He directed her towards the shed, the light of the torch flickering over the planks. My coffin, thought Beatrice. When would someone next pass by here? Forensics had done their work; there were still a few yellow partition tapes here and there, fluttering in the night breeze. Would anyone think of looking for Sigart here? It was unlikely. Why would he go back to the place where his life had been destroyed for ever – his prison, the hiding place the Owner had clearly relinquished?
Beatrice had stopped in her tracks. The path was becoming steeper now, and she felt as though she couldn’t take another step. ‘How deep is it?’
‘About four metres to the water’s surface. There’s an old iron ladder fixed to the wall, and after that I’m afraid you’ll have to jump.’
She would stand in the water. But that would be the best-case scenario, she told herself. In the worst case it would be too deep and she would have to swim on the spot. ‘Please. Don’t do this. You have your certainty now, and you’ve had your revenge. Let me go, I’ll—’
‘You’ll make sure I get help,’ he interrupted her, ‘and a fair judge. The exceptional circumstances of my situation will be taken into account, my disturbed state due to the severe loss I suffered – that’s what you wanted to say, right?’
Yes. That, and that she had children who were waiting for her to pick them up tomorrow. No, today. It must be well past midnight now. You can forget about telling him that. He knows you have children.
She took another step upwards. Another and another, then her foot got caught and she stumbled. She held tightly onto the torch with her right hand and managed to break her fall with the left. Something sharp bored into the ball of her thumb.
‘Have you injured yourself?’ Sigart sounded genuinely concerned, which almost made Beatrice burst into hysterical laughter.
‘A little.’ The desire to laugh vanished as she assessed her bleeding hand in the torchlight. ‘It must have been a stone.’
‘Yes, there’s certainly enough of them around here.’ With a brief jerk of the gun, Sigart ordered her to keep climbing.
Beatrice struggled to her feet. There were just another few steps to their destination. This was her last chance – if she fell over again, on purpose, and dragged Sigart with her, if she could get to the gun.
He must have sensed her intentions. ‘The gun is pointing right at your back,’ he said abruptly. ‘If you turn around now, I’ll shoot you. It’s not an empty threat, Beatrice. I’ll see this through to the end.’
His serious tone made her abandon her plan. Another step, then another. The wooden shed was directly in front of her now, and she could smell the musty air. Four more steps, and she felt the rough wood. Thinking quickly, she pressed her bleeding hand against it. It was a quick, sweeping movement, all she could manage. Hoping that she had managed to leave a mark, she avoided shining the torch nearby, trying not to draw Sigart’s attention to it.
In order to go into the shed, she had to duck. The cover was already lifted up; the well came up to knee height. ‘Climb down the first two rungs,’ ordered Sigart, ‘then give me the torch.’ The mouth of the gun was now pointed directly at her face.
She did what he said, pushing away her fear and trying to heighten her senses. If she memorised every detail inside the well, every spot she could get a grip on, then it should be possible to climb back up again. If she could make it up to the iron rungs, then she would be able to get out.
Holding tightly onto the edge, Beatrice stepped onto the first rung. It was rusty and crooked. Then the second. She handed Sigart the torch. ‘Are you going to light my way?’
‘Of course.’
The third iron rung. The fourth. Now her head was below the edge of the well. The smell of cellars and mould engulfed her. Half an arm’s length to the left, Beatrice discovered a stone protruding out of the wall which she would be able to grip onto. Good.
The next rung and the next. Then the last. Even though Sigart was still shining the torch, it had become difficult to make out the details of her surroundings. Her own shadow was darkening the shaft of the well.
‘You’ll have to jump from there.’ Sigart was now just a silhouette behind the beam of the torch.
She had known what was awaiting her, but it was completely different from how she had imagined it. Beneath her lay a dark, narrow abyss, which could just as easily be bottomless as two metres deep. She hesitated.
‘It’s only water. You won’t hurt yourself.’
He must have been a good vet once, thought Beatrice vaguely. He has the kind of voice that makes it easy to trust him.
But she didn’t jump, instead grasping the last iron rung with both hands and lowering herself down carefully. Yes, there was water all right; her ankles were immersed in it.
‘You have to let go.’ Sigart’s voice echoed through the well shaft, followed by an unmistakable click. He had released the safety catch on the gun.
Beatrice loosened her grip and dropped. The icy water pressed the air from her lungs, completely enveloping her.
There! There was ground under her feet; she pushed against it, reached the surface again, gasped noisily for breath.
‘Take care, Beatrice.’ A drawn-out scraping sound from above. Sigart closed the lid of the well. No light any more, nothing. Just the sound of her own breathing and the gurgling of the water in absolute darkness
Chapter 7
N47º 28.275 E013º 10.296
For a moment, Beatrice was tempted to weep, to mourn for everything she would never see again – the sun, the sky, her children’s faces. But crying took too much energy and clouded the mind.
‘Save that for later,’ she told herself. Her voice echoed dully against the well shaft, sounding comforting and sensible. That was exactly what she needed right now, all of her wits and senses.
The water was too deep to be able to stand up in. If she stretched and immersed herself up to her nose, she could just about feel the ground beneath her feet, but it was slimy and soft. She would have to try to swim on the spot, with sparing movements, which would keep her warm at the same time. Or at least ensure that her temperature dropped less quickly.
Underwater, she pulled the shoes and socks from her feet. Good. Now feel around the wall, systematically, the way a blind person would.
There were little protrusions here and there, but none of them big enough to grip onto. The walls were slippery with moss. Even when Beatrice managed to find a stone that was sticking a little further out than the others, her fingers slipped when she tried to pull herself up on it.
But she didn’t give up. The well’s diameter wasn’t that big; if she stretched both arms out to the side, the palms of her hands easily reached the opposite sides of the shaft.
She would be able to lie down diagonally and support herself with her back and feet if she needed to rest. And she would need to. Soon. If she didn’t manage to climb up—
All of a sudden, she realised she no longer knew which part of the cylindrical well shaft the iron rungs were on. She had turned around several times and lost her orientation in the darkness.
But even if I did know, she thought, even if I did – they’re much too high up. I couldn’t jump up to them. The only way up is to climb, and the walls are too slippery for that.
She tried regardless. Tried to imitate the way free climbers negotiate chimneys, their hands and feet propped to the left and right, but she couldn’t get a grip. After four attempts she was exhausted, paddling in the water and wheezing. A fast pulse was throbbing in the wound on her left hand.