The Well (4 page)

No one knows we’re here,
she realised.
There’s no one nearby. The nearest anybody comes is to the quarry.
The quarry isn’t that far. Probably less than a hundred yards.
Poor at judging distances, she had to think hard.
It was probably quite a bit less than that
, she decided.
Would anyone there hear if I shouted? Probably not – they’d have to be pretty close to the top of the well to hear.

Mum might phone
–

Becca jumped to her feet.
Phone, stupid!

She pulled her bag from the water and rummaged through its sodden contents, her hand seeking her phone in the dark. She pulled it out and flipped it open, discarding her bag. It lit up: a brief flash of light momentarily illuminating the bottom of the well before going dark again.

“No!” she screamed; Matt stirred slightly and moaned. She felt for the power-on button and pressed it. Again, the phone lit up – and again it died.
The water,
she thought
. It’s soaked.
She tried again. This time it didn’t even light up. She felt like throwing it against the well wall, but knew that was stupid.
It just needs to dry out.

Matt’s phone
.

She pushed her bag to one side and pulled Matt’s out of the water, hunting desperately through its equally soaked contents.
There’s a chance
, she thought.
There’s got to be a chance.
But she couldn’t find his phone. She pushed the contents of his bag around wildly but it wasn’t there: exercise books, what seemed to be his sports kit (in a plastic carrier bag), a drinks can, cigarette packet, lighter – but no phone.

Where the –?

For a moment, she thought that he’d dropped it when falling into the well but then realised where it would be.

She squatted next to Matt and felt gently for his trouser pocket. Inside, her fingers touched something – a soaked cardboard packet. She pulled it out but in the darkness couldn’t read the package. Opening it up, she felt three plastic wrappers, each containing something firm and circular. She had no idea what they were. She dropped both them and the packet into the water before reaching her hand around to Matt’s far pocket. Since this was at the side of Matt that was leaning against the wall, it wasn’t easy to get her fingers inside. She stretched and her fingertips touched hard plastic: the phone. She pulled it from his pocket and pressed the call button. Nothing. No light, nothing. It was as dead as hers. She stood, a phone in each hand, wondering what to do.

I need to dry them out. Where? If I could bloody see
–

Again, her mind made a connection:
Matt’s lighter
. It would be wet, but it should work. Transferring both phones into her left hand, she squatted down and rummaged through Matt’s floating backpack.

She found the lighter and flicked it: nothing. Again: nothing. She realised that she was gritting her teeth and tried to steady herself.

The lighter was wet, but there was nothing to dry it with – all of her clothes were soaked. She flicked it four more times before it finally lit. The inside of the well sprang into view, flickering and eerie.

Banishing the dark helped to calm her a little. She raised the lighter a little and looked around, taking in her surroundings.

The well was wide: in the centre, she could probably just about touch both sides with her arms outstretched. The stonework was ancient, covered with moss that grew up to perhaps ten feet above the waterline. She placed the two phones into her shirt pocket, then reached out and touched the wall – the stones were slick where they had been splashed, but even above that, the moss was still slippery. The well was built from stones that were large and uneven in size and shape, although most were perhaps ten inches by four (or five – it was hard to tell). There were slight gaps between some of the stones, where there had once perhaps been some form of mortar. Becca explored the gaps with her fingers but they didn’t feel as though they would provide enough of a hold with which to climb.

Something moved to her right and she spun around. A spider scuttled out of the light. She shuddered. She didn’t have a fear of spiders, but she didn’t like them much either.

The water was around her knees. If it had been much higher, Matt, in his sitting position, would be completely submerged. She held the lighter towards Matt and felt herself wanting to retch. Much of the water was a deep, oily red. Floating on the water were their schoolbags; two exercise books floated along with them. There was also the packet that she’d found in Matt’s pocket, along with its contents.
Condoms,
she realised. Their weekend plans seemed an impossible age away. She felt her heart flutter and her stomach sank with the loss.

Matt looked terrible. His face was incredibly pale and his eyes were black and sunken, as if he were wearing Halloween zombie make-up. His head hung loosely on his chest.

She raised the lighter higher and slowly rotated herself so that she could see all of the wall. A few stones – not many, perhaps half a dozen – protruded proud of the wall. They stood out enough to use as footholds and handholds, but there were not enough to guarantee passage out of the well. In a couple of places, stones were missing, creating dark empty gaps in the wall.
Or shelves
, she thought.

She took the phones from her pocket, reached up and put them into one of the gaps, where they could hopefully dry out. Her hand was hot and growing tired, so she flipped the lighter off. The darkness snapped back into place. The well seemed blacker than ever and she realised that, before using the lighter, she’d started to become accustomed to the dark.

She flipped the lighter on again and looked around.

She could try to climb out; it seemed as though it might be possible, though difficult.
Very difficult.
And, if she fell, she could really hurt herself.

It occurred to Becca that if she wasn’t able to climb out, it could be days before they were found.
It could be a day or more before they even start looking. It’s the weekend. Mum and Jim are away. Everyone thinks I’m grounded. It could be Sunday before anyone knows we’re missing.
She doubted that Matt would last anything like that long. God knows what damage the grating had done and, to make matters worse, his submerged wounds were bleeding into dirty water. Not that infection was her main worry – sitting in the water, Matt was going to carry on bleeding until he was drained of blood. Becca recalled how, on television dramas, most suicides seemed to involve people slashing their wrists in the bath so that their blood wouldn’t clot. There was no way of getting Matt out of the water – he couldn’t stand for even a moment, even if she had been able to help him to his feet.

That thought made up her mind. She
had
to climb. There was no choice, no other way out.

Becca squatted beside Matt and strained her eyes. His eyes were closed but his face was twitching with pain. Every now and then he groaned or mumbled. “Matt,” she said, shaking him gently. His head lolled around, but he didn’t look at her. She shook him again, a little more urgently. “Matt!” His head turned to her, then his eyelids fluttered and half opened. He looked toward her through glassy, watery eyes, his focus vague. She spoke his name again and their eyes met properly.

“I’m going to climb out and get help,” Becca said, slowly, to make sure Matt could understand. Matt didn’t seem to grasp what Becca had said. He wearily spat out a mouthful of blood and croaked, “Out?” Becca nodded. “Out of the well. We fell in. Don’t you remember?”

Matt didn’t, in fact he wasn’t really aware of anything except the pain that now consumed all of his senses. He closed his eyes and thought hard. He remembered a kiss in the afternoon sunlight, a sweet moment during which the cynical Matt gave way briefly to someone who actually liked Becca; possibly
more than liked her
. She had stood on the well wall to kiss him, smiling. The thought slipped away. Matt had no memory of falling, only of pain: incredible pain which drove away everything else. He was barely aware of the dark or even the water in which he was sitting. Everything was pain. He shook his head, as much to try to clear his thoughts as to show that he couldn’t remember.

With her free hand, Becca stroked his cheek. “We fell in the well. You tried to save me but I pulled you in.” Guilty tears ran down Becca’s face. “No one knows we’re here; I have to climb out.” She paused. “You’re hurt. Very badly. I need to get help. You fell on the grating.”

Matt grimaced as he shifted his weight a little. With one hand, he felt around his abdomen for the source of the horrendous pain. His fingers touched where he and the grating had become one being, fused with wet, broken flesh. With the discovery came realisation of the true extent of his situation. He inhaled. Tears formed in his eyes.

Becca pushed back her own tears. “I have to go. I have to go
now
.” Matt shook his head and whispered, “Don’t leave me.” His face was full of fear. She knew what he was thinking and he was probably right. It would take her
at least
a couple of hours – probably more – to climb out, walk to town, get help and then come back. She wasn’t sure that Matt had two hours left in him.

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek: not a brief peck, but a lingering kiss, as if she were kissing his lips. “I have to go. You need help. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

The sheer effort of talking seemed to have drained Matt. He was fading back into semi-consciousness. Becca decided to wait for a few minutes until he had drifted off. She stayed beside him, squatting in the water, her calves and knees aching, until he was quieter. His breathing shallowed, but still sounded as if he was dragging air through thick liquid. She kissed him once more, gently this time. She was terrified, but she knew what she had to do.

Becca looked up, studying the well wall. The well wasn’t that deep, but it would be a tough climb. If the well had been narrower, she could scale it in the way she’d seen climbers on television, bracing their backs and feet against opposite sides. But there was no way: the well was simply too wide.

Although the stones were rough and uneven, there weren’t anything like enough handholds – and those that there were didn’t seem very large. The few gaps and protruding stones she’d already seen could perhaps get her started, although it was hard to see if there were more further up. And of course there was the damp, slimy moss covering the bottom ten feet or so of the well. Not exactly ideal climbing conditions.

She decided to test a few of the first handholds – and then realised that there was another significant obstacle: the light, or lack of it. To see the handholds, she needed the lighter. If she used the lighter, she would only have one hand free and couldn’t possibly climb.

Climbing with the lighter was impossible
, she decided,
whereas climbing without it would be just nearly impossible
. She flipped the lighter off, and put it into her shirt pocket. At the bottom of the well, the darkness was almost complete. As she looked up, her eyes blinked against the early evening sunlight. Annoyingly, she’d need to get accustomed enough to the darkness to see the handholds – and then try to not look up as she climbed, otherwise she’d be blinded by the sunlight above. It was impossible – she needed to look up to find the next handholds. Becca gritted her teeth and exhaled, swearing under her breath. She didn’t need to read Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 to know what the now common catchphrase meant.
Screwed if you do, screwed if you don’t
, she thought.

She felt around the wall and found that with a little patience, she could build up a mental image of the handholds.

Not as good as being able to see, but good enough?

She felt fear and determination in equal measure but decided to give it a try.
Just a few feet at first. Enough to see how hard it will be.

With her left hand, she reached up and found the first sizeable gap in the wall and then found one not quite so high for her right hand. Carefully, she moved her right foot, seeking somewhere to place it. She found a slight crack, just enough, and pushed herself slowly upwards. Grasping the wall with straining fingers (and only a foot from the muddy bottom) she felt around with her right hand for a way to advance. She found a tiny crack:
not enough
. Then, something larger. She took hold and prepared to shift her weight. Tentatively, she moved her left foot around the wall, hunting for somewhere to place it that would push her a little further up. When she found something, it was near the edge of her reach, so she couldn’t get a strong enough foothold. She withdrew her foot, trying to locate something nearer. At first she thought that there was nothing, but she found that one of the stones near to her knees jutted out enough to provide a toehold, though nothing more.

She shifted her weight, pulled herself up and took stock, realising just how hard the task was. She was already sweating profusely, her fingers and toes aching, her feet and hands trembling. It was very hard to hold on to the wall, very hard indeed. The full climb, at this speed, could easily take half an hour, or perhaps an hour, and each foot of progress would make just one slip all the more dangerous. If she came to a place without handholds, what then? Climbing back down would probably be even harder than going up. She felt that it might be possible to use the lighter between each short climb, just to find the next handhold.
Possible, but not easy.
If there was one positive thing, it was that Becca’s eyes were adjusting again and she could make out a few of the shapes of the stones.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew that her success at swimming wasn’t because she was especially gifted: she just pushed herself on where most others would quit. She knew that she had to do the same here.

She opened her eyes, a little calmer. Her eyes and hands hunted around. What looked like a good handhold directly above her turned out to be not much more than a tiny crack. Then she found a gap between the stones just a little to the right; as she secured her fingers something crawled across her hand and she almost lost her grip, fighting the instinct to brush it away. She felt around with her feet until she found another gap, secured her toes and pushed herself upwards, pulling with her hand at the same time. Her muscles strained; it was a far greater effort than she could have imagined. This was different from climbing in the gym, where handholds were easy to find. She had to keep her fingers and toes tense all of the time, to stop herself sliding off the mossy wall.