The Well (9 page)

He stroked a recent photograph, taken at the inter-school swimming competition. It had been reproduced in the Bankside Reporter and was one of many he’d had published. Via the newspaper, Becca’s mother had asked for a print – which he’d gladly supplied. Another connection: no matter how tenuous the link, it always excited him. Becca had been in the newspaper several times. (It was how he first found out her name: Rebecca Beverley Richards. Eventually, after months of eavesdropping, he discovered that people only ever called her Becca.)

He only took pictures; he was
just looking
. But he’d watched so many girls grow and slip beyond his reach.
Enough was enough,
he thought. He lifted the scrunchie to his nose and inhaled. It could be his imagination, but it seemed he could smell
her
. He desperately wanted to touch her; wanted to get to her before
the boy
did.

It wouldn’t be too difficult
, he decided. He knew where she lived, because he’d followed her home several times. From the field behind her house, he’d watched her study or play in her bedroom.

Randle knew he may not get away with it, but the fear of capture made it all the more arousing.
And I’ve got fuck all to lose
, he thought.
It’s a toss-up between perhaps another decade of frustrated contemplation, or, for once, perhaps only once, the unbelievable sensation of touching such youthful skin.
Of course, hers wouldn’t be a willing body – not in the way it would if he were
the boy
. Yet that might somehow make it all the easier: a pleading, distressed vessel on which to vent his years of longing, hatred and resentment.

I’ll have to move quickly,
he realised,
to beat the boy.

With a great deal of reluctance, Randle put away his photographs and the scrunchie and got on with the day. A shower, breakfast and then shopping – his normal Saturday.

He stopped around the supermarket to chat with parents who he saw every day at the school; smiled at their children; sometimes fondly ruffled their hair. The only real deviation from his usual routine was to add some washing line, duct tape, heavy-duty bin bags and an especially sharp kitchen knife to his shopping.

On his way home, he stopped into Arthur’s flat.

Randle didn’t know Arthur’s last name: he was just someone he’d met at the gym. They’d talked for two reasons: first, because they were the only two people in their sixties who frequented the gym and second, because they lived on the same estate. Randle didn’t especially like Arthur, but he didn’t dislike him either. Arthur was just someone he saw, talked to and forgot about for the next few days until he saw him again. Arthur had gone to stay with his son, who lived in Devon, for a few weeks and he’d asked Randle to look in on his flat every now and again. It was no trouble – there were no plants to water or pets to feed. All he had to do was clear the post and newspapers from the doormat, then take a quick look around to make sure that everything was secure.

After lunch, Randle took a stroll over to Becca’s house, conscious as ever of his slightly stiff, limping gait. He took his camera. People around the town were used to seeing him with it, and the telephoto lens could be as useful – and less suspicious – than binoculars.

He walked all the way past the house, studying it carefully from the corner of his eye. There was only one car on the drive, which Randle recognised as the mother’s. Becca mostly walked to and from school; when she didn’t it was usually, though not always, her mother who brought her. Two bottles of milk were on the doorstep, despite being early afternoon. The curtains were open.
It’s all about the detail
, his sergeant used to tell him.
Take in the detail; assess the situation.
The uncollected milk bottles told him that no one was in – and possibly hadn’t been all night. The lone car told him that the family were probably all out together.

At the end of Lincoln Street, he turned right onto the main road and followed it for a few hundred yards until he reached the path that cut behind the housing estate.

In the field, a few children were playing and a couple were walking their dog. He waved to the children and they waved back. He walked slowly, as close to the back of the house as he could. Again, the curtains were open. The house looked empty.

Randle walked around the field, enjoying the sun, contemplating taking a closer look at the house. When he was sure no one was looking, he raised his camera to his eye and focused. The lens hunted from room to room, but he couldn’t see any movement. He watched for around ten minutes before putting the lens cap back on and continuing around the field.

It might be difficult to get Becca alone, he realised. She hung around with
that boy
a lot or she was with her mother. He needed to know more about her routine.
It would mean taking a few risks
, he realised, deciding to approach the house. If challenged, he’d already prepared a response: he’d brought Becca’s scrunchie. He’d seen her drop it, but because of his leg he hadn’t been quick enough to follow her with it. He happened to be walking this way anyway, so it had been no trouble to drop it off. As an excuse it was far too lame to bear scrutiny, he knew, but might be just about good enough coming from an old fart like good old fucking Tom.
And,
he thought,
it was better than nothing. Just.

Randle made his way back to the main road and then turned left, back into Lincoln Street. As it had been before, the street was virtually empty, just the odd car passing now and then. He slowed his pace slightly before casually walking up the short tarmac driveway. He half-paused, touching the bonnet of the small car: cold. His heart was racing, but outside he was calm. He reached the front door, adjusting his glasses while he gathered his thoughts. He pushed the bell and heard it ring around the house.

He waited for an agonising ten seconds, counting each one off in his head to make sure he didn’t rush. There wasn’t a sound in the house.
No dog, good.
He rang the bell again, and again there was no response.
No one home.

Randle looked around. He couldn’t see anyone on the street or looking from the windows of the houses close by. He walked down the side of the house, into the back garden, knowing that he was now crossing a line where his story wouldn’t hold up.

He wasn’t looking for something specific, just anything that would tell him a little more about Becca – especially how, when, he might get her alone.

The French windows were a godsend. He could see clearly into the open-plan house. The lounge and kitchen were spotlessly tidy. The television was off. His eyes scanned, looked for anything useful. Amidst the clump of paper held to the fridge with novelty fridge magnets was an especially large and prominent note. He strained to read it in the dim interior of the house, but couldn’t, even after cleaning his glasses. He looked around to the field behind him; the children were still playing and didn’t seem to have noticed him. He took the lens cap off the camera and raised it up, focusing on the note. It still wasn’t easy to read.

Becca/Matt
–
there’s some money on the fireplace. Don’t get takeaways for every meal! Call me if you need anything. Have a nice weekend. See you Sunday. Mum/Sarah xx

He lowered the camera, taking in the information.

The one car meant that the parents were away. The unmoved milk, and the unanswered doorbell, meant that the kids had stayed out – at a party or with friends probably. Still, it created opportunities.
See you Sunday
, the note had read.

Maybe another twenty-four hours.

A ginger cat jumped down from the garden fence and walked up to Randle, purring. The children in the field behind him screamed wildly. Randle felt suddenly exposed. He gave the cat a gentle swipe with his boot. His instinct had been to kick it hard, but he didn’t want it to make a noise. The cat padded to the other side of the garden and settled down in the longer grass. Randle walked back to the front of the house, checking the street carefully before walking up the drive.

Halfway up the drive, he almost froze. Turning the corner into the street was one of Becca’s friends – the one with the short blonde hair. He briefly considered retreating into the back garden but dismissed the idea as stupid: he’d clearly look suspicious. Instead he carried on – ignoring the approaching girl and, once he’d reached the end of the drive, walking in the opposite direction. As he turned to walk away, he stole a brief glance in her direction. She was texting on her mobile phone and didn’t seem to have noticed him. He smiled.

Once he was out of sight, he backtracked behind the bushes in a neighbour’s garden and took a few photographs of Hannah as she approached the house, rang the bell and waited – his telephoto lens enabling her lovely young face to fill the frame.

It would only be later that he realised that Hannah had presented him with exactly what he wanted: a lone girl. That was an opportunity, he decided, that he wouldn’t miss again.

8

It all happened in a moment.

Distracted by Nisha’s incoming text, Hannah half-stumbled as she rounded the corner into Lincoln Street. As she regained her balance, she noticed Randle emerging from Becca’s driveway. Out of context and uniform, she didn’t immediately recognise him – until she noticed his limp.

He creeps me out a bit
, Becca’s voice echoed in her head. If it hadn’t been for that remark, Hannah probably wouldn’t have thought anything of seeing the friendly old man that she and the other kids called Old Tom.

Instinctively, she lowered her head as if reading the text from her phone, carefully glancing out of the top of her eyes.

He looked over to her, ever so briefly, but then continued on his way – thankfully in the opposite direction. Hannah wasn’t sure she could have even said
hello
without blushing.

Then, like a drop in the breeze, the moment passed and was gone from Hannah’s mind.

Hannah gathered as much courage as she could and walked up the drive. It was bad enough having to try to sort things out with Becca, without having to worry about facing her Mum – or Jim – during a weekend where she was grounded. If either of them opened the door, she hoped she could smile sweetly enough. With a bit of luck, Becca would answer.

But, even after ringing the bell four times, no one answered.

Hannah felt deflated and puzzled. Jim’s car wasn’t in, so they were clearly all out. She noticed the milk bottles on the doorstep – they’d either been out all night, or had left really early. It didn’t tally with what Becca had said yesterday,
but hey
, she thought,
people changed their minds all the time
.

Hannah’s phone chimed as a text arrived; from Becca, Hannah hoped.

It was from Nisha.
U R TAKING AGES. WHEN U HERE? NEATS X

Hannah sighed and tapped in a quick reply.
ON MY WAY.

She turned and left.
I’ll call again later,
she thought. As she walked to the bus stop, she wondered what Becca was doing.

9

The day was perfect. Hot sun, blue skies and just enough breeze to keep the heat in check. Sarah and Jim strolled unhurriedly, hand in hand, through Bamburgh Castle and its estate. In truth, wandering around stately homes wasn’t exactly Sarah’s thing, but it was a passion of Jim’s and pleasant enough on a day like today.

It wasn’t until early afternoon, when they were sitting on the grass in the castle’s grounds, eating ice cream, that Sarah called Becca. Again, her call cut straight through to the answer phone. “Hi, it’s Becca. Not here – so leave a message!”

Sarah frowned, worry growing inside her. “Becca, it’s Mum,” she said, trying to sound concerned but not annoyed. “I’ve been trying to get you since yesterday. Can you call me, please? Just to let me know you’re OK?”

Sarah snapped her phone closed. “No reply again. Do you think they’re OK?”

“I’m sure they are,” comforted Jim, leaning back to pull his mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. “I’ll call Matt.”

Jim tapped the speed dial and lifted the phone to his ear, listening. His brow furrowed. “Matt, it’s Dad. Sarah’s been trying to get hold of Becca. Is she with you? Call me back. Cheers.” He pushed the red button, closing the call, pausing before dialling their home phone. After four rings, Sarah’s voice answered, “Hiya. You’ve reached Sarah and Becca. Please leave a message if you want a call back.”
We really must update that message,
thought Jim, reminded briefly that he and Matt had been resident at Sarah’s home for just a few months. “Matt, Becca, it’s me. We’ve been calling you on your mobiles but not getting through. Can you give one of us a call? Thanks.”

Jim pocketed his phone and thoughtfully licked his ice cream. “Can you call any of Becca’s friends, like Hannah or Kate?”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t have their numbers on my mobile,” she said. “They’re on the pad at home.” She thought for a moment and then dialled as she spoke. “I’ll call Jan,” she said, “and ask her to pop around.”

Janet lived next door but one to Sarah. Although not the closest of friends, they were a touch more than merely acquaintances. As neighbours, one of them would, of course, often keep an eye on the other’s house at holiday times (Sarah usually fed Janet’s cat if she was away). But they were also close enough to share the odd night out – or in, with a film, wine and pizza.

“Hi Jan, it’s Sarah,” she said, with a cheeriness she didn’t feel. Two hundred miles away, Janet was more than a little surprised. “Hi Sarah. You OK?”

Sarah was relieved to be able to skip the inevitable small talk.

“Jan, would you do me a favour?” asked Sarah. “I’ve been trying to get hold of either Becca or Matt – and can’t get a reply from either their mobiles or the house phone. Have you seen them?”

Jan suppressed a groan. Sarah had confided in her about her arguments with Jim following the first time they’d gone away together. Of course, she’d sided with Sarah, but inside she thought that Jim did have a point. Jan and her husband, Ron, didn’t have children; Jan would be the first person to admit that she wasn’t especially maternal, but did think that Sarah could do herself and Becca a favour if she cut loose a bit.