by Em Bailey
The others slink away too, but a moment later one of them whispers at me from the darkness. ‘How is the farm? How are the Special Ones?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ I snap.
A thin, mocking laughter starts up. ‘We know something’s wrong!’ one calls back in a singsong voice.
‘You don’t know anything,’ I retort.
‘Yes, we do. We can read your mind.’
‘That’s not possible,’ I say and then, to try make them be quiet, I add, ‘You won’t be down here for much longer, anyway. He’ll be letting you out soon, if you behave.’
They all seem to find this hilarious. ‘Do you know what happens if you’re locked in the darkness for long enough?’ one of them hisses from the gloom. ‘You learn how to see the future. So we already know we’ll be getting out soon. And we know what will happen to you too.’
I fold my arms, raise myself up to my full height to show them that I’m not at all affected by this deranged nonsense. ‘And what is that, exactly?’
‘Bad things,’ they giggle gleefully. ‘Very bad things.’
I cannot stand being here any longer. Not for another minute, not for another second. I bundle everything up and hurry for the stairs. The husks laugh in that horrible, scratchy way and one of them even touches my leg as I climb.
The air in the factory above, which seemed a little musty when I first came in from outside, now seems blissfully sweet and clean. I close the trapdoor over the monsters below and bolt it. You’re safe now, I tell myself as I carefully rub the padlock with a handkerchief to make sure it’s free of fingerprints. I am still wearing my gloves, but you can never be too sure. Then I heap the rubble back over the trapdoor.
An urgent need grips me: I have to get out of here. I can almost hear the vision in my ear, urging me to run. And so I do – hurrying back to my father’s car without taking nearly as much care as I should.
Once I’m back in the driver’s seat, I close my eyes and take a little sip from my purple bottle. Get my breathing under control. The tonic spreads through me, cleansing and soothing.
The vision answers my question before I even let it form properly in my mind. ‘You’re done with them now,’ she says. ‘You can leave them there to rot.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I arrive at work, Mack is lounging around in the loading bay with the front-office girls, who are on one of their many cigarette breaks. Mack is a couple of years older than me – twenty-two maybe, or twenty-three. He’s tall – the sort of figure who could easily be intimidating, but his slumped shoulders and high, nasal voice reduce him to harmless. I’ve modelled my delivery guy persona on him.
A tabloid newspaper is spread out on top of a crate. The radio is on, turned up way too loud, as usual. ‘Police now believe that a number of other missing girls could be victims of the Prison Farm cult, as well as the three already released …’
‘Jeez,’ says Mack, bending over the newspaper. ‘What kind of a monster does stuff like this?’ He shoves it in my face as I walk past. ‘Have you seen this?’
There’s a photograph taken from inside the farmhouse – but looking nothing like how I last saw it. How it’s supposed to look. The orderly, spotless parlour is now completely chaotic. Furniture tipped over, mess everywhere. The copy of the Special Ones photograph, which usually hangs over the mantelpiece, is gone.
‘Looks like hell, doesn’t it?’ says Mack.
Below it is another image – crime-scene investigators in white disposable coveralls dusting the kitchen for fingerprints. They won’t find anything, I reassure myself. I have always been very careful about wearing my gloves when I went to collect my tonic.
‘I try not to look at that sort of thing,’ I say, moving away.
‘It’s just awful,’ says Judith from the front office. ‘I hate to think what happened to those poor girls while they were in there.’
Judith, whose skirts are always too short and whose necklines are too low. She has feelings for me – I can tell from the way she watches me, when she thinks I’m not aware. Of course, the feelings are in no way reciprocated but I am careful not to be rude to her. She never blinks an eye at the frequent ‘lost parcel’ or ‘invalid address’ forms I submit to her and never mentions when these undelivered items ‘mysteriously’ disappear from the company’s database.
‘They were starved for days on end. Woken up during the night to perform weird rituals,’ says the other front-office girl, Petra. ‘And they were brainwashed into thinking they were reincarnated saints.’ She looks around, her owlish eyes even wider than usual. ‘You know the worst bit for me, though? That they were forced to chat with people online and give out advice, every single night.’
Judith nods. ‘It’s just awful,’ she says again. ‘Can you imagine? Wondering the whole time why no-one’s realised what’s going on and raised the alarm. I know I would’ve, if I’d ever used that site.’
I don’t say anything, but I have seen our office’s IP address on the user logs for the Special Ones site more than once. And I have definitely spotted a scarf in the lunchroom that could only have come from the Special Ones shop.
I’ve been trying to stay out of the discussion, loading my orders into the van, but I can’t stand it any longer. ‘We shouldn’t believe everything the media tells us,’ I say, as evenly as I can. But no-one is listening.
‘I can’t stop thinking about the others,’ says Petra, leaning over the newspaper. ‘The missing ones. Have you seen this?’ She taps at a row of photos of the ex–Special Ones, all blurry screen grabs from the education films. Harry’s photo is there too. Interesting, I find myself thinking. So the police don’t know where Harry is yet.
Petra shudders. ‘I guess they’re probably dead, but who knows? Anything’s possible with a creep like this.’
‘I think it looks like a pretty incredible place to live,’ I say tightly, tearing my eyes away from the newspaper. ‘You can tell that a lot of care and effort went into making it.’
The others seem to think I’m making a joke.
‘Yeah, it looks real cosy,’ guffaws Mack.
‘And so safe with that great big fence all around it!’ Petra titters.
Mack swigs the last of a takeaway coffee and stands up. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘They’ll find those missing ones soon enough – or what’s left of them. And they’ll find the nut-job behind it all and lock him up for life. They always do in the end.’
Nearby on the packing table is a staple gun. My fingers twitch, longing to seize it and close Mack’s mouth permanently. But instead I just slowly shake my head.
When my shift ends, I don’t return the van to the depot straight away. But I don’t go home, either. I go somewhere I haven’t been in two years.
The suburb where Esther’s parents live is the sort of place I usually despise – ugly modern glass boxes built so close to one another that their roofs nearly touch. Each one has a pseudo-oriental garden in the front – a combination of white pebbles and stunted trees. There is, of course, not a water tank to be seen.
But still, I feel a certain warmth as I near her block. This place is important to me. It’s where I first saw Esther, while delivering parcels for that shopaholic mother of hers. There’s a park nearby that holds special memories for me, too – I followed Esther there once, after I first spotted her, and watched while she played with her dog near the fountain. How I longed to walk up to her right then! I wanted to tell her how our lives were linked. But I knew I needed to hold back. Wait.
There’s a mind-your-own-business quality to Esther’s suburb that I can also appreciate. People don’t try to chat if you pass them on the street. They don’t make noise after 9 pm or create any kind of disturbance. Which is why it’s such a shock when I turn into her street to find it blocked by a wall of people and vans.
There are camera crews and photographers pressed up against Esther’s fence, boom mics raised and lights flashing. There�
�s even a group of girls mooching about who have made themselves up to look like Esther in long, floating white dresses, their hair pinned back.
I don’t bother to stop. I thought that I would at least get a glimpse of Esther. It even crossed my mind that she might take the family dog for a walk, like she used to, and that I might use the opportunity to collect her. But clearly I will have no chance to do that this evening, and so, deeply irritated, I return the van and head home. Esther’s popularity is proving inconvenient.
For once I manage to evade Mrs Lewis and, after quickly preparing something to eat, I go directly to the study. It’s occurred to me that Esther might still have the same computer, in which case I may be able to watch her through her webcam, just as I used to. But, although her original computer is still part of her family’s network, she never has it on. It’s frustrating, but at least I am able to access the other computers in the house. Surely Esther will come into view eventually.
First I take control of the laptop in the kitchen. The webcam is angled so that all I can see are the fridge and rubbish bin. But I can hear voices too. At first, with a rush of excitement, I think it is Esther’s voice, but it turns out to be her mother.
‘– get rid of anything connected with that place,’ she is saying. ‘So she can just forget it ever even happened.’
‘Really?’ a male voice answers. Esther’s father, I suppose. ‘But the doctor said that we should –’
‘Well, I think he was wrong.’ The mother’s legs stomp into view; the lid of the rubbish bin flips open and something white and crumpled is shoved in. Esther’s leaving dress. Something else is thrown in on top of it. A comb of some sort.
‘Does Tess know you’re throwing her things out?’ asks the father.
‘She’s asleep.’ Off-screen, I hear the mother sigh. ‘Look – it’s just that I’m worried about her. She feels responsible for what happened there, and for those missing girls – like she has to be the one to find them.’
The father mutters something. ‘I know,’ the mother replies, her voice cracking. ‘She’s constantly on the phone with the police, giving them every bit of information she can think of – I caught her calling them at 3 am the other day. She’s obsessed. You know what she asked this morning? She wanted me to borrow a bunch of books from the library about cult leaders and psychopaths.’
‘Oh, god. What did you say?’ asks the father.
‘I said no, of course.’ Hands reach down into view and yank the liner from the bin. The mother says something I can’t hear over the crackling of the bag, and then: ‘– going to completely drain herself otherwise.’
Then there are footsteps, the sound of a door opening. I picture her pushing the rubbish bag, containing the leaving dress, into an ugly green bin like it’s something worthless. But I do not allow myself to feel angry, because I can see this for what it is: an opportunity.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It’s so strange being back here. In my room. On my bed. It’s like being in a time capsule, where everything looks exactly as it did two years ago. My books lined up in the bookshelf, my clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Minnie lying on the rug, her ears pricking hopefully every time I move.
But everything isn’t exactly how it was. When we first moved in, I refused to put anything up on the walls – a kind of protest about being here. But someone has hung pictures in my absence, mostly just of me. By the door is a big family portrait in a black metal frame. It was taken a very long time ago, back when my hair was much fairer and I was still willing to say ‘cheese’ for the camera. I’d like to take it down – take all of the photos down – but Mum would want to know why.
The girl in the photographs is so naive-looking, so gullible. Is that why he chose me? Not just because I resembled a girl from a hundred years ago, but because he could see how easily I’d believe whatever he wanted me to? It’s hard to fight off thoughts like this, thoughts about him, about who he actually is. On the farm he was just a voice – a bodiless shadow – but now he’s taking on an actual form and every day that form becomes a little more solid and real. Whenever I see a crowd of people, I automatically scan the faces, wondering if he’s there, disguised as an ordinary person. I often think I can feel his eyes on me, watching for a chance to grab me again.
I have other ugly thoughts, too. About how it was that I ended up at the farm. I try to convince myself that it was the same way the others came to be there, but I know that’s not true.
I sit up on my bed. I need something to do. Something to distract me. On the farm I had a household to run, but now I’m stuck in my room with everything done for me. My days have no structure, no guiding word, no tasks. Worst of all, no-one listens to me any more, not seriously. It’s like my thoughts don’t really count.
Down the hall, I can hear the TV. I know I should go and join my parents on the sofa. They are so desperate to make things right. It’s hard for them, I know that. But I can’t just pretend – like they’re trying to – that the last two years didn’t happen.
The phone rings and I hear Mum answer it. ‘Absolutely not,’ she says crisply. ‘And it doesn’t matter how many more times you people ask, the answer will always be the same.’
I can guess who it is. Yet another reporter requesting an interview.
‘She needs to put all this behind her and move on,’ I hear Mum say before hanging up.
She and Dad are trying to protect me, I get that. But they’re also trying to squeeze me back into a memory. Into the shape of the little girl I once was.
Yesterday, Dad triumphantly presented me with a hamburger. ‘Your favourite!’ he said. I wasn’t hungry, but he was so excited that I made myself take a bite. Instantly, my mouth was flooded with so much grease and salt that I grimaced, and had to force myself to swallow. Dad made a joke of it, but I could see he was crushed. I felt bad, but also frustrated. I mean, who cares about whether I do or don’t like hamburgers any more when there are four girls missing? I hurried to my room before I said something I’d regret.
‘What’s the point of escaping from a prison farm if you spend all your time locked in your room?’ I overheard Mum say as I shut the door behind me.
Now, I close my eyes and think for the thousandth time: If only Harry were here.
I miss him, even though I insisted that he go. And deep down, though I could never tell anyone, it frightens me that I haven’t heard from him since I came home. I wish we’d made some kind of arrangement – a way to communicate secretly – so that we could figure out what to do next, together. But we didn’t, and now all I can do is hope that he’s safe somewhere, waiting until the time is right to come out.
Or maybe I have to accept that I won’t see him again, no matter how much I long to. Who is it exactly that I’m missing, anyway? The Harry I knew on the farm, with his pipe and his beard, is gone for good. What do I even know about the guy who met me outside the gates? For all I know, he’s not even really called Harry.
But that’s not important. He’s still the same on the inside, I’m sure of it. That calm, kind person who sat across from me in the evenings, fixing things, doing his best to make life easier for us, who might not have said much, but what he did say was heartfelt – he still exists, no matter what he’s called or how he looks.
I miss him.
I get up from my bed, pad across the room. I keep the comb Harry made for me hidden at the back of the wardrobe, on top of the folded-up leaving dress. I’m not sure what to do about the dress. I thought about burning it, but then I remember the effort Lucille put into making it and it feels wrong.
But the dress isn’t in the wardrobe. The comb is gone too. Feeling sick, I run down the hallway to the lounge room. Mum and Dad look up from the TV, startled, as I burst in.
‘Where are they? My things from the house?’
‘I threw them out this afternoon,’ says Mum. She looks a little nervous, but her chin juts out defiantly.
‘Why would you do that?’
; ‘Because you have to forget about that place.’
The kind of wild fury I used to feel begins burbling up inside me, but before it tips out, I find myself slipping into Esther-mode, drawing on her self-control, her dignity. ‘You couldn’t possibly understand what it was like,’ I say, in Esther’s slow, cool tone. ‘I’m not a child any more, Mum. You don’t get to make decisions for me like that.’ Then I hear myself add, ‘And the next time one of those reporters calls up about an interview, please tell them yes.’
My parents exchange an anxious look. ‘Tessy, do you really think –’ Mum begins.
‘The police have given up on those girls,’ I tell her. ‘I want to talk about it on TV. Make everyone understand that they could still be alive, and that we can’t stop searching yet.’
I mean what I say, but I don’t mention the other reason I suddenly want an interview. That by doing it, maybe I’ll be able to get a message to Harry, asking him to let me know if he’s okay at least.
Then, bracing myself, I go out the back of our house. The bin isn’t where it usually is. It must be rubbish-collection night, which means it’s been wheeled into the lane. I’ll have to leave the confines of our property if I want to check its contents. I hate the way I instantly start shivering at the thought of this, but I do my best to keep it together, opening the gate and slipping into the yard. I hope there’s no media people lurking out here – or anyone else.
The bin is on the other side of the laneway, illuminated by a streetlight. I hurry over and open it, pulling at the top bag. Rubbish spews from it, and I see there’s a slit down the length of the plastic, like it’s been deliberately sliced open. Harry’s comb clatters to the ground, spaghetti strands caught in its teeth. There’s no sign of the leaving dress. Not in this bag, or any of the others.
I stand there for a moment, hands slimy with rubbish, surrounded by empty dog-food tins and toast crusts, trying to work out what’s happened. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. It’s to my right, out of the streetlight’s reach.