know that’s not true.”

The woman hissed. “Do you say I lie?”

Sammy hesitated. “I say you know that’s not true.”

There was another long silence. The woman reached out and took some of Sammy’s hair in her hand, gently. Sammy could feel cold radiating from the hand. More than anything else she wanted to run and hide, but she stayed still.

It’s not real,
she kept telling herself, over and over.

“How old are you?” asked the woman.

“Eight,” said Sammy simply.

The woman tapped Sammy’s forehead with her finger, leaving an icy spot where she had touched her. “Not in here, I think.”

Sammy wasn’t quite sure what she meant: she was, after all, eight all over – both inside and out.

“You pretend to be little girl,” said the woman, “because it suits you. But you think like big girl.”

The woman then tapped Sammy’s chest, indicating, Sammy supposed, her heart. “But still the baby here, I think. You are old because you see much. But you don’t understand all. You are not as wise as you think. Many things you do not see, mici fata.”

“Let her go,” said Sammy, quietly.

The woman laughed. “Fata de copil. She
can
go, this I tell you.”

Sammy shook her head. She didn’t understand all of the words the woman spoke with her mouth, but thought the meaning in her mind was clear: she considered Sammy to be a baby. “You won’t let her go,” said Sammy, coughing. “I see that
inside you
.”

The woman grabbed Sammy’s blonde hair and yanked the girl towards her. Sammy yelped, unable to contain her fear.

She’s not real, she’s not real, she’s not real,
repeated Sammy to herself.

“What I want, I take,” said the woman simply.

Sammy strained against the woman’s grip. “You know what I think? I think you can hurt me, but you can’t take me. That’s right isn’t it? You can hurt, but people have to come to you, don’t they?”

The woman pushed Sammy away, angrily. Sammy knew she’d found the truth.

“Doesn’t matter,” said the woman. “I can hurt you. You, your mother. Your mother’s woman-whore. I hurt them so much that you beg for me to take you.”

The woman’s mind, enraged, lay open for Sammy to see. It was terrible: burning like a cold furnace that wanted only to stay alive, to avenge and to kill. And in the woman’s mind, she saw the truth – the truth that no one had questioned, thought about, considered. Why would the woman kill the children? Why did she take them?
Not without reason, but because that kept her alive
, Sammy could see.
More children meant more life.
They didn’t even have to be children, but the more unspent life they had ahead, the more life the woman gained.
Like computer-game credits
, thought Sammy. The more lives she took, the more it made her – real. Sammy backed away, unable to contain her fear. The woman grabbed her pyjama top and pulled her towards her.

“Now you know I am real.”

Sammy struggled, as quietly but as hard as she could, but couldn’t break free. All of her instincts told her to get away, shout for her mother, cry, cry, cry –
no,
she thought.
I have to see this through on my own
. She felt warmth between her legs and knew that she’d wet herself. She held back a sob, feeling shame and fear.

“It’s not the girl’s fault,” said Sammy, sounding petulant. “
Let her go
.”

“What do you know of fault? You do not see all. If I want, I take. What I take, I keep.”

“What about a swap?” asked Sammy, breathlessly.

The woman was still. “An exchange. You would do this?”

Sammy nodded, feeling deeply sick. “One person for another.”

The woman considered. “You try to trick?”

Sammy shook her head. “A life for a life. No trick.”

“Why?”

“It’s not her fault.”

“Why do you care for this girl?”

“It’s not her fault,” Sammy repeated. There was a long pause. Sammy could feel her heart racing.

“To this I agree.” The woman’s smile was malevolent, her eyes dark and unfathomable – but Sammy glimpsed lusty satisfaction in her mind. “But I think you have to be fast. You know this. This girl has not much time.”

Sammy nodded. “I know,” she said softly.

Then the woman was gone; dissolved into the air like cigarette smoke in the breeze. Sammy slumped backwards, sobbing, trying desperately to be quiet so she didn’t wake anyone.

Without warning, the door opened and Sammy screamed, backing away.

Abby rushed to her daughter and wrapped her arms around her, feeling the wet pyjamas against her as she pulled Sammy close. “Sams, it’s OK, it’s me. What’s happened?”

“Another bad dream, Mummy,” Sammy lied.

13

Getting across town had been nerve-racking, but easier than Randle had expected. The hardest part had been trying to walk without a limp – it was something that, with effort, he could just about manage, but which hurt intensely.

Wearing a decent coat, courtesy of Arthur’s wardrobe, and sporting his newly shaven head, Randle knew that he presented a different enough silhouette to pass a casual glance – but probably nothing more.

Every time he’d seen a police car, his stomach had turned over – but he’d kept on walking, keeping his body as upright as possible.

He had distributed the knife and parcel tape across his coat pockets; the flask (filled with hot coffee) and some biscuits (which had gone soft in Arthur’s cupboards, but were still edible) he carried in a plastic supermarket bag.

Dangerous though it was, he’d walked the most direct route between the school and Hannah’s house, looking for places where he might hide. He reasoned that the closer he was to the school, the better the chance of snatching someone else if Hannah had walked by a different route; the closer to her house, the better the chance of snatching her. As much as he searched for the ideal lair, where he hid would depend mostly on chance – of finding a convenient location. He wanted somewhere from where he could easily get away across one of the many fields surrounding the town.

When he’d reached Hannah’s house, his heart stopped and he felt sick: outside, a police car was parked. He’d walked on by, sweating, convinced for the first time that he was going to be seen. He risked a glance at the house; the curtains were drawn.
The details
, he thought.
Did the car mean that the nosy bastard had been found?
He now regretted his angry boasts, knowing that his carelessness could keep him from his goal.
How many police in the house? One? Two? More?
Randle doubted that there would be more than two.

Unknown to Randle, Hannah was asleep, upstairs. Julia was at her husband’s bedside, at the hospital, wrestling between her waning love and increasing loathing for someone who had once been a good man. Inside the house, a lone woman police officer was watching television with the sound turned down low.

Randle had waited a while before walking back, knowing now where best to go. About a quarter of the way towards school, there was a disused garage and petrol station. It was boarded up, but Randle had known that it would be easy enough to break into; from the inside, he could watch the road. Behind the petrol station lay some scrubland and beyond that fields and a little woodland. The road at that point had few houses – a smattering of bungalows with ample land around most of them. At one side of the petrol station, a path ran from the road to the field behind, with a high fence between it and the garage and a tall hedge between it and the next house.

It was an excellent spot, he had decided. It had a good view of the road and was a place to temporarily drag the girl until he calmed her down – or, if she didn’t calm down, perhaps he wouldn’t take her any further. Better still, there was more than one escape route – leading mostly to woodland.

He’d carefully, quietly, enlarged a hole in the wooden fence behind the petrol station. Then, once he’d been sure he could get through it in a hurry (even dragging a protesting, wriggling girl) he’d broken into the petrol station.

It was dark, old, dirty and smelled of oil. Randle cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring a torch. He waited until his eyes adjusted, then worked his way to the front of the building, finding a gap in the wooden boards that covered the glass. It gave him an excellent view of the road, a wide sweep where he could see someone coming early enough to make his way back outside. He could then easily go down the path, grab the girl and pull her back in here. If she were alone, he’d only be visible for a second or two. If she were with one friend, he would (assuming it was a girl) scare her off or hurt her and still grab the girl. Of course, if that happened he’d have far less time with her, but still enough.

Randle hunkered down for the night, keeping the coffee and biscuits for first light. He didn’t sleep much – he was far too excited.

14

“Can I help make the hot chocolate, Mummy?” asked Sammy.

“If you’re very careful.”

“Mummy! I’m nearly nine,” said Sammy, offended. “You put it in the microwave and I’ll put the chocolate in when the milk’s hot. Like always.”

“Do you want any more cough medicine, Sams?”

“No thanks, Mummy. I think it’s nearly better.”

“Just the same, Sammy, I think you should have a spoonful.”

“Mum!”

“And then we can make the chocolate.”

Only recently Sammy had, after some considerable pestering, convinced Abby to let her help make the bedtime drinks. She’d been initially excited by this (albeit supervised) elevation to adult status, but had grown bored with it after a week or so. Initially Abby had been apprehensive, despite Sammy’s capable nature. Tonight, she was relieved and felt that her daughter was starting to engage with her again. She could never have guessed what her daughter intended to do.

Abby had spent half an hour or so calming Sammy, who hadn’t needed to pretend to be either upset or scared. Abby had undressed her, washed her and given her warm, clean pyjamas. The noise had also woken Helen, who sat bleary-eyed, watching Abby gradually and lovingly coax Sammy back down to a more comfortable normality.