Jessie – 1.10 a.m.
My thigh has its own heartbeat. It throbs and itches, and with every tiny movement the pain spikes and I picture the branch, scraping back and forth against muscle and bone, sharp edges dividing soft tissue, black dirt and filth, little insects and organisms and God-knows-what else, inside me – actually inside me – and oh God this is bad, this is so, so bad.
I can’t tell if I’m bleeding, because I can’t see a damn thing, but I must be, mustn’t I? You don’t get impaled through the leg by a branch and not bleed. If I could stand, get my leg out of the water, I might be able to work out how bad it really is, but the branch won’t let me. When I try to lift my leg, there’s a sharp downwards tug and a shocking bolt of pain as muscle and skin stretch to near breaking point.
I reach into the water, gently trace the shape of the branch with my fingertips, feel it thicken as it meets the floor of the well and disappears into the mud. That’s why it won’t move. It’s not a branch. It’s a root, growing out of the earth at the bottom of the well.
And now it’s growing through me.
I pull back my hand as my stomach flutters and drops.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. Maybe it’s not as bad as it feels.
I make another attempt to free myself, moving as slowly as possible, but when I feel the sharp tug and the same shock of pain, I stop, worried that I’m going to make things worse, slice through an artery and bleed out at the bottom of the well.
Fuck. I’m going to die down here, aren’t I? I’m going to die down here in the dark, just like Amy did.
Stop. Breathe. Keep it together.
Got to get a grip. Take slow breaths, just like I tell Freya when she’s having an asthma attack.
In, hold for three, then out. In, hold for three, then out …
Think, Jessie. Think.
If I can’t climb, the only way I’m going to get out of here is if somebody gets help, and right now there’s only one person on earth who can do that, because they’re the only one who knows I’m down here.
I look up, half expecting to see a figure peering down from the top of the well. Rain wets my cheeks – the storm isn’t here quite yet, but it’s coming – and I see shifting clouds up above, but nothing more. I picture whoever did this to me, crouched up there like some sort of gargoyle, listening to me suffer. Is that what they want? To hear me suffer?
‘I know you’re up there!’ I shout. My voice spirals up and away, but the only reply is the drip-drip of water sweating from the walls.
I try again. ‘You can’t do this to me! You can’t just … leave me down here. There’s a storm coming. You can’t leave me when there’s a storm. I’ll …’ I don’t want to say it. It feels like if I say the word, it’ll make it more likely to happen. ‘Do you hear me?’
A sound up above. The snap of a branch underfoot? That’s good. They might not have responded to me so far, but if they’re up there, they can hear me. And if they can hear me, it means I still have a chance. I’ve got to reason with them, convince them to do the right thing.
‘People are going to be looking for me,’ I shout. ‘Lots of people. They’ll rip this town apart trying to find me, and once they do, they’re going to come for you, whoever you are. But if you get help, I’ll tell them it was an accident. I’ll tell them you saved me.’ I stop to listen. Nothing. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
As I look, a dark figure leans over the edge of the well, a black silhouette against the deep blue of the night sky.
Oh, thank God.
‘Please … You don’t have to do this.’
No response.
‘I’ll leave, I promise. If you help me out, I’ll pack my things and I’ll go and I’ll never come back, I swear to God. Please, get help. Do something.’
I slap my hands down in frustration and my right leg explodes with pain. It fills me up, dizzies me, makes me grit my teeth so hard it feels like my jaw is going to crack. I wait for it to loosen its grip, just a little, enough so I can breathe again, and when I look up, I see the figure has extended an arm over the well. They’re holding a large object. They swing it to-and-fro a few times then let go, and a black shape falls fast towards me. I cry out and press myself against the wall, lift my arms to shield my head as something hits the water with a great splash. I shut my eyes and brace for more impacts – a brick to the skull would finish me off for good – but none come. All is quiet. When I next dare to check, the person up above has gone.
Stupid of me. What the hell was I thinking, trying to reason with them?
Something bumps up against my arm and I shriek. My mind fills with images of rats, of giant spiders with thousands of babies clinging to their backs, of finger-thick millipedes wriggling their many legs, reaching out for me in the dark. There’s no telling what might be living down here.
When the thing bumps into me again, I swat at it with my hand and my fingers graze something cold and thin that seems to coil away from my touch. I shudder, then catch myself – whatever it was, it felt familiar. I reach out into the dark, trail my fingers across the surface of the water until I find what I’m looking for. It’s a thin strap. I snag it, pull it towards me, feel something drag through the water. I lift it up and press its familiar sopping weight to my chest.
It’s a bag. My bag.
Of course. If they’re going to get rid of me, they need to get rid of my things too. They can’t afford to leave any evidence behind.