Witch: A Sydney Hart Novel Book One

by Tim O'Rourke

  I reached the top to find Vincent drawing deep mouthfuls of damp, cold air into his lungs. I helped him lift the rope from about his shoulders.

  “I just hope it will be long enough to reach the bottom,” he breathed, peering through the darkness and into the well.

  “I hope the bottle is still down there,” I whispered over the sound of Jess yapping in the distance. I prayed that Grayson hadn’t seen either of us clambering away up the hill. I couldn’t use the torch as it would have been like a beacon going off in the night at the top of the hill. Fearing that our time was short, I looked at Vincent and said, “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Vincent snatched up one end of the rope, and trampling through the mud and rain, he wrapped one end of the rope around the nearest tree trunk. He fastened the end with a knot. “The rope’s too wet. The knot might just slip apart again as soon as any weight is put on it. You wait up here for me, and hold onto the rope, whatever you do.”

  Taking the rope from his hands, I looped the free end of it around my waist.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed from the darkness.

  “I have to go and get that bottle,” I whispered.

  “Why?” Vincent snapped, trying to take the rope from me. “It’s way too dangerous.”

  “Molly showed me that bottle in my dream,” I tried to reason with him. “If the bottle is at the bottom of the well, and it’s the same one, then she showed it to me for a reason. She showed it to me, Vincent, not you. I have to go and get it.”

  “But...” he started to protest.

  Cutting over him, I said, “You keep hold of the rope. When I’ve got the bottle, I’ll yank on the rope and you can pull me out. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly. I guessed he knew we didn’t have time to stand and argue about who was going to venture down into the well.

  With the rope feeling as tight as it could be around my waist, I clambered up onto the edge of the well. Rain fell hard all around me and I could hear it drumming onto the water at the foot of the well, deep below me. I looked over the edge. It looked like a yawning throat of darkness. Taking a deep breath and my heart racing, I swung my legs over the edge of the well.

  “Are you sure about this?” Vincent breathed.

  “No,” I said, looking back at him. “But I know it’s something I have to do.”

  “Be careful,” Vincent said, taking up the slack in the rope and leaning back. His boots slid momentarily in the sodden mud.

  “Okay?” I asked, watching him regain his footing before I climbed in to the darkness.

  “Okay,” he answered back.

  Taking one last glance at Vincent, I turned, then slowly climbed into the well. I gripped the rope as it slid wetly through my fingers. The well stank of mildew and damp. Rain water ran down the walls which circled me. The rope gave a little, and slowly, Vincent lowered me down into the well. It was so dark now inside, that it became almost impossible to see my own hands gripping the rope. I glanced down and could see nothing but a inking well of black. I had no idea how far I was from the bottom or even if we had enough rope to get me there.

  Inch by inch, Vincent lowered me from above. For one frightening moment, I pictured Jonathan and Molly Smith waiting in the darkness for me. I looked down and gasped. Was that their pale, white hands reaching out of the darkness? Their fingers snapping at my heels, desperate to pull me down into the black? I closed my eyes momentarily, then opened them again. There were no hands, just darkness and the sound of the rain water running down the walls which surrounded me.

  Witch! I suddenly heard someone whisper.

  Stop it! I told myself. But still my heart raced frantically in my chest and my mouth went dry. My tongue felt suddenly thick and swollen, as if I were suffocating. The deeper Vincent lowered me into the well, the closer the walls seemed to be all around me. I had to fight the urge to scream out to Vincent. To tell him that I couldn’t bear it anymore – that I couldn’t breathe – that I was suffocating. I closed my eyes again and drew in several lungfuls of damp, cold air. I felt my heart slow, just a little as I fought desperately to keep myself from totally freaking out. I opened my eyes again, but I might as well have just kept them closed. The darkness which now surrounded me was thick, suffocating, and impenetrable. I wondered what it must have been like for Molly and that police officer named Lee to have died in this blackness. It must have been like falling into hell.

  Suddenly, I felt the toes of my boots brush against something solid. My boots came to rest and I realised I had reached the bottom of the well. Knowing now that I was so deep below ground that I could have some light, I fumbled in my coat pocket for my torch. I held it in my hands and they began to tremble. Even though I was desperate for some light, I suddenly became fearful of switching it on. I was suddenly petrified of what I might see, of what might be waiting for me in the darkness. Would Jonathan and Molly Smith be waiting for me, just like they had been in my nightmares? Would the old guy come stumbling – twitching and jerking – out of the darkness at me? Would I be able to hear the sound of that flap of flesh slapping wetly against the side of his face as he whispered, Witch! Witch! Witch! over and over again?

  With my heart racing, hands trembling, and my legs threatening to buckle beneath me at any moment, I switched on my torch.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The sudden light was so bright in the dark, at first it was blinding. I closed my eyes and saw a mass of bright white spots on the inside of my eyelids. Slowly, I opened them again peered about the well. The walls were charcoal grey and slimy-looking. Rainwater ran down them in glistening rivulets. Once my eyes had grown accustomed to the light, I span around in the confined enclosure to make sure that I was truly alone. There was no one in the well with me. This fact didn’t stop my heart from racing. To be at the bottom of the well was like reliving my nightmare again. It was the exact same well. The smell, the damp, the Plink! Plink! Plink! sound of dripping water.

  “Water!” I gasped.

  I looked down to see that I was standing in a foot of it. Just like in my nightmare, it was black, like a deep pool of ink. I flashed the light of my torch over it, in search of the bottle.

  “Where is it?” I groaned, unable to see it, fearing that I had put myself at risk for nothing.

  The torchlight made sparkling patterns over the water as I splashed about, the feeling that the walls were closing in on me again. I saw something winking back at me from just a few feet away in the water. I waded forwards, plucking the bottle from the water like I was grabbing some kind of prize. I held the old Coke bottle up in the torchlight. The red and white logo had almost come totally away, and what was left had faded to a pale pinkie colour through age. I shone the light on the bottle, and there, sealed inside, was a folded piece of a paper. Holding the end of the torch between my front teeth, and with a pair of trembling hands, I unscrewed the cap. I placed the empty bottle in my coat pocket, then unfolded the piece of paper. It had turned yellow in places and the corners had curled up. With my free hand, I took the torch from between my front teeth, and held it over the sheet of paper.

  At once my heart almost stopped, and I drew a deep, agonising breath as I read what was written in a spidery scrawl across it. To read that note was like being repeatedly punched in the stomach. I felt winded, as if unable to fill my lungs with air. I reached for the wall of the well to support me as my legs gave way beneath. I dropped into the water, as it splashed darkly about me.

  “No,” I cried out. “No!”

  I didn’t want to believe what was written on the note I had discovered. But in my heart I knew that it was true. It was the only thing that made any sense.

  “No!” I screamed, rocking my head back against the wall. “No!”

  Hot acid shot up into my throat, and I gaged. I felt sick. A part of me wanted to turn off the torch and sit in the black at the bottom of the well and never climb out again.

  “How could you do this to me!
” I screamed, kicking at the water with my feet and banging my fists against the wall. I screwed the letter up in my fist as I pounded the wall over and over again. From the corner of my tear-filled eyes, I saw the letter getting ever more creased. Slowly, I stopped. I couldn’t destroy it. I couldn’t destroy the letter if I was going to ever have justice for those people who had died in the well.

  Shaking from head to foot, I dragged myself out of the water and lent against the slick grey wall of the well. I looked one last time at the note which had been signed: This is the dying declaration of Police Constable Lee 5013.

  I yanked on the rope to give the sign to Vincent that I was ready to be pulled up. I put the note back into the bottle and tucked it into my coat pocket. I switched off the torch, then gripped the rope as Vincent began to pull me up out of the well. With my head resting against the rope, I wondered how I would even begin to explain to Vincent what I had discovered. Slowly, I reached the top, feeling cold, wet, and in shock. I gripped the edge of the well to hoist myself out. I felt a cold pair of hands take hold of mine. I looked up expecting to see Vincent, but instead I was looking into my father’s face. He pulled me over the lip of the well, and I staggered away, my legs still feeling like two sticks of rubber.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped, glancing through the driving rain in search of Vincent. I couldn’t see him anywhere.

  “What am I doing here?” my father barked at me. “I should be arresting you for the continual harassment of Farmer Grayson, and for repeatedly trespassing on his land. He called the three 9s claiming that thieves were on his property. I was on patrol close by. The last person I thought I would find is you!”

  I knocked the strands of wet hair away, which were plastered across my face, and stared at my father.

  “What is wrong with you, Sydney?” he shouted, coming towards me through the rain.

  “Don’t touch me!” I screamed back at him. “Don’t you dare come near me – murderer!”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “What are you talking about?” my father snapped as he came towards me through the dark. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “It’s not me who has lost their fucking mind. It’s you!” I screeched at him.

  “Sydney,” he said, his voice seeming to soften now.

  “Keep away from me!” I warned him, holding up the flat of my hand. “Don’t come near me.” I glanced around in the dark again for Vincent, but still couldn’t see him. Where was he? Was he listening to this? I was in danger here.

  “What’s this all about?” my father tried to reason with me. “Does it have something to do with those people you killed?”

  “It has to do with who you killed,” I hissed at him. “Who you murdered!”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, staring at me, rain dripping from his police cap and raincoat.

  “You murdered a police officer...” I stammered. Even I couldn’t believe that I was accusing my father of murdering a police officer. “You killed Constable Lee.”

  My father’s eyes grew wide, and now it was him who looked like he had taken a blow to the guts. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you silly bitch,” he growled.

  “Don’t I?” I screamed at him, curling my fingers around the bottle which was still hidden in my pocket. “I know all about what you did that night ten years ago. I know what you and your buddies, Mac and Woody, did to that girl...what you did to Constable Lee.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking...”

  “You changed your statements!” I screamed at him, making my hands into fists. “I thought you changed them to protect the person Molly Smith was coming to meet that night. But you changed them to protect yourselves...to cover up what you did to her.”

  “We didn’t do anything to that filthy little...” he started to bark.

  “You found her distraught and crying on the road that night,” I started to remind him. “But instead of helping her...taking her home...you and your buddies dragged her into the back of your police van and touched her...” I could hardly bring myself to say the words. “You tried to hurt her, but Constable Lee stopped you, he helped her escape. Like animals, you went after her. Because she meant nothing to you.”

  “Sydney...” my father started, and even in the darkness, I could see his face had turned as white as paper, and his eyes wide with rage. I wouldn’t let him talk. I didn’t want to listen to his lies – to his bullshit.

  “Jesus, Dad,” I glared. “Molly Smith was not a lot younger than me. She was somebody’s daughter. She was Jonathan Smith’s daughter. That’s why you did what you did. That’s why you didn’t help her, because she didn’t deserve your help. Just because her family chose to live their lives differently from everyone else – just because they looked and dressed differently, you hounded her through the woods like a pack of wild animals, fearing that she would be able to tell others about what you had done.”

  “Stop this!” my father roared, his voice sounding high-pitched and a little scared.

  Ignoring him, I said, “But by the time you had found her, she was in the bottom of the well. I bet you couldn’t believe your luck! You were going to leave her there – to be found sometime later. Constable Lee had the courage to stand up to you! He had the guts to say ‘No’! He wanted to help her. You and your buddies refused. So he decided to climb down into the well to save her. You couldn’t have that – he was a cop who just wanted to do the right thing. So when he was standing on the wall of that well, you pushed him in. You murdered him!”

  My father stood motionless in the dark, the brim of his cap covering his eyes in darkness now. The only thing I could clearly see was his thick, black moustache covering his top lip.

  Clapping his hands slowly together, he said in a cold, emotionless voice, “So how do you intend on proving this, Sydney? You have no evidence.”

  Slowly, I took the bottle from my pocket and said, “I have the dying declaration of that police officer. The police officer who you pushed into the well.”

  My father glanced at the bottle and didn’t say anything.

  “As he lay dying at the bottom of the well, he took a sheet of paper from his pocket notebook and scribbled down what really happened that night. He tucked the note into a bottle, hoping and praying that one day, it would be discovered.

  “Is that all you have?” my father mocked with a chuckle. “That could have been written by anyone. It could have been written by you, Sydney.”

  I looked at the bottle, then back at him. I knew my father was right. He slowly came towards me, his hand outstretched, ready to snatch the bottle from me. I stood in the rain, rigid, unable to move.

  “Give the bottle to me, Sydney,” he whispered.

  Suddenly someone spoke from the shadows of the nearby trees. “Don’t give him the bottle, Sydney.”

  Both my father and I snapped our heads around in the direction of the voice.

  A figure stepped slowly from beneath the trees, and looking at my father, the voice said, “Sydney has a witness. I saw you push the police officer into the well that night.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Michael?” I breathed, watching him step from the shadows and out into the clearing by the well. “What are you doing out here?”

  With his dark hair wet and tousled-looking as it swept off his brow in the roaring wind, Michael said, “I’m sorry I lied to you, Sydney, but I just can’t go on keeping secrets. It’s killing me inside.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, staring at him.

  “It was me Molly had come to meet that night,” he said, looking at me, then at my father. “We were in love, but because of people like your father standing here, and my own, we had to keep that relationship a secret. I loved her with all of my heart. I wanted nothing more than to be with her. But like your father, I was a coward and feared what people like my father and yours would say about me – think of me – if I was in love with such a girl. So I ar
ranged to meet Molly out here that night. She came and I told her I didn’t love her, and that I never wanted to see her again.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” I asked, seeing the pain in his eyes.

  “Because of what I saw out here that night,” he said, glancing at me, then back at my father. “When I told Molly that I couldn’t be with her, she ran crying into the trees and down onto the road. I thought she was heading home. I waited up here in the dark, angry with myself and others. A short time later, I heard someone running back through the trees and towards the well. It was Molly. Her clothes were torn and I had never seen anyone look so scared. I took hold of her and she fought with me, screaming and scratching as if I was going to hurt her in some way. It was like, in her blind panic and in the darkness, she thought I was someone else. She pulled free of me, and in doing so, she toppled back over the wall and into the well. In terror I called out her name, but she made no noise. It was then I heard the sounds of others approaching through the trees. I could see the flashing lights from torches and the sound of radios. I knew it was the police. Fearing that they might suspect me of pushing Molly into the well, and still desperate to hide the fact that we had been lovers, I slunk back into the shadows amongst the trees and hid.”

  As Michael was talking, I glanced over at my father and could see the drawn and haunted look on his face as he feared what Michael was going to say next.

  “I saw a young-looking copper run into the clearing,” Michael continued, not taking his eyes off my father. “He raced to the edge of the well, and with his torch, he saw Molly lying at the bottom. He called out for help and he was joined by three other coppers. One of them was you,” he said, pointing a finger at my father.

  My father said nothing.