The Waters of Life

by Michael H. Kelly

  “Hush, Sadie!” snapped Mrs Wilmot. “I do apologise, Mr Turner. I think she feels some sort of guilt about why she's been healed when others are less fortunate. That's why she comes out with these silly things. Now, are you going to take some photos?”

  Eric took some photographs just to shut the woman up, but Sadie's evident misery and self-loathing was bothering him and part of him was glad to have a pictorial record of their encounter. He had become certain of one thing: the story he would write about St Wulfred's Well looked as if it might turn out to be very different from the one he had anticipated. Sadie's blindness might have been healed, but everything he had experienced here suggested that this was an ailing village, even down to the rancid milk.

  Eric thanked Sadie and promised to provide a copy of the finished article, then her mother led him to the door. As he departed, he failed to see a thick, glutinous tear of green mucus roll from Sadie's bloodshot eye, oozing stickily down her cheek until it fell with a wet splat into her box of chocolates. Sadie didn't even notice, her inflamed eyes fixed on the television screen.

  David Stoker, owner of the grounds and properties which had once been Scratchbury's monastery, threw back his head and screamed till he was hoarse. Sweat poured from his body and tears streamed from his eyes. His fingers flexed and scrabbled desperately, but were powerless to ease his pain, since his wrists were tightly fastened to the arms of his chair with cable ties. The agony intensified once more and he sucked in a new lungful of air, but managed only a feeble croak, his voice completely gone. His head and body began to tremble and shudder violently, the whites of his eyes showing as they rolled back in his head.

  “That's enough,” growled a bass voice. “He's about to faint. Mr Gaunt wants him conscious.” A brutal hand seized David's hair and jerked his head upright as cold water was splashed in his face. “You see, Mr Stoker, we can be reasonable,” the voice continued. “I only wish you could do the same, then none of this unpleasantness would have to happen.”

  David opened his eyes and looked at the huge figure hulking over him. David was a short but powerful man, quite capable of looking after himself under normal circumstances, but he hadn't stood a chance when this goliath, Alec Davies, film-maker Terry Gaunt's right hand man, had knocked on his door and punched him hard in the stomach, doubling him over, before a word had even been exchanged. Then he looked tentatively down at his feet, strapped out in front of him, his shoes off and his trousers rolled up. Oh God, his feet! He winced and looked away, letting out a high pitched keening cry as soon as he saw them. They looked like cooked mince, red and steaming. The blowtorch that Davies' companion had been playing over his toes and soles had been placed to one side. But David knew it was only a temporary respite.

  “It's a horrible sight, isn't it, Mr Stoker?” said Davies, leaning close. “Your feet look like a couple of burgers. And if we carry on caressing them with the flames for much longer, they'll be like those blackened bits of charcoal you get when burgers are left on the barbecue too long. And I wouldn't mind betting they're feeling even less pretty than they look, wouldn't you say, Mr Stoker? Now, are you ready to talk business with Mr Gaunt, or do we resume cooking?”

  “Please don't,” cried David. “Please tell him I'll do whatever he wants.”

  Alec Davies straightened up and opened a door to a connecting room. “He's ready, Mr Gaunt,” he said.

  Terry Gaunt put down the paper he had been reading. He was sitting in the living room of David's cottage in the monastery grounds while his employees tortured the unfortunate owner in his own kitchen. He carefully folded the paper, picked up a pen and a sheaf of documents and strolled through to the kitchen, where he sat down at the table and looked at the trembling, pain-wracked figure of David Stoker.

  “I'm very pleased that you've decided to do business with us after all,” said Terry cheerfully, a broad grin on his wide, snub-nosed face. The smile didn't reach his hard, glinting eyes, though, which were like dark chips of coal. “It really does smell appalling in here and I really don't want to have to open the windows to let the smoke out. Not that anyone would hear you even if we did open the windows, eh, David? Your vehemence against trespassers has ensured nobody ever comes within hearing range. And it really is a very unreasonable attitude you have against visitors, isn't it? I mean, look how sore it's made your feet! But don't you worry, David, I give you my word that if you sign this authorisation for us to film on and around your property for the next two weeks, a couple of my men have been mixing up a big bowl of soothing balm for your poor feet, which will cool them down nicely. I'll order them to bathe your feet and ease your pain as soon as you sign.”

  David made one last attempt to dissuade Gaunt. “But you d-don't understand,” he blurted, shuddering with pain. “I keep p-people away f-for their own good. You mustn't f-film here, too d-dangerous.”

  “I mustn't?” echoed Gaunt, his voice chilling. “I don't like being dictated too, David. Not by you, not by anybody. Alec, the blowtorch...”

  “No! No!” screamed David, thrashing madly in his bonds as the torch was raised again. “For pity's sake, I'll do anything you want! I'll sign!”

  “Untie the gentleman's hands, Alec,” smiled Gaunt. “I believe we have successfully negotiated a deal. Now then, David, if you would kindly sign just here … and here. Thank you, now if anyone comes asking, I can show them your signed authority for us to be here, all nice and legitimate. Of course, we can't have you running around – or rather, crawling around given the state of your feet, you really ought to take better care of yourself – telling people that you were forced to sign against your will. So you'll be taking a nice holiday for the duration. We have somewhere very safe and peaceful to put you while we get on with the filming.”

  David closed his eyes in weary resignation and wept.

  “Are your feet hurting you, David?” asked Gaunt with a cruel smile. “I did promise you a soothing foot bath once you'd signed, didn't I? You'll find that I'm as good as my word.” He lifted his heavy frame from his chair and crossed to the exterior door. He opened this, revealing two of his men stirring a thick, gloopy substance in what looked like a tin bath. “Bring it in, boys,” said Gaunt, indicating the interior of the kitchen with a jerk of his head.

  The two men gripped the container by handles on each side and lifted it between them. It was evidently very heavy and they struggled as they brought it inside, placing it down with a loud thud on the floor in front of David.

  David looked down at the thick, grey sludge within. As they grabbed his ankles and forced his feet into the cold, gritty stuff, he recognised it for what it was. As the cement slurped over the ruined flesh of his feet, sucking them deep down into itself, he started to scream again, thrashing madly against Davies' powerful grip that held him in place.

  “I promised I'd put you in a safe, peaceful place, David, and I will,” said Gaunt, lighting a cigar and smiling like a demonic cherub. “The bottom of the lake.”

  Heather Williams lived with her parents in a little row of cottages on the opposite side of Scratchbury. Eric took a roundabout route as he walked to her address, partly to get a good look at the parts of the village he hadn't seen yet, and partly to make sure school would be finished for the day and she would be likely to be home when he called.

  The cottages should have been quaint and pretty by rights and in any other village they probably would have been. But old trees leaned over them, drooping like sick old men, their leaves just the wrong shade of green. Everything was subtly 'off' and the poorly tended, weed filled gardens reinforced the air of neglect. Eric felt depressed just looking at them. But he had a job to do, he identified the Williams' cottage, opened the ancient wooden gate and walked down the path to ring the doorbell. To his relief, this one actually worked, though he winced as its harsh tone pierced the stagnant silence of the place.

  A minute later, the door was opened by a pinched, haggard looking woman, her arms folded defensively across her chest. She had
long dark hair and Eric conceded that he would probably have found her attractive if she hadn't looked so worn down and fed up. Her figure was slight but alluring, but was concealed by frumpy clothing, a navy blue pullover and a matching skirt whose hem was well below knee level.

  “Can I help you?” she asked pointedly, and he became aware that he had been staring.

  “Yes,” he said, showing her his press credentials. “I'm a journalist with Otherworld magazine. We're doing a feature on miraculous healings and I wondered if it might be possible to speak with Miss Heather Williams? We understand she suffered from a curvature of her spine which was healed by some mysterious means recently?”

  The woman, evidently Heather's mother, seemed reluctant. “She's already spoken to the press,” she said. “Fat lot of good it did her, just made the other kids poke fun at her at school. I've had to keep her home. I've told them I want her transferred to another school where nobody knows her, but they're refusing to help.”

  “I think you may find us a little more understanding and sympathetic than the mainstream press,” said Eric. “It's our business to examine these strange things, and Heather may find some comfort or support in the fact that she's not the only person this kind of thing has happened to. People all over the world experience seemingly miraculous healings. We try to gather the facts dispassionately and seek answers.”

  “Answers?” snorted Mrs Williams. “We could certainly use a few of those. She's been really strange – weird – since it happened. I told her not to go near that place, but she was so desperate to be like normal kids her age.”

  “My editor has a lot of contacts in high places,” continued Eric. “She has to, with the kinds of stories we sometimes cover. It may be that she may be able to put a word in, help grease the wheels that will get Heather relocated to another school. She can sometimes be very persuasive with officials if she points out it would save them some very bad press if they'd only do what she wants.”

  This clinched it. “All right,” said Mrs Williams. “You can come in and see her.” She opened the door wider and Eric slipped in.

  The cottage had a small, neat interior. Everything was tidy and in its place and it was obvious that Mrs Williams made a real effort. Nevertheless, there was something about the atmosphere that was perversely unwholesome rather than welcoming, just like everywhere else Eric had seen in this damn village.

  “Thank you, Mrs Williams,” smiled Eric. “I didn't catch your name?”

  “Diane,” she said, flicking a glance at him which appraised him from head to toe. Eric had to resist the urge to smooth down his hair and try to appear presentable. “Over here, Mr Turner. This is a photo of Heather taken last year.” She crossed to the mantelpiece and lifted off a framed photograph of a pretty, round-faced girl with long blonde hair, wearing a school uniform.

  “Please, call me Eric,” he said as he took the picture from her, examining it closely. It was evident that although the photographer had tried to conceal the fact as much as possible, the girl's back was deformed in a major way. This was no slight curvature, Heather had a full humpback. He tightened his lips in sympathy; he could almost hear the cries of “Quasimodo!” in the schoolyard. Children could be so cruel.

  “She's a good looking girl, but I can see that she had a real problem with her back,” Eric said, as diplomatically as he could.

  “Not any more,” shrugged Diane. “Her back is straight as a poker now. But she's … changed. I warned her not to go near that tomb. No good has ever come of it.”

  “You must have some deeper reason for saying that,” said Eric gently, “because I can't believe you wouldn't want your daughter to be well.”

  “Of course I want her to be well,” said Diane, “but I'd rather her still have her disability than suffer the nightmares and panic attacks that she does now. She came back changed in ways other than her spine. She hasn't had a minute's peace since, and nor have I. Her mind is disturbed now, twisted just as badly as her back once was.”

  “What does her father think of her healing?” asked Eric carefully.

  “Him? He left us when she was six years old,” shrugged Diane dismissively. “I've no idea where he is now, had no help from him over the years. I don't know if he's even dead or alive.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Eric, putting the photo back on the mantelpiece. “May I see Heather now?”

  “Sure, follow me,” said Diane, leading him into the hall and up a very narrow, steep flight of stairs. Eric had to stoop to avoid banging his head. There was a small landing at the top with a door on either side. Diane opened the left hand one and called inside, “Heather, there's a man here to talk with you about your back.” She brushed past Eric, whispering, “Please try not to get her too agitated” as she went back downstairs.

  Eric carefully pushed open the door and peered inside. It was a typical teenage girl's room, with posters on the wall. There were toys which she hadn't quite outgrown and clothes and make-up on the dresser which she hadn't quite grown into. That awkward age. A single bed was pushed tight against the wall. Heather lay on her back on the bed, ankles crossed and her hands behind her head on the pillow. An open laptop festooned with stickers lay on the bed beside her, its blank screen showing that it hadn't been used for several minutes at least and had gone into power saving mode. She was pretty and fresh-faced, just like her picture downstairs, except her back was perfectly straight and normally proportioned. She gazed straight ahead at the ceiling above her. “Well, come in if you're coming,” she said in resigned tones.

  “Hello Heather,” said Eric as he quietly entered the room and sat on the chair in front of the dresser. “My name is Eric. Your mother said it would be okay for me to talk to you about your back.”

  “It got better,” she said, disinterestedly.

  “Yes, I can see that,” smiled Eric, “it certainly did. Would you mind explaining to me how? It may help other girls with health problems if we can understand how these things happen.”

  She sighed loudly and for a moment, he thought she wasn't going to talk. But then she said, “I stood on a box and climbed over the wall to the monastery, then I went down through the woods to St Wulfred's Well. Mum told me not to, I'd begged her to take me loads of times. Everyone knows that the water in the tomb heals illnesses when nothing else works. But she wouldn't take me, kept saying it was wrong, that people who went there got punished or got sick in other ways. But I was sick of being a cripple. So I said I was stopping over at a friend's house. Ha! She should have smelled a rat then, I haven't any friends! I went to the tomb and I drank the water. I felt dizzy and fell over. It was morning when I woke up and my back was perfectly straight. That's it, that's how I was healed. Everyone round here knows about it and no one will talk about it. The rich git who owns the land won't let anyone near, that's why I had to sneak in.”

  “And it was as simple as that?” said Eric. “Just drink the water and you're healed? And do you think there's any truth to this apparent unease about the well that exists locally? Has there been any kind of downside to your healing?”

  Heather scoffed, “I'm not a cripple any more! I can stand up straight, people don't stare at me or pity me in the street. I've been teased at school since, some people can't cope with the fact that I'm well now, but it's nothing compared to the stick I used to get as a hunchback! I should be there now, Mum's overreacting, pulling me out.”

  “Your mum mentioned nightmares and panic attacks,” prompted Eric gently. “She suggested that the experience has disturbed you.”

  “You're as bad as she is!” snapped Heather, turning to face him properly at last. “The only problem I've had is with other people and their reactions. It's like they don't want me to be well and whole!” She looked at Eric appraisingly. “And I am whole, you know. I'm feeling much more alive and strong than I ever did before.”

  “I believe you,” Eric assured her. “I'm not here to make judgements, Heather. If you're healed and happy, then I'm genuinely glad
. I just want to hear your side of the story.”

  “You're about the only one, then,” she said sadly. Then a cunning look flashed in her eye and she said, “Actually, there is something you could do for me.”

  “Anything,” he assured her with a smile.

  She sat up, swinging her legs round so that her feet rested on the floor and she was perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. “Ever since I got healed, it's ignited all sorts of other feelings in me that were below the surface before. But I can't stand it and they're driving me crazy. I've got an itch that I can't scratch on my own, and God knows, I've tried.”

  To his alarm, she stood up and stepped closer, just inches from him. Her deft fingers quickly unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, sliding them down to her knees. “I feel so horny all the time,” she gasped, desperately. “Please touch me, feel me, love me. That's what you men want, isn't it? You all like younger girls, don't you? I'm here, I'm yours. I want you. Take me, I won't tell anyone, I promise.”

  Eric stood up quickly, almost tripping and stumbling over the chair. He backed away, his hands outspread in protest. He could almost feel the heat throbbing within her, his eyes held by her thighs. If she had been dressed provocatively, wearing a thong or something like that, maybe he wouldn't have felt so wrong. But she wore white schoolgirl knickers and he couldn't corrupt her, even though it was some corruption within her that forced her towards him. “I can't!” he said, trying to deny the force of his erection. “Heather, this is wrong! Stop it!”

  “Don't you dare turn me down!” she spat. She was rubbing herself now, her knickers dampening, her expression crazed. “The postman didn't. He came when Mum was out yesterday. Oh yes, he came all right!” She cackled, her eyes wild and unfocused. “You can come too, right inside me!” Her expression changed and she began to wilt. “Please!” she begged. “Please, make the heat go away!”