The Well (2 page)

Matt knew damn well it
wasn’t
the real thing, but he too thought it was a good thing; in his mind, compensation for having to move to a shitty backwater town. Becca and her mother, Sarah, were, in his book, just a bit
too nice
. Matt, being far from stupid, knew it was pointless to hold back the inevitable. His Dad and Sarah were going to get married and that was that.

But when he saw Becca swim for the first time, he decided that his new family unit might have some bonuses.
That body
: not model-nice, she was even skinny perhaps – but very graceful, lithe and firm. If he
played nice
with her, he thought he could get her to play nice with him.
Very nice.
And it hadn’t taken
that
long – just a few months of being sweet and patient. The problem was, Matt wasn’t patient by nature: he was generally quick to anger and slow to cool down. Every day of the last few months he’d felt himself tighten just that little bit more and had to work progressively harder to present a calm exterior. Every time they kissed, or when Becca let him slip his hand inside her blouse, he’d edged closer to losing control. He felt like he’d really earned the coming weekend.

Matt glanced at Becca and smiled. He tried his best to push down the desire inside him – and drew long and hard on the cigarette, sucking almost two centimetres of it out of existence with a single inhalation.

Becca felt uncomfortably warm and acutely aware of herself; the breeze gently stroked her arms and legs, raising goose bumps. She seemed to feel the fibres of her clothes as they brushed against her skin and, where the grass swayed against her thighs, she felt exposed. She pulled her knees a little tighter to her chest and self-consciously wrapped her skirt underneath her. She realised – too late – that although this made her
feel
less vulnerable, it actually exposed more of her thighs. Somewhere close, a bird cawed: a loud, harsh cry that made her start.

She glanced around, to the ruined cottage, just thirty or forty yards from the well. The cottage had never been large: just a handful of rooms in a single-storey building, now half-hidden in an overgrown jumble of thorny brambles and dense bushes, themselves blending into the edge of woods. In some places, the gaps in the ruined walls came almost to the ground. Through a vaguely oblong hole in one wall – all that remained of a window – she could see that the inside of the cottage was as overgrown as the outside.

The bird cawed again, and she saw it, perched on what remained of the cottage’s chimney. Large and black, perhaps almost two foot from head to tail, it was a crow, raven or rook – she didn’t know the difference between them, if indeed there was a difference. The bird regarded her, its head cocked to one side, eyes occasionally blinking. She shivered, unexpectedly chilled.

Matt followed her gaze. “It’s just a bird,” he said – more mocking than comforting.

“It’s creepy and you know it,” she said, defending her reaction. “This place – it’s like something from a crap horror film. A ruined cottage in the woods. Two kids, alone.” She laughed, nervously. The cottage couldn’t be more typecast if it tried. Still, its reputation, though it may be based on clichés, had persisted for years – a local myth. Matt, being new to the area, neither respected nor believed the stories that surrounded the place – but Becca was fighting against the sheer weight of tales that passed between local children, handed down from one generation to the next in the school playground. It didn’t help that these stories were later confirmed in local history lessons – at least to some degree.

Matt squeezed her hand and stood up. He picked a rock about the size of an apple up from the ground – and threw it hard at the bird. His aim was good, striking the crumbling wall within just a few feet of the bird. Amid an explosion of rock shards and dust, the bird briefly fluttered its wings, cawed again, but otherwise didn’t flinch.

“Bold bastard,” muttered Matt. He threw another rock, this time landing closer. Again, the bird didn’t move. It cawed loudly, either ignorant of them or teasing them. Matt stooped for another rock – but when he stood, rock in hand, the bird opened its not inconsiderable wings and took flight. It disappeared into the trees at the edge of the wood. Matt threw the rock anyway. With a brief rustle of leaves, it too vanished into the trees, followed by a distant thud as it hit the ground.

Matt sat back down next to Becca, took a last draw on the cigarette and stubbed it out against the wall before tossing the smoking butt into the well. He sensed that the moment of warmth was passing and his best strategy might be to get Becca home. He asked, “How much longer?” Becca looked again at her watch. “Mum should have called or texted by now,” she said. “Maybe Jim got held up at work.” She wasn’t anywhere near ready to start calling Jim
Dad
. Not that she had any affection for her own father, come to that.

Matt put his arm back around Becca’s slim shoulders and gently pulled her close; she didn’t resist. Their heads turned to meet and they kissed – a kiss that was tainted by the taste of tobacco, but a warm close kiss nonetheless.

Becca jumped involuntarily as her mobile phone chimed with the arrival of a text message. Matt leaned away slightly and allowed his arm to drop to Becca’s waist. Although startled, Becca was relieved that her Mum had sent a text instead of calling: it would be far easier to lie when replying. She pulled her phone from her schoolbag and read the text:
JUST ARRIVED. LONG DRIVE SET OFF EARLY. POSH PLACE, LOOKS GOOD. HOPE YOU ARE BOTH OK. WILL CALL LATER. LOVE MUM XXX
. Becca sighed, and said to Matt, “We could’ve gone straight home. They set off ages ago.” She hit the reply key.
JUST LEAVING BASKETBALL. MATT WAITED SO I DIDN’T HAVE TO WALK HOME ON MY OWN. HOME SOON. NO NEED 2 CALL LATER. GOING 2 WATCH FILM. GOT LOTS OF HOMEWORK 4 WKEND. HAVE A GREAT TIME – YOU DON’T HAVE TO KEEP CALLING OR TXTING JUST HAVE FUN XXX BECKS.

The lie was so easy – and her mother would never know. After all, she did occasionally stay for basketball, but tonight wasn’t a basketball night. She pressed send and stood up, putting her phone into her bag and her bag over her shoulder. Matt did the same. He was almost a head taller than her, so when they kissed she had to go tippy toed – making her feel more like a child than ever, yet somehow more feminine at the same time.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

And they almost did, but Matt playfully pulled her close for another kiss, smiling. She smiled back and kissed him, neck stretching. The weekend was going to be so good. She hopped lightly onto the well wall, to give her the same height advantage that Matt normally had over her – but the loose stones shifted under her weight. Unbalanced by the weight of her schoolbag, she toppled backwards, shrieking, instinctively twisting and extending her right arm to take the impact. She hit the metal grating hard, her forearm first; her body instantly afterwards, kicking the breath from her. The top of her head banged against the inside of the well’s far wall.

The grating, rotten and old, offered little resistance against Becca’s weight, slight though she was. It buckled under the impact, almost folding itself in two. The grating had been held in place by six metal wall-ties, bolted to the grating and cemented (securely, long ago) into the wall. As Becca struggled to get herself upright, three of the ties ripped away from the wall and the grating fell open like a hatch. She tumbled, following the arc of the grating as it swung downwards, her hands frantically trying to grasp something, anything. As the grating twisted down, another tie came free.

In a manoeuvre she could neither have rehearsed nor repeated, she grabbed hold of the grating with her right hand just as her body crashed forwards into the inside of the wall – the impact jolting her backwards and almost forcing her to let go. Wrenched hard, her right hand screamed in pain.

Somehow she managed to not only hang on, but after two attempts (hampered by her loosely swinging schoolbag) she got a firm hold of the grating with both hands.

She hung there for less than a second before one of the three remaining wall-ties gave way, jolting her downwards by almost a foot. Knowing with absolute certainty that she would fall, she screamed, a desperate terror-filled yell, “Matt!”

The whole thing had happened so quickly that Matt hadn’t been able to take it in. Becca had fallen backwards, rolling and crashing into the grating in one blurry second. He wasn’t standing idly by – there had barely been time to blink, let alone to help her.

He knelt quickly at the edge of the well and leaned over, straining to reach her. She was too far away, by just a few inches, even before the grating had jolted downwards. He reached around himself, took off his shoulder bag and dangled it down, wrapping the strap tightly around his wrist so he wouldn’t lose hold. “Grab this,” he shouted.

Becca grabbed the bag with one hand, not wanting to let go of the grating.

It was not one of the remaining, ancient wall-ties that failed, but the grating itself. Ancient, corroded and stressed, the grating unfolded where it had just been creased – and all but one of the metal latticework strips snapped apart. Becca felt herself jolted again, and the last jolt was enough to split what remained of the metal in two. Half of the grating fell into the well and Becca fell with it. She let go of the grating but somehow managed to hold on to the bag. Matt, who had been on one knee and leaning over as far as he could, was at the edge of his balance. He was yanked downwards into the well.

As Becca, who mostly paid attention at school, would have remembered from science (and Matt, who mostly didn’t pay attention, and so would not), any two objects which fall at the same time will land at the same time. In this case, the broken half of the grating had slightly slowed its descent by bouncing against the stone walls of the well. Becca landed feet first, splashing into the cold dirty water. Her feet hit years of sediment, a deep cushion of mud. A lightning bolt of pain shot up from her left ankle as she hit the hard stone beneath the mud. She twisted and rolled, falling backwards and sideways against the well wall, her head briefly going under the water. She came to rest on her backside, almost up to her neck in water, spluttering. The grating had already crashed loudly at her side, twisted and broken, rolling slightly, sharp metal pointing upwards.

Matt, who was falling more or less headfirst, arrived a second later. He landed directly on the grating, his body doubling over it as it impaled his abdomen.

In the darkness, Becca couldn’t see what had happened, but the sound of Matt’s scream being cut short as he hit the grating was deeply chilling. The impact was a sickening mixture of crunching bone and squelching flesh.

Metal scraped against brick as Matt’s weight took him backwards into something close to a sitting position, bringing the grating – from which he couldn’t now be separated – with him. He came to rest with his back against the wall.

Becca screamed.

3

Sarah Ann Richards lay on her side, naked, on the untidy sheets that were strewn across the four-poster bed. She was holding her phone, scrolling through her daughter’s text message. “Do you think I should call her?”

Jim Bradshaw snuggled up behind her and kissed her neck, his arm encircling her stomach. “Call her tomorrow,” he said. “She’s fine. Let her enjoy some time without us.”

Sarah hesitated. As much as she wanted to call Becca, she knew that Jim was right. After all, they’d only seen her this morning. She also knew that this weekend was supposed to be about her and Jim, not the kids – Jim had even left his golf clubs at home, as he’d promised. She switched her phone to silent, put it on the bedside table and turned to face him. “How long before dinner?”

He kissed her and pulled her closer. “Plenty of time.”

4

Two hours earlier Becca had been sitting on the low school wall, legs swinging, listening to her iPod, waiting for Matt and looking forward to the weekend.

In a daily end-of-school ritual, Becca removed her scrunchie – freeing her long, dark hair from its tight ponytail.

As she did, she noticed –
felt
– the eye of the school’s crossing warden on her. It was only a glance but Becca shuddered as an uncomfortable chill passed over her.

Children and parents alike called Tom by his first name; he was well-liked, affable and friendly. Indeed, Tom Randle was almost as much a part of the school as its windows and roof. An ex-pupil, Tom might only be paid to tend the crossing three times a day, but he volunteered to help out at almost every school event, including sports days and open evenings. He took photographs for the school website and newsletter, gave prints to the parents – and even had some of his pictures printed in the local newspaper. Although bearded, grey and elderly looking, Randle was only just over sixty; he walked with a slight limp gained in Belfast during the 1970s. He had lost a kneecap when a car bomb exploded (“It gives me trouble for my trouble in the Troubles,” he’d often quip, seemingly without bitterness).

Randle caught himself staring at Becca and sensed her discomfort. He smiled, a broad friendly smile. She smiled back. Randle limped into the road and stopped the traffic, ushering a group of smaller children across before returning to the side of the road, unconsciously adjusting his glasses.

One by one, and in groups, the children left – some on their own; some collected by parents. Absently twiddling with her scrunchie, caught in the music, Becca didn’t notice two of her friends approaching until she felt a hard prod.

“Becca, you walking home?”

Becca pulled out her earbuds. “Sorry?”

Nisha asked again, “You walking home?”

Becca shook her head. “I’m waiting for Matt,” she said.

Of the two girls, Becca knew Nisha Hirani (Neats to her friends) the least. Enough to speak to, walk home with, pass time in the playground with – but not enough to do planned things with, like watching a film. The other girl, Hannah Davis, had until recently been very much one of Becca’s best friends (if not her
best
friend). But the more time Becca had spent with Matt, the less she had for previous close girlfriends. Becca was not especially gregarious, so her change of behaviour had gone mostly unnoticed, except by Hannah and perhaps Susie Campbell and Kate Williams.