The Boy in the Well

by Dan Clark

  Chapter Seventeen

  Today Carolyn decides to investigate the candle shop owner first – Dylan’s apparent real father – and find out how he feels about the missing boy, before visiting Barry Cookson, the painter and decorator. She learned the name of the shop owner from Jeanette last night. He is Mark Buckles.

  On her way into town her head throbs, and her stomach makes her grimace from the feeling of the Witch’s Heart and Zombie Finger cocktails sloshing about and mixing together. The night comes back in parts: the conversations about visiting Spain, France and New York as a youngster, and speaking about the silly things her father would do to impress Jeanette. She remembers a part of the night, near the end as places were starting to close, of her spilling a drink across the table and laughing uncontrollably while Jeanette, sober as a judge, had pulled her usual embarrassed expression and apologised as the annoyed waiter cleaned up the spillage. She remembers a look of annoyance from Father Joseph.

  God, I must have been a mess, she thinks, leaning her elbow on the driver’s door as she rubs at the top of her head.

  The wind, icy and carrying specs of rainwater, blows through her hair, keeping her alert. She pulls the pad from her handbag on the passenger seat and reminds herself of the name. Mark Buckles. The writing looks wiggly, as though Ryan had got into her bag and left her a note, or drawn a penguin on stilts.

  She arrives at the candle shop just after half past two. The sign, Buckles Candles and Scents, looks decades old, with most of the paint missing from the letter B. The red paintwork outside the shop is also starting to peel away, exposing the old brick underneath. A brand-new Mercedes is parked outside the shop in the only private parking space, MB-01 in fancy lettering across the licence plate. Carolyn assumes it belongs to Mark Buckles.

  She pushes through the door and a little bell rings out above her, alerting the shopkeeper in the back. She looks around, waiting to be welcomed. The shop is immaculate, there’s a fresh smell of lavender in the air, and the wooden floor is shiny and scratch-free. Carolyn’s first impression of the place is that it looks as though it doesn’t do a lot of business.

  A man comes from the back and steps behind the counter, with a white cat following behind as though he’s carrying catnip in his pockets. He’s wearing an expensive tweed suit with a silk tie around his neck, dark slicked-back hair and a clean-shaven face. He reminds Carolyn of a lawyer or an accountant.

  This surely can’t be the man who had an affair with Gwen Lloyd, she thinks. This must be the accountant. That’ll at least explain the flash Mercedes outside.

  “Can I speak with Mark Buckles please, the owner?’’

  The smartly-dressed man looks her up and down, and she’s sure she sees him smirk at the corners of his mouth, though this might have been her imagination.

  “I’m Mark Buckles… the owner. What can I do for you?” he asks. His accent is different from what she’s been hearing lately. London, perhaps.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  He leans over the counter and straightens some papers next to a bunch of candles. She sees that the price on these starts from £62.99, and widens her eyes.

  “Neither are you,” he says, and smirks (there’s no doubt about it this time). The white cat meets Carolyn’s ankles, brushing its long bushy tail across the inside of her jeans, leaving hairs behind. She stoops to stroke it, and reads the name tag: Bella. The cat purrs, and continues moving in and out of her legs as she stands.

  “No, I’m not. Leeds, actually. I was wondering if we could speak about Dylan Lloyd.”

  He shrugs. “What do you want to know?” Bella makes a meowing noise and runs into the back. “If I’m honest, I’ve actually been expecting you.”

  Carolyn steps forward, brushing away the cat hairs from her trousers. “You have?”

  “Yes. When I was told you where looking into those missing boys, I knew it wouldn’t be long until you paid me a little visit and the rumours would start again.” He steps from behind the counter and turns to face her. “It’s the last thing I need right now.” A worried look creeps onto his face.

  “And who told you I was looking into the missing boys?”

  “This is a small town. People talk. You hear everyone’s business.”

  “Those rumours you speak of, are they about how you and Gwen were once an item, and how Dylan could be your son?”

  He sighs and pinches the corners of his eyes, as if her voice is sending painful signals through his skull.

  “We were never an item,” Mark says, making imaginary quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “Not properly, anyway. She and Frank were on a break, or so she told me. I was down at the time, and spent most of my evenings at The Red Fox, drinking myself to death. My father had recently died, and I wasn’t coping with it very well. Gwen and I got talking one night and, well… One thing led to another, and for the next couple of weeks we were… you know.” He shrugs, as if embarrassed to say they were sleeping together. “So the rumours of Gwen cheating on Frank for one random night with me is all a lie. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  Carolyn can’t see any resemblance between Mark Buckles and Frank Lloyd. They’re both completely different in every possible way: physical appearance, personality, even accents. She presumes that this is what attracted Gwen Lloyd to the man in the suit in the first place. Frank, after all, does have a temper. Mark Buckles seems calm and composed. She wonders if the candle shop owner received a large inheritance after his father died and spruced up his shop, bought nice suits and paid for that Mercedes out at the front.

  “Do you believe Dylan could be your son, Mr Buckles?” She has no idea what she’s doing here, and even what her question might accomplish. But sitting around Jeanette’s bungalow only leads to thinking of her dead family, and that’s something she really doesn’t want to be doing.

  Mark shakes his head immediately. “No. No way. Gwen assured me that Dylan wasn’t mine. And even if he was, I’m happy to sit back and believe her lie. Gwen knew I didn’t want kids, and I still don’t. I really don’t need these rumours to start up again. After their boy went missing, I offered to help search with the party. When it got too dark for us to go on, I came back here to grab my cat and head home. That’s when Frank turned up. He stood where you are now, pushing my stock off the shelves and stomping on them. I tried to push him out of the shop and was about to call the police. Then he punched me and I went down like a sack of potatoes. He threatened me, said not to bother helping again, that Dylan had nothing to do with a queer-dressing bastard like myself, and they didn’t need my help. He warned me to stay away, and before taking off, he left a large scrape down the side of the car I had at the time.”

  Carolyn looks out of the window. Another time she’s been reminded of Frank’s temper. “He likes leaving scrapes along cars, doesn’t he?”

  Mark looks at her quizzically.

  Carolyn shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. So did you phone the police after that?”

  Mark lowers his head and brushes a hand through his hair. “No, I just left it there. He hasn’t been back since, and when we see each other in town, we just pass without making eye contact. Who knows what he’ll do next? Burn my business to the ground, most probably.”

  “I’m sorry for asking and going off the subject, Mr Buckles, but it doesn’t look like you do much business here. The flashy suit and the new car out there… All this from owning a little candle shop in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I don’t see how my finances have anything to do with you searching for two missing boys. But if you must know, after my father died, he left me a bit of money. Nothing substantial, but a fair amount. I used most of it to pay off bills and credit cards, and to take my business online. I do very well on the web.”

  Carolyn nods, realising his tone is beginning to sound annoyed and he’s had enough of her questions. She takes one last look around the shop of the overpriced candles and incense sticks and decides to leave. Sh
e thanks him for his time and heads for the door, turning before she goes.

  “Oh, one last thing. The shop looks to be recently furnished. The car and the chosen attire are flashy. I’m just curious. Why leave the battered sign?” she asks.

  He places his hands in his pockets and takes a moment to reply. “As I said, most of my business is now online. The sign? It adds character, I guess,” he says, then turns his back and heads through to join Bella in the back office.

  Carolyn leaves with the sensation of being watched.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Barry Cookson’s flat is above a betting shop on Hardman Street. Next to that is a greasy spoon café. Carolyn pulls into a space and kills the engine. The road is quiet, filled with parked cars and vans, presumably from the people working at the Sleepy Nights mattress factory across the road. The café is empty and looks as if it’ll be closing soon. The skinny elderly woman inside is lifting chairs on top of tables and preparing to mop.

  Carolyn heads around the back. The van she’d seen at The Coffee Shack is parked in a garage that’s missing a door. On the wall of the garage, spray-painted in white, is 3B. She heads through the gate and is faced with an alleyway. She turns to her right and sees a flight of steps. A wooden plaque attached to the wall reads Deliveries left, Flats 3A and 3B right. The small thick heels of her boots clang as she climbs the metal stairs.

  3A is evidently empty. Carolyn looks through the window next to the door and can see empty cupboards with doors wide open. She approaches 3B and knocks, placing her face against the frosted glass on the front door. Coats and different coloured objects can be made out behind it. A movement appears, then disappears behind the door frame at the end of the hall. Carolyn squats and lifts open the flap of the letter box. Noises from the TV in the front can be heard.

  “Mr Cookson, I know you’re in,” Carolyn shouts. “I just want to have a chat, that’s all. I’m the woman from The Coffee Shack the other day.” She stands up and lets the flap fall closed.

  No reply.

  Her stomach rumbles and she begins to feel slightly nauseous, though the breeze from the wind feels good. Specks of rain begin to hit her face, and she hopes the occupant will answer soon.

  She knocks again and waits. Nothing. She squats and lifts open the flap again. The noise from the TV is now much louder. He’s deliberately ignoring her.

  “Barry, I know you’re in. Your van is parked outside. I just want to chat. Can you please open the door? I’m not going anywhere. I’m wondering why you took off.” She steps back and takes a seat on the metal step.

  As the rain falls, she’s taken back to a day at Ashwood Forest, a few months before the accident.

  Carolyn had been swamped at work, unable to take a day off in two weeks. Ryan had talked about going on an adventure, like Dora the Explorer. To make up for her absence over the last couple of weeks, Carolyn had bought him a new backpack, just like Dora’s. They packed a lunch and put on their hiking boots. Ryan wanted to carry his sandwiches in his new backpack, along with his magnifying glass and, of course, his favourite tiger teddy. They had bought it for him from the zoo a year earlier.

  The weather was overcast, with threats of rain, but that hadn’t stopped them. After a morning of hiking, they decided to eat their lunch sitting on a couple of fallen trees. Halfway through his sandwich, Ryan had jumped up with excitement, spitting soggy bread from his mouth as he shouted, “Look, Mummy, a snake!” He’d quickly dropped to the floor and pulled out his magnifying glass to get up close to the ‘snake’ – which was in fact a caterpillar. Carolyn and Simon had been bent over with laughter. Carolyn had managed to stop laughing for long enough to snap a picture of the three of them huddled around the caterpillar.

  Later, when the exhausted Ryan was home and asleep in bed, Carolyn and Simon had snuggled on the sofa. James Morrison was playing quietly on the radio. Simon had got up and topped up their wine glasses. He’d looked at her with admiration in his eye, as though nothing else was happening in the world. Just him and Carolyn, sharing a bottle of red.

  “What?” Carolyn had asked.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Simon had taken a large gulp of his wine before placing the glass on the table. “I think we should give Ryan a baby brother or sister.”

  “I agree.” They’d kissed some more before heading to bed.

  During the following weeks she’d done numerous tests, and felt a little pang in her stomach when they’d all come back negative.

  Carolyn breaks out of her daydream as the rain has now increased. The skinny elderly woman from the café comes out of the back door. She is wearing her coat and holding a bin bag of rubbish. She throws the bag in the bin and pulls down the shutters, then gives Carolyn a shy smile and walks over to her.

  “Go home,” she says. “It’s going to rain pretty heavy. Don’t be sitting out here all night waiting for him. If he wants to speak, I’m sure he’ll ring you, and you both can talk through your argument.”

  Carolyn is about to explain that they’re not a couple, but the woman turns immediately and heads for her car. She’s gone within the minute, leaving a cloud of smoke evaporating into the cold afternoon air.

  The sky has darkened even more, and the temperature has dropped.

  Carolyn stands and heads back to the door. She stoops and peers through the letterbox flap once more. The colours bouncing off the wall and the loud chatter from the television in the far room are all she can see and hear. She pulls up the hood on her coat and heads back to the Polo, her boots clanging on the steel steps as she descends.

  She turns up the car heater to de-mist the windows, and the wipers sway left to right at high speed. The rain soon turns torrential, the car wheels hitting potholes with force and sending the car off-track. Carolyn slows to a safe speed and concentrates on the road ahead. Her head is pounding again. She wants to be safe at home with a cup of tea and to chat with Jeanette.

  A vehicle joins the road behind. It accelerates until it is a few feet behind her. Dazzling lights shine in the rear-view mirror. Carolyn slows down and pulls to the left, a couple of inches away from the slope leading down to the ditch. The vehicle behind is large, possibly a van or a jeep. She waits for it to pass, but it doesn’t. Instead it speeds up further until it is barely a foot away from the rear bumper.

  Even with the heavy rain hitting the back window, Carolyn can hear the engine behind. She winds down the driver’s side window and puts out her arm, motioning the driver of the vehicle behind to overtake. Rain soaks her sleeve instantly. She watches and waits, but the person driving the van stays behind, revving the engine and jerking forward. She closes the window and steps a little harder on the accelerator.

  “You’ve got plenty of room to overtake, so overtake, you idiot!” she yells into the rear-view mirror. Her eyes flick from the mirror to the road ahead, desperate to not lose control of the car and hit the potholes too hard. She thinks back to when she was leaving Buckles Candles, and the sensation of being watched sweeps over her again.

  It’s Frank Lloyd. I bet he was watching you leave that shop, and now he’s come to silence you, to make sure the rumours don’t start again. He doesn’t want his wife to be branded a whore. You’ve fucked up now, Carolyn.

  The vehicle behind crashes into the back of Jeanette’s car. Carolyn almost loses her grip on the steering wheel and cries out with shock.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she shouts. “Crazy bastard!”

  It’s definitely a van. She notices the shape of its bonnet. Her mind begins racing again.

  It’s Barry Cookson. He didn’t open his door. He didn’t want to kill you at his property. That would be stupid. He’d sat waiting for you to leave and has followed you on to this country lane in the middle of nowhere.

  She is breathing heavily, and her palms are beginning to sweat. She reaches for her mobile from the pocket of her jeans and pulls it out, swiping to unlock the screen and tapping the keypad while watching for more bends in the road.
The thought of breaking the law by using her mobile while driving doesn’t even occur to her. Not while there is a lunatic behind her. The air-con blows loudly, fighting off the mist at the windows. The engine roars and the tyres are fighting to keep their traction on the wet surface. It’s not long before the side of the wheels skid along the embankment that lead to the ditch. She wrestles the car back to the centre of the road. The van behind crashes into her once more, forcing her to drop her phone and swerve across the road. The phone lands in the passenger footwell, out of reach.

  “SHIT!” Carolyn screams. She slows the car slightly, hoping for the van behind to slow with her so she can get out and face Barry, or Frank, or whoever the hell it is, directly. A stupid idea, she knows, but right now her judgement is clouded.

  The van doesn’t slow. Instead, it crashes into the back of the Polo, sending sparks into the air. The screeching of metal scraping on metal sends a sharp pain through her ears, though this is the least of her worries.

  She puts her foot back on the accelerator in a bid to outrun the maniac behind her. The engine of the small car offers the best it’s capable of giving. She keeps it in gear as long as she can before having to change up.

  The van slows.

  She watches the lights move further away from her mirror, allowing her to see more clearly. Her heart is pounding against her chest, blood beating in her ears.

  She swallows with a dry throat, sending shooting pains through her rib cage as she pants. Stupidly, she reaches into the passenger footwell for her phone.

  The car sways from side to side and hits a pothole in the middle of the road before bouncing up. She sits upright, clutching the steering wheel with both hands in a bid to save control.

  It’s no good. The back tyre of the car hits the top of the embankment and begins sliding down, bringing wet earth up into the air and across the back window.