Jessie – 4.17 a.m.
The strap of my bag is still looped around my left arm. I take hold of it and pull it towards me, lift the bag out of the water. It’s heavy, waterlogged. I turn it upside down to empty it, the contents splashing into the water, then fumble with the metal clasps that secure the straps at each end, but can’t seem to figure out how they work by feel alone. It probably doesn’t help that my fingers are stiff with cold, and everything is wet through.
I turn the bag this way and that, try squeezing the clasps, twisting them. There must be a simple trick to it, but whatever it is, I can’t work it out in the dark. Eventually, I clamp my teeth around the strap and pull as hard as I can until I hear the stitches tear, and with a final tug, one end comes loose. I do the same on the other side and let the bag slide back into the water, then wrap the strap around my left wrist, so I have it to hand when I need it.
‘OK, I’ve got the strap,’ I tell Fiona.
‘That’s great, Jessica. Good work,’ she says, the phone’s speaker just loud enough for me to hear her over the hiss of rain and the rumble of thunder. The signal is still shaky too. There are moments when her voice drops away to nothing.
‘OK, Jessica. So, what … want you to do, is to take hold of the root. Don’t think about … comes next. Just … hold of it.’
I do as she says and reach down into the water with my right hand. Electric shocks of pain spread through my leg, the muscles tightening in anticipation of what’s to come as I take hold of the root close to where it punctures the skin under my thigh. I have a beauty mark there, I think. At least I did. Perhaps it’s gone now, obliterated by the foreign body that has torn its way through me.
‘Now, I know the temptation is to try to do it quickly, so you can get it over with,’ says Fiona. ‘But that could … your femoral artery …’
I freeze. ‘What? What did you just say?’
‘If you’d already … wouldn’t be talking to me now. But we want to minimise the chance of causing any further damage. So we want you to go slowly. Slide the root out … smooth … one movement. And when it’s done, we want you to … strap around the top of your thigh, as tight as you can. You can do this … deep breath and hold it. When you pull, push the breath out at the same time.’
I tighten my grip around the root and the pain flares.
‘I don’t think I can,’ I tell Fiona.
‘Jessica, listen to me. That little girl of yours is waiting for you. She needs you, and I know you’d do anything for her.’
I would, of course I would. I picture Freya at her most adorable, on one of those lazy weekend mornings when she climbs into bed between us, and she’s all warm and snuggly, and I’m reminded of how lucky we are to have her, how blessed to have brought this perfect little life into the world …
‘Now, take a deep breath … and pull.’
The pain is instant. It is a scream in my throat, an explosion of colour in my head, a white-hot fire in my thigh. There’s a feeling of enormous pressure inside my leg that builds and builds – but the root doesn’t move. In the short time it has been inside me, it has grown, wrapped its branches tightly around my bones. It’s a part of me now, stuck inside me, like I am stuck inside this well, and it will keep growing until the distant day comes when they find my body down here, and when they cut me open.
The root moves, begins to rub against muscle and sinew as it slides, inch by agonising inch, out through one side of my leg, re-entering my inner thigh as it passes through me. The pain builds, and I want to stop, more than anything I want to stop, because it’s too much, but if I do, I know I won’t start again. So I keep going, keep pulling, and the root keeps coming, long after it should be out.
And then, all of sudden, I feel the last of it slip out of my body, and it pulls free.
‘It’s out,’ I yell.
I feel faint. I’m going to throw up.
‘That’s good,’ Fiona says. ‘You’re doing so well, Jessica. Now, the tourniquet. High up … as tight as you can.’
No time to get my breath. I unwrap the strap from my wrist and loop it behind my thigh. A fresh wave of pain crashes over me and I cry out.
‘… thing OK?’
I cinch the strap tight, tie a knot and pull hard. My leg feels like it’s on fire, like it’s being dipped in acid. I push out a scream and grit my teeth and the world turns fuzzy at the edges. I press my back against the wall of the well, feel the cold stone against my skin and the rain on my face. I think of Freya and I breathe through the pain.
‘I’m OK,’ I tell Fiona, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m OK. I’ve done it.’
‘Brilliant. Well done, Jessica. Now … minute, catch your breath.’
But I don’t want to take a minute. I want to stand up, get out of the water.
I brace my hands against the well wall behind me, transfer as much of my weight as I can onto my left leg, then push myself upright, water streaming off my body, until I’m up.
I rest my head against the stone and now I take a moment to try to steady my breathing, to make sure I don’t pass out from the pain and slip under the water and drown.
In, hold for three, then out. In, hold for three, then out. Nice and calm, nice and slow …
I’m OK. Dizzy and nauseous, but on my feet.
I look for the phone and for a terrible moment I can’t find it. I must have knocked it off its little shelf when I was trying to stand up and it’s fallen into the water. But then I see a haze of light between stones, the faint glow of the screen. As I pick up the handset, I hear Fiona’s voice in the darkness. ‘Jessica, talk to me. What’s happening?’
I put the phone to my ear. ‘I’m here. I’m up,’ I say, with my heart thumping so hard in my chest that it hurts.
‘Amazing,’ says Fiona. ‘You’ve been so brave, Jessica. You’ve bought us time now, time to talk. We’re going to get through this, me and you. We’ll get through this together.’