Witch (11 page)

Ignoring
my last comment, my father said, “It’s up to you, Sydney, if you want to stay, then get a grip. This thing will pass in time. If you need me, you know where I am.” 

The phone line went dead. I replaced the receiver, knowing that I’d pissed off my father –
again
. Still hurting at his suggestion that I go and live in Spain, I wanted to prove to him that I wasn’t the screw-up he took me for. I wanted to show my father that I could do something worthwhile in life for once – that I could make a difference. And I knew how I might do that. Dream, nightmare, or premonition – I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that perhaps the girl in my nightmare and the old guy were somehow connected. Perhaps he had pushed her down the well? If I could somehow prove that, then it would go a long way of relieving some of my own guilt and show my father that I could be a good cop after all.

But where was the well? If the old man was in some way connected then it would have to be close, if not in the town of Cliff View itself. How would I find it? With no way of contacting Vincent, I would have to rely on my own policing – detective – skills. With the towel still wrapped tightly about me, I plucked up my iPad. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I typed
‘wells – disused wells – cliff view – Cornwall – England’
into the search engine. Within moments, I was shown a list of results. The third link on the list read:
Cliff View Heritage Association
. I tapped the link with my finger to reveal a website run by the local council. It had been designed to attract tourists to the local town and area. There were a few pages of postcard-type pictures showing off the local beaches, hills, and valleys, but there was also a page with old ordinance survey maps. I clicked to this page. The map showed the locations of fountains, signal posts, pathways, disused railway lines, and old wells. The map also contained historical notes on the areas concerned. Dragging the tip of my finger over the map of the town and surrounding area, there were only three wells that I could find. All three of them were located outside of town and on farms in the surrounding areas. Two of them were described as nothing more now than ruins, and the well I had seen in my nightmare, although disused, still appeared to be intact. The third and most likely to be the one I had dreamt about sat on the edge of Michael’s father’s farm.

I looked up from my iPad. I remembered telling Michael I’d dreamt about falling into a well, and he had seemed a little confused by this. He hadn’t mentioned then that there was a well located on the farm where
he lived with his father. Why would he? I’d only been talking about a dream, after all. Don’t lots of people dream from time to time that they are falling down holes, off buildings, and cliff edges? Maybe there was no connection for Michael to make. What did I really know about any of this? Was the girl I had seen in my dream even connected to the girl who Vincent had said had fallen into a well? And even if she was, it didn’t mean it was the well on Michael’s farm. But there was one similarity between what Michael and Vincent had told me. The girl had fallen into a local well ten years ago, which was about the same time Michael had left Cliff View to join the Army.

Over a light breakfast of tea and toast, I studied the map I had found on the website. There was a coastal path which led from the town and up towards Michael’s father’s farm and the well. It was remote and I was unlikely to bump into anyone from town if I took that particular route in search of the well. If I could find it, then I would know for sure if it was the one I had seen in my nightmares. If it wasn’t, then it was nothing more than a simple nightmare brought on by the upset of the recent accident I had been involved in. If it was the same well, then...then I wasn’t sure after that.

I threw on a sweater, jeans, boots, and a warm coat. Dragging my hair back into a ponytail, I fixed it in a knot at the base of my neck. I snatched up my iPod and earphones, took the torch from my police belt, and left my apartment in search of the well. I made my way down onto the beach, the wind blowing hard and sand stinging my face like needlepoints. I bent low, the sound of the roaring wind and waves crashing against the shore. Reaching the grassy dunes where Michael had appeared the day before, I made my way across them and found the path I had seen on the map. Once off the beach, and sheltered by a crop of trees to my right, the wind didn’t feel so harsh against me. I still walked bent forward, my hands thrust into my coat pockets to keep them warm. With my thumb, I switched on my iPod, wanting some music to keep me company on the long walk to the well. Without being able to see the track I was selecting, I hoped for the best. As long as it wasn’t anything by The Police.
Call Me Maybe
by Carly Rae Jepsen started to play.

I threw a wish in the well
...Carly started to sing. I rolled my eyes. Did every song I listened to lately have to appear to have some relevance to the shit I had gotten myself into? I continued along the solitary path towards the well. It wound upwards, along the cliff edges and high above the shore. Fields stretched away from me on my left, desolate-looking barns and farmhouses with smoke tumbling from their chimneys in the distance. How nice it would feel to be sitting in front of a roaring fire, a mug of tea warming my hands. I pushed those thoughts from my mind, and knew I would have to wait until I could feel warm again. The path wound its way through a crop of dense trees. I pulled out my iPod and brought up the map. I could see that I wasn’t too far now from the well. I turned off the music, placed the iPod back into my pocket, and followed the path through the trees. Birds, startled by my presence, fluttered from the branches overhead, the sound of their beating wings like gunshots in the eerie silence. Twigs crunched underfoot and soggy brown leaves stuck to my boots in a pulpy mush. I looked up and just ahead, I could see the well. To see it, made me stop in my tracks. With my heart starting to speed up, I stood and looked at the circular grey stone well, which stood out of the ground at about waist height. Taking a deep breath, my mind threw up visions of the girl at the bottom of the well humming along to
Every Breath You Take
. She wouldn’t be there though, she was just a part of my dream and not real. What about the old guy? Would he be down there? Would he be looking up at me, that flap of skin slapping against his emaciated face, as he whispered up at me,
“Witch.”

There was only one way of finding out. Very slowly, I placed one foot in front of the other and made my way through the trees to the well. I listened intently for any sound – humming, singing, or whispering, but all I could hear was the sound of the wind, my own shallow breathing, and the snap of twigs beneath my boots. Within touching distance of the well, I stopped. I looked about. The well was at the top of a small hill. To my right I could see the road which led to Michael’s farm – the road where I had killed those people. On my left and through the trees I could see the farmhouse itself. From where I stood, it looked small and squat, tired and old. Its black slate roof glimmered wetly in the drizzle which had now started to fall. Apart from the barn with the busted lock, I could see another nearby. From my vantage point on top of the hill, this barn didn’t look as worn down as the one Michael’s father had claimed to have been broken into.

Sensing that I was alone, I turned my attention back to the well. From where I was standing, I couldn’t tell if it was the well I had seen in my dreams or not. I had never seen it from this viewpoint; I had always been at the bottom of it. But there was something familiar. Hadn’t I been lost in a small crop of trees the very first time I had dreamt about it? Hadn’t I been chased through trees, where I had fallen backwards down into the well? With gooseflesh scampering down my back, over my arms and legs, I stepped towards the edge of the well. Half expecting to see the girl, the old man or both staring up at me from the bottom, I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. With my heart pounding in my ears, and legs feeling like jelly, I dared to open my eyes and peer down into the well.

It was dark inside. I couldn’t even see the bottom. Taking my torch from my pocket, I switched it on. Casting a beam of white light into the well, I saw the grey stone walls. Were they the same walls I had seen in my dream? I couldn’t be sure. They were covered in slimy green patches of moss, but what did that mean? Wouldn’t all dank, dark wells be covered in the stuff? I listened intently. Was there any sound which I could connect to my nightmare? All I could hear was the
Plink! Plink! Plink!
of dripping water. I splashed the light from my torch down the length of the walls. It was so dark inside; even with the glow from my torch it was difficult to see anything. I pressed my legs flat against the side of the well. I leaned forward so my top half was hanging over the lip, my arm dangling out before me, hand gripping the torch. Something glistened back at me. What was it? Was there someone in the bottom? Was it the girl? The old man?

With my heart in my throat, I leant forward further still, aiming the cone of light from my torch into the bottom of the well. Screwing my eyes almost shut, I peered into the gloom. There was water, black, dark and oily-looking at the bottom. I had been standing in a foot of water in my nightmare. Hang on – there was something! The torchlight reflected off it as it moved from side to side at the bottom of the well. With my heart racing and beginning to feel sick with dread, I knew I had found the well –
the well I had fallen into in my nightmare – the well with the singing girl and whispering man at the bottom of it. Bobbing to and fro in the black water at the bottom was the bottle I had seen in my dream, and it looked as if there was a folded piece of paper inside.

A hand gripped my shoulder and I screamed. I gripped the edge of the well with my free hand. My scream echoed down into the deep hole and back again, sounding shrill and ear-piercing. I span around, holding my torch high above my head like a weapon and looked straight into the face of Michael.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking surprised to see me.

“What the freaking hell are
you
doing?” I gasped, my voice still sounding high-pitched and frightened. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Sorry,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder as if to calm me. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

What could I say
? I’ve been having nightmares about a girl who sings Police songs while trapped at the bottom of a well?
I didn’t think so. So, I said, “I was getting tired of sitting at home and staring at the four walls.”

“So you thought you’d like some company,” Michael said, taking me by the hand and guiding me away from the well.

“I guess,” I said, smiling at him.

“You’re freezing,” he said, rubbing my hand in his. “Let’s go and warm you up.”

“I know your idea of warming me up,” I half-smiled at him.

“Sorry,” he said, winking back at m
e, “the old man’s at home. There’s always the barn?”

“A nice hot mug of tea would be just fine,” I smiled back.

“Sure?” he said, looking a little disappointed.

Michael led me down the hill. I looked back, wondering what was in that bottle. I couldn’t help but feel confused, as I had dreamt about it. If the bottle, with its folded piece of paper tucked inside, was real, then wasn’t the girl, too? Maybe Michael d
id know something about her? After all, she had died on his father’s farm. I wanted to ask him about her, but not in front of his father. So as we passed by the barn, I pulled Michael towards it.

With his thick, dark curls blowing about the sides of his face in the wind, and his
green eyes twinkling, he smiled at me and let me lead him inside. Michael pushed the door closed with the heel of his boot. The barn was warm inside, and bales of hay lay scattered about the dusty floor. No sooner had the door been shut, when Michael folded me in his arms and kissed me. This hadn’t been the reason why I’d wanted him alone, but the feel of his lips against mine felt so good, that it was impossible not to kiss him back. As we kissed, Michael ran his hands down the back of my coat and squeezed my arse with his strong hands, pulling my hips against him. He guided me towards a pile of the hay and eased me down into it. It felt soft and warm beneath me. He pulled my coat open, his eyes never leaving mine, a smile playing on his lips. I closed my eyes and felt his hands fumble open the button which held my jeans up. Once open, he slipped his hand inside, and I felt the tips of his fingers brush over me. His touch excited me as much as ever, but I just couldn’t get the images of that well and that girl out of my mind. I tried to relax, but couldn’t. I gently took hold of Michael’s wrist and pulled his hand free of my jeans. He looked up at me, that smile spreading across his handsome face.

“You want to be in charge again?” he whispered excitedly.

“No,” I whispered back, refastening the button on my jeans.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning over me as if to kiss me again. “Is this another game?”

“No, Michael,” I said. “I just want to talk.”

With a cocked eyebrow, he looked down at me as I lay on my back beneath him. “This sounds serious.”

“It’s not serious,” I said, pulling myself up onto my elbows, straw covering me and my coat. “Or at least I don’t think it is.”

Michael rolled onto his side next to me, resting his head on his hand. “What’s wrong, Sydney?” he asked,
sounding concerned.