The Women at Ocean's End

Constance listened carefully, hardly daring to breathe; she tried to tune her ears unswervingly to the cries, above the drumming of her racing heart. It was definitely a kitten. He sounded pathetic. She heard him again; lower this time, a sort of keening sound.

The well had been locked up years ago. You’d hardly even know it was there, thanks to the way the garden had outgrown itself over the last year. It was little more than a hole in the ground with a wooden trapdoor across it. No-one went near it usually, except if a winter storm flooded the gardens and it had to be pushed across to take the overflow. The timber cover was crude but effective in keeping out animals and children, until now, it seemed. The well wasn’t used any more. All the houses along here had been built with indoor lavatories and kitchen sinks linked up to the city’s main water systems. Her mother gave out often enough about the colour of the water some days and the fact that it turned her tea a dreadful shade of grey in summer.

Was it coming from the old well? She was so close to it.

from the end of the garden.

mewling sound coming

her clothes or her shoes.

that none of it clung to

droppings and hoping

crawled, avoiding animal

her knees as she