The Special Ones

by Em Bailey

Lucille swallows, and looks at the photograph again. She points a finger at the central figure. ‘And this is you?’ she says to me.

  ‘Yes, I’m Esther,’ I say. ‘I teach our followers how to heal themselves with natural remedies and how to find inner harmony and balance.’

  Lucille leans closer to the image. ‘She does look a lot like you.’

  I smile serenely. Esther’s verification smile. ‘She is me.’ I sound like I believe it. ‘And you are Lucille.’

  The Lucille bites her lip, staring at the image. ‘She’s a little like me, I guess,’ she admits. But then she shakes her head vigorously, as if trying to stop something from taking hold. ‘But it can’t be –’

  ‘Yes, Lucille,’ I say firmly. ‘That girl is you. You’re Lucille. You help your followers bring beauty to the world, to their homes and to themselves. You teach them how to find love by teaching them how to love themselves. Your followers need you. They’ve been waiting for you to return.’

  For a moment, Lucille’s dirty, tear-stained face is transformed by a tiny smile. I lean even closer, seeking out her gaze. ‘I know you want to help them,’ I say softly. ‘That’s what we do. We are the Special Ones.’

  Lucille closes her eyes. She doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t argue either. I glance at Harry and he nods. The process of reintroduction is a bit like repainting a house, and today we’ve begun to sand back the top layer.

  When I look back at Lucille, she’s stretching out on the cot, bringing her hands under her head like a pillow. The extreme heat, her emotional exhaustion and whatever Harry’s given her have taken their toll. Within a few minutes, she’s fallen into a deep sleep.

  When he’s sure she’s out, Harry gently unbinds her wrists. She hardly stirs, though her skin is rubbed raw in places.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he whispers, winding up the ropes, and I unlock the door so he can leave the room.

  Once the door is relocked, I remove the girl’s clothes. It’s difficult to do because she is a dead weight, and yet I need to be quick and careful to avoid waking her. Also, I know he still frowns upon my touching skin if I can help it, even today.

  I check that she is decently covered by the sheet as I bundle her into Lucille’s long white nightgown. When I leave the room, I take her clothes with me and put them directly into the stove.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There’s no sound from the Lucille during the night, and when I press my ear against the door at sunrise the next morning there’s still silence. It’s not until we’ve almost finished breakfast that we hear a muffled thumping from down the corridor.

  ‘Ah,’ says Harry cheerfully. ‘Someone’s finally woken up.’

  I peer through the grate in the door to find Lucille standing there completely naked, the nightgown a shredded heap on the ground. She stares back at me defiantly, the hazy look from yesterday gone. ‘Let me out, right now.’

  ‘Lucille,’ I say calmly, ‘we’re happy for you to join us when you’re dressed and ready.’

  ‘Where is my stuff?’ she says through gritted teeth.

  ‘On the chair next to you.’

  Lucille kicks the chair so viciously that it topples. The clothes tumble to the floor. ‘Those aren’t mine!’

  ‘Of course they’re yours, Lucille,’ I tell her. As I move away from the door, something whacks against it from the other side. Probably the chair. I sigh quietly. It looks like she’s decided on the slow and painful path. That’s so typical for a Lucille.

  For an entire week she refuses to get dressed, or even get up. The tactics that usually help in this situation – withholding food, threats – don’t seem to affect her and it crosses my mind that she might be prepared to die rather than do as we ask. Something else occurs to me too. Maybe the problem actually lies with me. Maybe I’m losing my ability to pull off this sort of transformation.

  One morning I come in to find that she’s tipped a full bedpan onto the ground and smeared the contents everywhere. Any sense of triumph or relief I had at this girl’s arrival here has long vanished. I feel her glaring at me as I silently clean up the disgusting mess.

  I fetch a basin of hot water and hand her a sponge and some soap. She eyes these with displeasure. ‘I want a shower.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell her. ‘This will have to do.’

  ‘Where do you get this horrible soap from?’ she says, examining it with a frown.

  ‘It’s homemade. From fat and lavender.’

  Lucille drops the soap like it’s crawling with maggots. ‘I’m not washing myself with fat!’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ I say mildly. Given the state of her hands, I’m confident she’ll change her mind. She does, eventually, and when she’s finished I pass her a cloth to dry herself with.

  ‘Are you going to bring me my clothes now?’ she says. ‘My real clothes I mean, not that stupid costume.’

  I stand up and sigh dramatically. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You win.’

  I leave the room, locking it behind me, and go to the kitchen stove, where I scrape a little of the soot into a bowl. I bring it back to Lucille. ‘This is what’s left of them,’ I tell her.

  The Lucille clenches her jaw like she’s trying not to scream. I’m surprised. Up until now she hasn’t held back on anything.

  ‘Please just let your soul settle, Lucille,’ I tell her. ‘The Special Ones and our followers are eagerly anticipating your return, but your soul needs to fit comfortably beneath your skin first.’

  I leave her standing there and lock the door behind me. I’m growing tired of her childish behaviour, and I’m also getting worried. What if we never transform this girl? What then?

  When I walk in the next day, I’m astonished to find Lucille wearing her pantaloons and petticoat, the corset in her hands.

  ‘How do you put this thing on?’ she asks, holding it out to me.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ I say, hoping she can’t see how relieved I am she’s given in, how close I was to despair.

  ‘It’s so uncomfortable,’ she complains as I tighten the laces.

  ‘You get used to it,’ I say, cheerfully. I’m pleased. The clothes fit perfectly. Harry has judged her size well.

  ‘What were you like when you first came here?’ she asks me, curiously. ‘I’ve been trying to imagine it – you at high school, or at the movies with friends – but I just can’t. How long were you locked up in this room for? Did it take long for you to – you know – accept it?’

  I turn away, so she can’t see the tremble in my hands. ‘I have always been here,’ I say, as calmly as I can.

  Luckily Lucille has already lost interest in the question and turned her attention back to herself. ‘Can I see myself in a mirror?’ she asks.

  ‘We don’t need mirrors here,’ I tell her.

  She gapes at me.

  ‘The Special Ones watch only their inner selves,’ I explain. ‘The outer self – the glass – is irrelevant. Don’t you remember that from when you were here before?’ Lucille shakes her head. ‘Well, you will. And you’ll soon find that life is much more meaningful and rewarding when you’re not obsessed with trivialities like physical appearance.’

  This is a classic Esther line. It’s also a lie. Lucille stands utterly still and silent as I help her into another petticoat and then her skirt and blouse.

  I step back to evaluate my work. ‘You’re already looking a lot more like yourself, Lucille,’ I tell her.

  Lucille snorts under her breath. ‘I bet I still look like me,’ she mutters.

  Unfortunately, she’s right. There are many other changes required yet. Her hair, for instance. And her eye colour. Until the new Lucille looks just like the one in the photograph, I can see it’ll be hard for her to fully accept her new situation.

  The queue of followers wanting to speak to Lucille grows every night. I keep assuring them it won’t be much longer now, hoping that it will be true. And then one evening I log on to find the followers buzzing with news – something we have heard
nothing about. He has sent them all a message saying that Lucille will rejoin the house in ten days’ time.

  My stomach lurches. The Lucille is far from ready. But time has run out. In desperation I actually consider tying Lucille up while she’s asleep and doing her hair that way. But I know that wouldn’t work. Lucille needs to accept what is happening. She needs to believe in it.

  It’s a huge relief when I unlock the changing room the next morning to find Lucille fully dressed and, by the look of her face and hands, clean. Maybe that’s why the message was sent to the followers. Perhaps he sensed a change in the Lucille that we had failed to see.

  ‘How big is this place?’ she asks. ‘There’s a garden or something isn’t there? Where does it end?’

  ‘The farm is a few kilometres wide,’ I tell her, putting down her tray of food, which includes some tiny, very sweet strawberries that Felicity proudly presented to me yesterday. The guiding word is growth.

  ‘Hang on. We’re on a farm?’

  I laugh. ‘Didn’t you notice the animals outside on your renewal day?’

  The Lucille shakes her head. ‘I don’t remember much at all about getting here. I’m pretty sure that guy drugged me. You know, because for you lot it’s bad to look in a mirror but it’s okay to spike someone’s mango smoothie.’

  ‘We have chickens and a couple of goats for milking,’ I tell her. ‘We had a cow too, for a while.’ I’m glad she doesn’t ask what happened to the cow. She’d probably never use the soap again if she knew. ‘Harry and Felicity grow all our vegetables and fruit out there too.’

  I feel Lucille’s sharp gaze on me. ‘Is there a fence?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A really solid one with barbed wire on top. Only Harry can go through it, when it’s opened by him.’

  ‘I guess it’s a high fence, right?’ says Lucille, her eyes dulling.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘We are very well protected in here.’

  The last Lucille tried to climb the perimeter fence. I’d just dozed off one night when I was woken by screams – the sound of someone in extreme pain. Then there was the sound of Harry thundering down the corridor. I waited in my room, heart thumping, until I heard Harry return.

  ‘Esther!’ The tone of his voice let me know that this was one of those special circumstances when it was okay to leave my room during the night. I ran down the corridor to find Harry standing in the kitchen holding Lucille, hysterical and covered with blood.

  I moved around briskly in my nightgown, grabbing my herbal ointments and making bandages from old sheets while Harry soothingly told the Lucille that everything was fine, everything would be all right.

  But everything wasn’t all right. The very next morning, the Lucille’s renewal notification arrived.

  ‘Do we ever get to go out?’ asks Lucille. I turn and fold up her nightgown – a replacement for the shredded one – so she can’t see my face as I answer.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s no need. Only Harry goes out sometimes.’

  ‘What makes him return?’

  It’s startling to hear her voice the exact question I’ve had in my own head so many times. ‘He returns because he belongs here,’ I say, Estherishly. ‘Just like you belong here. Our four souls are intertwined.’

  ‘Well, I definitely don’t belong in this awful room,’ says Lucille, looking around the tiny, dark space with hatred. ‘When can I go into the rest of the house?’

  My heart leaps – she’s never shown the slightest interest in doing this before – but I must be careful not to share how desperately we need her out there.

  ‘Once you’ve finished your transition,’ I say, firmly. ‘Then and only then.’

  Lucille pulls a face. ‘You mean dye my hair, don’t you? And wear those clothes?’

  ‘That’s part of it.’

  ‘So once I’ve transitioned,’ she says, rolling her eyes, ‘then I can go to the farm, right?’

  I shake my head. ‘Only Felicity and Harry are allowed into the farm. Your territory ends at the garden gate.’

  Lucille’s face creases into an expression of resentment and annoyance that is becoming all too familiar. ‘But that’s not fair! Why don’t I get to go to the farm?’

  ‘Because your area is the house and garden.’

  ‘But I want to go wherever I like!’ She pouts. I half-expect her to stomp her foot.

  ‘Want has nothing to do with it,’ I shoot back. This girl should be happy that she at least gets to go into the garden. My territory ends with the verandah.

  Lucille sulks for the rest of the day.

  ‘Leave her be,’ says Harry, when I tell him. ‘I think she’s close to coming round.’ He doesn’t mention the countdown for Lucille’s expected re-entry to the house, but I am sure he’s thinking about it just as much as I am.

  I am not so optimistic, but when I take in her evening meal, she asks me what Lucille is supposed to be like. ‘I need something to help me remember,’ she explains.

  I hurry to the bookshelf in the parlour and bring back Lucille’s leather-bound remembering book. My hand is shaking a little as I open it to the section covering the sorts of questions Lucille takes during evening chat sessions.

  What is true love and how can I find it?

  What makes someone beautiful?

  Why am I always so lonely?

  Each question is accompanied by various Lucille-esque responses to select from, depending on the nuances of the situation.

  Lucille flips through the section, the gilt-edged pages glimmering. Then she looks up at me. ‘Am I expected to learn all this off by heart?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say and wait for the inevitable eye-roll or face-scrunch.

  But they don’t come. Instead, Lucille simply stretches out on her bed, the book open before her.

  Later, when Harry asks me how the day has been, I tell him that I think Lucille is starting to accept who she is. I can hear the surprise in my own voice.

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ says Harry, clearly relieved. It’s not just that Lucille is expected back in the house in only a few days. We’re also overdue for a verification, and when that comes Lucille will need to be perfect.

  The following morning when I go to the changing room to give Lucille her breakfast, I’m almost excited. How much of her remembering book will she have read?

  I unlock the door and go in. ‘Lucille?’

  There’s a whooshing sound and a terrible pain in my head that crumples me to the floor. The room whirls, ceiling and walls spinning wildly. I look up, skull throbbing, to see Lucille leaning over me with one of the bed’s wooden legs in her hand and a venomous smile on her face. She jumps over me and runs out the door into the corridor.

  ‘Lucille!’ I’ve bitten my tongue and my mouth is thick with blood. ‘Come back. Don’t be stupid.’ There’s no reply.

  She doesn’t get far. Harry overpowers her before she’s even reached the kitchen. Despite my thumping head I manage to stagger out to help him, and together we tie her up again, rapidly passing the rope between us as the Lucille thrashes and sobs. Felicity sits eating her breakfast in the kitchen, watching us impassively. The girl’s hysteria doesn’t seem to bother her any more.

  ‘She’s not Lucille, you know,’ Felicity says just as we finish tying her up. ‘She’ll never fit in here.’

  I frown at her. It’s dangerous to speak like this. But secretly I think she’s probably right.

  Only when Lucille is safely back in the changing room does Harry untie her. Immediately she drops to the floor like a dead weight, all the fight seemingly drained from her. I sit outside her door for a while, running my fingers over the sore bump on my skull, even though I have lots of chores I should be getting on with. Maybe I’m hoping my being here will help. Maybe I’m just too exhausted to do anything else. I sit there for hours, watching as thin slits of light slowly trace a path across the floor and wall of the corridor.

  We can’t go on like this, I think. We’ll have to start again with a new g
irl. But this is such a terrible, overwhelming prospect that I squash the thought immediately. We have to make things work, however impossible that seems.

  I’m so deep in my gloom that when Lucille abruptly taps on the grate of the door, I’m startled.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she says. There’s something different about her – I notice it immediately. Her voice has changed.

  ‘Ready for what?’ I say, getting up and looking at her through the grate.

  Lucille’s eyes meet mine. ‘For transition.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After it’s washed, I discover that Lucille’s hair has a natural wave to it that, she admits, she usually blow-dries out. It should be easy to encourage it into ringlets, especially when it’s been wrapped in rags overnight.

  ‘See?’ I tell her. ‘That’s even more proof that you really are Lucille.’

  Lucille nods slowly.

  I dye her hair over a basin that I bring into the changing room. Lucille bends her head over it without saying a word. She also submits to the brown contact lenses without a fuss. The change these two alterations make is astonishing.

  ‘He will be so pleased with you!’ I tell her.

  Lucille’s eyes may be brown now, but they’re as sharp as ever. ‘Who is he, exactly?’

  I slip into the familiar chant. ‘He is the floor beneath our feet and the roof above –’

  Lucille cuts me off impatiently. ‘Yeah, I read all that in the remembering book. But who is he really? Does he live here at the farm somewhere?’

  ‘Of course not!’ I say. ‘He lives out there, on the other side of the fence. But he sends us messages and watches over us.’

  ‘So none of you have met this person?’

  Her questions make me nervous. It’d be so easy to slip up and say something wrong. ‘Not in person,’ I answer cautiously. ‘Look, your memories of him will return with time. The only thing you need to know right now is that he is there to guide and protect us.’

  ‘But protect us from what?’