The Special Ones

by Em Bailey

  But instead I supply a line of Esther’s, one almost threadbare from overuse.

  You must have faith.

  And then I move on as quickly as I can to another question.

  Is it true that I can make myself feel better simply by smiling, even if I have nothing to smile about right now?

  Yes, I write back, the words flowing easily now I’m once again in familiar territory. Smiling is the gateway to happiness and is the most powerful medicine of all.

  When Felicity stifles a yawn, I realise that it’s time to end this session. ‘That’s enough for tonight,’ I say.

  Harry leans back in his chair and exhales. I feel my own shoulders start to sag, and force them back up. ‘It seemed busier than usual tonight,’ I remark.

  ‘Word of the Special Ones is spreading,’ Harry replies. Often with Harry, I can’t tell if he means something as a good thing or not.

  Harry takes Felicity back to her room and I set about putting everything in order. The computers crackle as they power down, and then there’s silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Despite my exhaustion, I have trouble falling asleep and lie in bed, listening to the night noises. After a hot day like today, the old floorboards in the hallway creak as they cool. It sounds like someone slowly pacing up and down.

  When I first got here I was tempted to sneak out when I heard these noises, to see what was going on. But we are forbidden to leave our rooms overnight except in special circumstances.

  I look around my little bedroom. The ceiling is low – barely high enough for me to stand under – and the two closest walls are just an arm span apart. There’s just enough room for a narrow iron-framed bed and a small chest of drawers. On the floor is a rag rug, woven by a Lucille. Tonight I’ve left the window open and a breeze occasionally inflates the white cotton curtains like lungs. Outside, the leaves of the trees rustle and shift.

  An urge to check on my secret thing comes over me, even though I know how risky it is. On nights like this, when the moon is full and high, it must be very easy for his cameras to see me lying here under the thin sheet. But I suppose even he can’t see beneath it.

  My fingers creep down the mattress until they’re level with my hip. Using the smallest movements I can manage, I slowly wriggle my finger into the little hole in the seam there, pushing until I feel it. My secret thing, hidden deep within the mattress.

  It’s soothing, and for a moment my anxieties loosen a little. At least I still have something from before. Something that proves there really was a before.

  I slip into a dream about translucent figures in billowing white skirts. They drift down the corridor towards me, complaining in whispery, rustling voices.

  ‘You didn’t protect us.’

  ‘I did my best!’ I protest weakly.

  ‘It wasn’t enough,’ they hiss, moving closer and closer.

  I’m jolted awake, heart thumping. Someone’s knocking at my door. Lurching into a sitting position, I croak out some words. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Esther, it’s just me, Harry. Sorry to scare you.’

  I swallow. ‘It’s okay. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. I received a message. We’re doing a sharing tonight.’

  I’ve swung my legs out of bed before Harry’s finished speaking, before I even feel the rush of dread this announcement always brings.

  ‘OK. You go and wake Felicity.’ My voice is almost back to normal. ‘I’ll meet you in a few minutes.’

  I’ve already lit the candles in the parlour when Harry appears with Felicity, her face dazed and dream-fogged.

  ‘Tired?’ I whisper, needlessly. We are all of us permanently tired.

  We stand together in the middle of the parlour, only three points of a square, and bow our heads. First, we say the affirmation.

  ‘He is the floor beneath our feet and the roof above our heads. He is the walls around us. He is the window through which we see into ourselves and the door that leads to a better understanding. He is always watching, protecting us. We follow him so we in turn can be followed …’

  Then it’s time to offer up our failings. ‘Felicity,’ I murmur. ‘You go first.’

  ‘I dropped an egg,’ Felicity says loudly as the candles flicker around us. ‘I wasn’t being careful in the henhouse, and an egg fell out of my hand and smashed.’

  This is the first I’ve heard of it. I try to catch her eye, but Felicity won’t look at me. Maybe because she feels bad. Or maybe because it isn’t true.

  Then there is a silence as Harry and I wage an invisible battle over who will share next. I want to go last, but the seconds drag on so long that finally I can’t bear it. Silences are dangerous. They suggest someone has forgotten what they’re meant to do.

  ‘I lost the fruit bowl – the one you carved, Harry,’ I blurt. ‘And also another dishcloth.’

  I hang my head in genuine shame, and not just because I know what Harry will do next. In here, I am constantly losing things. Sometimes they turn up again, tucked away in the wrong cupboard or obscured behind some other object – but usually when things go, they go for good. It bothers me that I have become so absent-minded, especially when we have so few possessions. I am sure I used to be a lot more careful.

  Harry follows quickly. His sharing is about the lettuce crop, which has been poor so far this year. I long to jump to his defence and point out that the weather has been hotter and drier than usual but we’re forbidden to interrupt others sharing. ‘I could’ve done better,’ he keeps muttering.

  Harry’s sharings are always like this. He offers up things that either seem trivial or that he couldn’t rightfully be blamed for. He’ll say he took too many breaks, or that he didn’t work long enough hours, when to me it seems like he never stops working. He is so hard on himself, so hard that I wonder sometimes if it can possibly be genuine.

  After sharing comes the judgement. Whoever has committed the worst transgression will feel their guilt becoming heavier and heavier, until it pushes them down to the ground. But no matter how trivial Harry’s sharing appears, his guilt seems to push him to the ground before anyone else.

  It took me too long to realise what he was doing. Harry sinks first to protect the rest of us. Since I twigged to that, the sharings have become a slightly ridiculous competition between Harry and me to confess last, and to get to the ground first. It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so awful.

  Sometimes I manage to beat him, but not tonight. Harry collapses to his knees the moment he’s finished sharing.

  ‘No, Harry!’ protests Felicity. ‘Not you again. It’s not fair!’

  ‘Shh!’ I warn her. Even in the middle of the night, he’s watching. I doubt he ever sleeps.

  ‘But what I did was way worse than what Harry did,’ Felicity mutters. ‘What you did was worse, too.’

  ‘That’s enough, Felicity,’ I say sharply, so it doesn’t look like I’m indulging her. ‘Go and get the punishment wheel.’

  Felicity gives me an agonised look, which I meet with a stern stare until she runs to a wooden box on the mantelpiece, just below the Special Ones photograph. Inside it is a wooden disc with a pole through the middle. It looks like something from a children’s game.

  The disc has been engraved with lines, dividing it up like slices of cake, and on each slice is a different word. Whip. Knife. Tree. Cellar. Stove. Hunger. Work. There’s a tiny red arrow engraved into the central pole. Felicity hands me the wheel.

  ‘Thank you. Now return to bed, please,’ I say.

  I can tell she’s considering arguing, but I am determined that she won’t see this tonight. I fix her with a glare so fierce that she takes off. There’s the sound of her feet hurrying up the corridor, her door pushing back, and the creak of bedsprings. My mother used to tease that I couldn’t even scare a mouse. Those days are long gone.

  I hold the central pole steady on the floor in front of Harry, and spin the wheel. It rattles as it turns.
/>   Please stop on work, I beg the wheel. It often seems to land on this and Harry is used to hard labour. Or hunger.

  Going for a week on just flour and water is easy for Harry, especially as I usually sneak a little honey or fruit juice into the mixture.

  The wheel slows until finally it stops. I lean forward to see where the arrow is pointing. Whip. My ears sing, as if I’m about to pass out. It’s never stopped on this before.

  ‘Harry,’ I whisper, unable to help myself. ‘I can’t do that to you. I just can’t.’

  He lifts his bowed head for a brief moment. ‘That’s okay. I’ll do it myself.’

  Immediately, I regret being such a coward. I would have carried out the punishment on Harry far less harshly than he will on himself.

  ‘It’s okay, Esther,’ says Harry again. ‘Just get the whip for me.’

  I nod and drag myself over to the chest near the door. It creaks as I open it. The whip is near the top, curled in on itself like a snake. My hand trembles as I get it out, and then I walk slowly back to Harry.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says as I hand it to him.

  How can he remain so calm? The tail of the whip is as thin as a blade.

  ‘You go now, Esther. And don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’

  As he begins to unbutton his shirt, I turn mechanically and walk out of the parlour, not daring to speak. As I close the door behind me, I hear the sound of leather cracking against bare skin.

  My first task every morning after washing and dressing is to receive the guiding word. Sometimes I go to the chat room to receive it, and sometimes there’s a note. Like today. The envelope, marked Esther, is propped up against the purple bottle on the kitchen table. I slit open the envelope, which is thick and creamy and smells oddly of flowers, and remove the card within. The guiding word is written on it in old-fashioned script: Transform.

  Automatically I start considering how this will impact on my tasks and routine. It’s an easy word to apply to our food, at least. Bread is transformed into toast when it’s held over a fire. And it works well with my chores too. After all, tidying and washing are types of transformation. And then, of course, there’s the big event of the day: the collection. That will also involve transformation – both for us and the girl. If everything goes according to plan, that is.

  The kitchen is how I left it last night, except that the purple bottle is now empty and clean. It’s strange to think of him standing in our kitchen, washing it. Or maybe there are two and he swaps the empty one for the full. I put the bottle away, trying not to dwell on the thought of his having been here during the night. Was it before or after our sharing session? Or was he there as it happened, watching us through the keyhole? The idea makes me shiver, despite the heat which has already started to build.

  As I’m preparing our breakfast Felicity appears, dressed and stifling a yawn. ‘Where’s Harry?’

  ‘He’s already working.’ Harry gets up extra early on collection days so that he can do his chores before heading off.

  Felicity sips at the glass of frothy, fresh goat’s milk, which I’ve poured from the canister Harry left by the front door. ‘Can I go with him today? To collect Lucille?’ she pleads.

  I’m surprised – shocked – that she would even ask. ‘You know that’s impossible!’

  Felicity puts her elbows on the kitchen table, supporting her chin in her hands. ‘I just want to help him.’

  I’m sure she means it. But I’m also sure it’s not her only motivation. She wants to go out there. ‘Absolutely not,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll stay here with me.’

  Felicity doesn’t cry, but her mouth quivers and I feel like a monster. I probably didn’t need to say it so harshly. If only I could hug her, or even just pat her shoulder so she could see I’m not like this really, that it’s just an act.

  ‘We’ll have fun today, I promise,’ I say, softening my voice. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t respond. But I persist. ‘How about we make some biscuits while we wait for Harry and Lucille to return?’

  Felicity chews her bottom lip. Finally she peeks up at me. ‘You mean like a welcome-home treat?’

  ‘Exactly!’ I say. My voice is a little too loud for Esther, but I’m happy to be winning Felicity back. ‘We could have a party.’

  I know too well that when the new Lucille arrives, the last thing she will want to do is celebrate. But that’s irrelevant. The main thing is that, for now, Felicity is happier.

  Harry appears for breakfast. His whistle is as bright as ever but his eyes, when I sneak a look at them, are rimmed with dark shadows. I wonder if he slept at all last night. I also wonder how his back must look, after being lashed by the whip.

  He sends Felicity off to collect the eggs so the two of us can run through the day’s plan.

  ‘What time will it happen?’ I ask.

  ‘The gate will be unlocked directly after lunch,’ says Harry. I am not exactly sure how he communicates with Harry. I think it’s mostly done via the computer, although I know that Harry, like me, sometimes finds instructional notes awaiting him in the mornings. ‘The Lucille told her friends she’d be shopping after school. She arranged to meet them at four in the food court.’

  This shopping time will be Harry’s only chance to carry out the collection. Once the girl’s friends turn up, it will be too dangerous.

  ‘Make sure you get her phone,’ I remind him.

  One collection was nearly derailed when the girl sat on her mobile and it rang someone. Harry managed to get it before anyone picked up, but it was a warning to us both. Accidents can happen so easily.

  ‘Have you locked the windows?’ Harry asks.

  I get up and do it immediately, so there’s no chance of my forgetting later.

  ‘And your lure?’ I ask. Harry must have something that will entice the girl to come with him. Something so tempting that it makes her abandon all those years of stranger-danger warnings and decide that he is worth the risk, though I have no doubt his warm brown skin and gentle eyes go a long way with that.

  ‘I’ll probably use the talent-scout one again,’ says Harry. ‘She looks like the theatrical type.’ He gets up, preparing to head back outside.

  ‘Harry?’ There’s one more thing I need to say. Partly because I’ve been instructed to, but also because it’s part of our collection-day ritual. ‘Look out for police officers, won’t you?’

  Harry smiles, but his eyes are serious. ‘I always do.’

  After the morning’s chores, the three of us eat a silent lunch together in the parlour, everyone caught up in their own thoughts. As I start to clear away, Harry stands. ‘Well, I’d better go,’ he says.

  I know that the main gate is only unlocked when it’s time for someone to pass through, and none of us know how long it stays open. Missing that time window would be terrible.

  We walk through the kitchen and out onto the side verandah. I go with Harry to the very edge and slip him a neatly written list of things we need. Black hair dye. Tinted contact lenses. Some spools of cotton thread. Harry tucks my list into the pocket of his jacket.

  Not for the first time, I wonder where he’ll get the money to buy the things on that list, or whether he’ll simply steal them. I have no idea how he gets into town, either – I used to assume that he rode a bicycle or caught a bus, but then once I heard the distant, foreign sound of a car engine soon after he’d gone.

  As Harry starts to walk down the steps, Felicity clutches at his arm. ‘Don’t go,’ she begs. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling in my stomach about it.’

  Harry puts an arm around her shoulders. ‘Young lady, you’ve got a bad feeling in your stomach because you ate too much lunch,’ he says, teasingly. ‘Esther will make you some fennel tea and you’ll feel fine.’ He tweaks one of her plaits. ‘I’ll be back before you know it, Flick. With Lucille. Now, how about you walk with me to the gate?’

  Felicity turns to me. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. It’s a relief to be able to say yes for o
nce. ‘But come straight back afterwards so we can bake those biscuits.’

  Felicity nods, happy again. Or happier, at least.

  Harry salutes and almost, but not quite, looks at me. ‘Back soon,’ he says.

  I want to wish him good luck, but Special Ones aren’t supposed to need it. ‘I’ll be here,’ I say. ‘Waiting.’

  I watch from the front door until Felicity and Harry disappear past the gum trees and into the farm. Even then I remain where I am, as if the whole mission depends upon my staying in place for as long as possible. It’s only after I hear the gate clang closed that I return inside, my stomach hollow. It’s begun.

  It’s far too hot to be baking, but I can’t go back on my word. Besides, it’s a good opportunity to do some maths with Felicity: how many quarter cups of flour, how many tablespoons of sugar – that sort of thing. I slip on my apron. In the pocket I put a pillowcase. I’ll need it later.

  When the dough is ready I divide it in half, giving us a ball each. I roll mine flat, planning to use my favourite knife to cut out some shapes. But the knife is not where I thought I’d left it. It’s frustrating, all these missing items, and worrying too. I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with my brain. Then I remember the note resting against the purple bottle this morning, and another possibility occurs to me. He took the knife. But why would he do that?

  Felicity is chatting to herself as she shapes the biscuit dough into letters with her fingers. ‘E for Esther and H for Harry. L for Lucille. I’ll make it very curly and fancy because she’ll like that.’ The tip of her tongue pokes from her mouth as she works, making her look even younger than she is. ‘And for me, a very funny little Z.’

  I freeze, the missing knife forgotten. ‘You mean an F. Felicity starts with an F.’

  Shock fills Felicity’s face as she registers her mistake. She snatches up the Z and squishes it so the dough squirts out between her fingers. ‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I – I just forget sometimes.’

  ‘We need to work on your letters,’ I say, managing to smile, but although she nods I know I’ve scared her badly.