The Well (6 page)

The scrunchie was someone he could actually touch. Randle felt, for the first time, that it was right to move from merely looking. He wanted it,
needed it
and he knew that she was ready for it. More than ready.

It had been months since he had been this turned on. He took one of the photo albums and the scrunchie – and retired to bed.

8

Jim drew the zip up the back of Sarah’s black dress, which was snug but not tight. She looked, in Jim’s opinion, knockout – and he said so. Sarah flushed slightly. She knew that her figure was pretty good for a woman in her early forties, but she also knew that Jim didn’t really see her as she herself did (a bit mumsy, carrying a few extra pounds and just starting to lose the fight against gravity).
Still
, she reflected,
his selective vision is no bad thing. It’s good to feel younger and sexier.

They wouldn’t ordinarily dress for dinner, but the hotel was a cut above the usual for them – and they both wanted every second of the weekend to be special.

She straightened Jim’s tie and instinctively put her mobile phone into her black evening bag. Jim wagged his finger in a good-natured way. “No phones,” he said. “Not tonight.”

Sarah conceded that, if she had her phone with her, she’d want to text or call Becca. She’d never been without her daughter for this long and not an hour had gone past without her at least briefly considering sending another text. But in truth, she was starting to enjoy time away from the household.
It feels good
, she thought,
to feel like a real woman again: a sexy woman, not just a mum.

She put the phone back on the bedside table.

They went downstairs to dinner, Jim appreciatively watching Sarah’s hips sway as she walked ahead of him down the stairs. Soon, they were eating and drinking – it was a great meal accompanied by two bottles of wine, lots of laughter and not a little flirting. Sarah basked in the feeling of being wanted, enjoying Jim’s attentive and tactile nature. It was as though they were dining in a bubble, where they could only see and hear each other, their only interruptions from a waiter or waitress.

It was late when they got back to the room, drunk, and made love for the third (and, in Sarah’s view, easily the best) time that day.

And although she would never have believed it, Sarah didn’t think of Becca once the whole evening – and wouldn’t until she woke, late, the next morning.

9

Hannah lay in bed, fuming. For sure, it had been a dull Friday night with nothing to do, but that wasn’t why she was annoyed. No: she’d decided to try to smooth things over with Becca and, during the course of the evening, had sent her three text messages. Becca hadn’t responded to any of them.

No friends, no phone, no Internet
, Becca had said, but the more Hannah thought about it, the less she believed it. Sarah just wasn’t that harsh.

Becca had definitely behaved awkwardly outside school, but at least she had spoken to her. But ignoring her was unreasonable, infuriating and without justification. Hannah had no idea what she’d done wrong. She reckoned she knew Becca better than anyone, but this increasing distance from everyone (
and
, she thought,
especially me
) was baffling.

Earlier tonight Hannah had decided that the whys and wherefores didn’t matter, so she’d sent Becca one text after another, over the course of a couple of hours, wanting to chat things through.
And the bloody cow hadn’t even replied
.

Hannah checked her phone once again, even though she would have heard a text message arriving. Nothing. She put the phone on the shelf above her head and then switched off the bedside lamp.

“Screw you, Rebecca Richards,” muttered Hannah to herself, turning over onto her side. She had been toying with the idea of calling over to see Becca during the weekend and was pretty sure she could sweet-talk her Mum into letting her in, even if Becca was grounded. Now she could forget it.

Hannah was surprised to find that she had to brush away a tear, and this made her even more annoyed.
Cow
, she thought.
Well sod you.

10

Despite the relative warmth of the night air, Becca and Matt were shivering almost uncontrollably. There was no getting away from the cold water; Becca had found that it was better to sit in it (just) than to stand dripping out of it. She thought that if she could only get herself dry, it might be different – although her feet would remain wet – yet if she were standing, she wouldn’t be able to comfort Matt.

Matt had been conscious for perhaps half an hour just before twilight. Becca didn’t know if it was better for him to be awake or not. When he drifted from consciousness, she was scared that he’d not wake; when he was awake, his pain was all-consuming. Either way, there was little she could do other than keep as close to him as she could, holding his hand and stroking his matted hair.

There was a short while where Matt was both awake and lucid, though Becca could see that he was clearly in agony.

“It’s only a matter of time before we’re found,” Matt stammered.

Becca didn’t share his confidence. “It’s Friday,” she said. “Mum and Jim aren’t back until Sunday.”

“No,” groaned Matt. “Your Mum won’t last all night without calling you. When she can’t get you, she’ll know something’s up.”

“I guess,” said Becca, not really believing it.

“Go on then,” said Matt. “Who won?”

“What? Who won what?”

“How deep is it? The well?”

Becca squeezed Matt’s hand, appreciating his brave humour. “Nowhere near as deep as you thought,” she said.

“Can you climb out?” asked Matt.

“I’ve tried,” said Becca. “The walls are too slimy and there’s nothing to hold on to. Don’t you remember me trying?”

Becca could see the dark shape of Matt shaking his head.

“It was really hard. I tried as best I could but I just couldn’t do it.” Becca felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if she was exaggerating and really hadn’t tried hard enough. If Matt thought that might be the case, he didn’t say. Not that he said much: he talked between gritted teeth, his words interspersed with groans; his voice unsteady because of the continual trembling of his body.

Becca tried to give him a little of the water, but found that he couldn’t swallow it without coughing violently – which in turn increased his agony. Although thirsty, she decided that she would hold off drinking as long as she could: there was very little water and no telling how long it would need to last. One thing was obvious: the water in the well wasn’t drinkable.

Gradually Matt became silent, apart from his breathing. When Becca was sure that Matt was either asleep or unconscious (there was no way of knowing which) she checked the mobile phones again. They were both still dead.

In the darkness of the night, the black inside the well became almost absolute. Earlier in the evening, her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but being able to see more clearly didn’t bring her any comfort. Even unconscious, Matt’s features were twisted in deep-felt pain. The well itself was dirty; the walls covered with a thick moss over which insects continually ran. Now, in the black, the well seemed to close in tightly around them. The cold became something that reached deep inside her. She doubted that she was passing any warmth at all to Matt. Her hand, grasping his, felt cold and numb.

Worse, she desperately needed to pee. The feeling had been growing most of the day, but now, in the pitch-black, it became a shouting, urgent need. The thought of going in the same water in which she was sitting repulsed her, but she couldn’t see an alternative. (True, she could pee into the plastic lunchbox, but that would be a fair old feat to achieve – and then what would she do with it?)

While she was considering her options – or lack of them – she heard what seemed to be a sound from above. She sat, silent, her ears straining to hear anything in the silence. The noise came again. It was impossible to tell what it was – something or someone moving around? An animal rummaging around in the dirt? She carefully untangled herself from around Matt and stood, cold and shivering.

“Hey,” she shouted, as loudly as she could, looking up. The moonlight in the night sky seemed bright against the dark of the well, although she couldn’t see the moon itself. “Anybody there?” There was no answer other than silence. Matt stirred, but didn’t wake. “Help! If there’s someone there, help! We’re in the well! In the well – look in the well!”

A shape moved at the edge of the well. It was hard to see what it was until it hopped a few paces and fluttered its wings. It cawed loudly and Becca jumped with fright. The sound echoing around the inside of the well chilled her more than the cold water. She could only see the bird’s silhouette against the night sky, but she felt sure that it was looking directly at her. It cawed again, three times in succession, before flapping its wings and disappearing. Becca realised that she was now shaking with fear, not cold. She stood still for ten long minutes, but the bird didn’t reappear – although she did hear its call again, once, some distance away.

She sat back in the water and drew herself close to Matt, again finding his hand under the water. Like hers, it felt cold and rubbery from being submerged for so long. Her trembling had almost become outright shaking. She forced herself to calm down.
It was just a bird
, she thought.
Just a bird? Any bird? Or
the
bird?
She couldn’t tell one crow from another, but something in her heart told her that it was the same bird. Somehow, in the isolation and dark of the well, it seemed more than just a bird. It seemed to be something knowing; something evil. She gritted her teeth against the cold and the fear.

It’s just a bird
, she told herself.

The silence grew around her and seemed more awful than the noise of the bird. She was tense, fearful and on edge. And, now that the distraction of the bird had gone, the need to pee grew more powerful. “Fuck,” she said to herself and relaxed the muscles that she had been holding so tightly. She felt shameful and feral. The water around her grew pleasantly, if briefly, warm and Becca wondered just how many more indignities she would have to suffer before they were finally found.
If we’re found
, she corrected herself. As the warmth from her urine faded, she grew colder than ever.

Her mind alive with fear, her body unable to relax against the cold, she pressed herself even more tightly against Matt. Minutes seemed to take hours to pass and, as the night dragged on, Matt would periodically mutter and shudder. At some point in the early hours of the cold morning, Becca’s exhausted body gave in and she finally drifted off into a fitful, troubled sleep.

While she slept, Matt’s bubbling breaths became increasingly shallow until, just before dawn, they ceased forever.

1

Sammy screamed: a scream of heartfelt terror that came from somewhere deep within her. In the dead of night it echoed around the flat.

Abby, already awake, came running into Sammy’s bedroom in her night shorts and vest. Panicked by Sammy’s screaming, Abby hadn’t paused for even a second to pull on her dressing gown, but halted in her tracks when she saw her daughter, momentarily not quite sure what to do.

In the dim yellow glow of the nightlight, Sammy stood on her bed, frantically clawing at the wall as if trying to climb up it. Her nightie flapped loosely around her legs as she scrambled for purchase. All over the bed were scraps of the boyband and film posters that had once been stuck proudly to the wall.

Abby rushed to Sammy and wrapped her arms around her. “Sam! Sammy!”

For a moment, it was as if she hadn’t been heard. Sammy’s slight eight-year-old body wriggled, fighting her mother’s embrace; she continued to scream.

“Sammy!”

Sammy looked at her mother, her eyes wide, thoroughly terrified. Then she relaxed and pulled herself to Abby, sobbing “Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,” over and over again.

Abby lifted her daughter to a sitting position and pulled her close. She was hot and drenched with sweat. “Hush,” whispered Abby, with a calmness she certainly didn’t feel. “It’s OK. It’s all OK. Just a bad dream.” At the mention of the word
dream
Sammy struggled again, though not as hard.

“I was stuck in a dark place,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t get out.”

“It’s alright,” said Abby, pushing her daughter’s blonde, damp hair from her eyes. “It’s not real. You’re safe. Look. You’re in your bedroom. See?” It was chilling for Abby to see her daughter look around intently for confirmation. The disbelief in her eyes was clear.

“I was in a dark place,” she said, quietly. “A bad place.”

“You’re at home.
I promise
. It was a nightmare.” Abby kept the tone of her voice as soothing as possible, despite her racing heart. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Sammy shook her head, but said softly, “It was a bad place. I couldn’t get out.” Sammy’s distress grew. “I couldn’t get out!”

“Shhhhhh,” whispered Abby. “You don’t have to talk about it. It’s alright.”

Abby glanced at the bedside clock. It read 2:11am. Although still trembling, Sammy was starting to relax. She sniffed and Abby pulled a tissue from the bedside table and passed it to her and she blew her nose into it, hard. Abby knew that Sammy wasn’t going to settle back down right away. “Do you want to get a drink?” she asked. Sammy nodded. “And biscuits?” asked Abby. Sammy nodded again and there was the faint suggestion of a smile. Abby reached for another tissue and wiped the tears (and snot) from Sammy’s face. Abby stood and, with some effort, picked Sammy up.

Sammy wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and her legs around her waist. Abby carried Sammy across the landing of their first-floor flat, turning the lights on as she went, making the physical world more solid; pushing Sammy’s nightmare further away.

“Do you want to help me make a hot chocolate, Sam?” asked Abby.