The Special Ones

by Em Bailey

  Reading it, I have a revelation. Why should I bother searching for Harry anyway? There was the attraction of personally making him pay for his betrayal, but, just as the vision warned, searching for Harry is taking up too much of my time – which is ridiculous when there are so many others who are more than willing to do the job for me. They just need a little assistance.

  When I get inside, I go straight to the loose floorboard and pull out the only file that was not burned during my purge. Harry Fernard’s file. My instinct to keep it was correct. It contains all the information I have collected about my former employee. I decide to scan only the police file with its accompanying mugshot, and the document that Harry wrote out and signed when he began working for me. The contract which stated that once Harry’s two years of working for me had finished, he would disappear and have no further contact with me or any of the girls from the farm. If he’d just stuck to this, everything would’ve been fine. But he didn’t, and so now he must endure the consequences.

  There are many other things I could include, but this is enough to get things started. Then, using a fake address and a proxy server, I shoot off an email to the editor of the Morning Star.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I’ve come down to the kitchen for some water and no-one is about. Dad is probably at work and maybe Mum has gone out, although that would be unusual. I think they’ve decided that one or other of them should always be here with me. As protection, I guess. Or maybe to stop me from disappearing again.

  I take the opportunity to go through the bin, as I’ve suspected for a while that my parents are hiding mail. All I’ve received are some cards from people saying they admire me, although they don’t actually say what for. I’m positive there must be other things being sent – maybe even something, heavily disguised, from Harry.

  Sure enough, shoved into the back of the bin is an envelope with my name on it. It’s not from Harry, though. And it’s definitely not a fan letter. The opening line, written in angry block letters, accuses me of being a witch and of sacrificing the missing girls for my black magic. You do know what used to happen to witches, don’t you?

  Feeling unsettled, I’m just hiding the letter back in the bin when I notice the newspaper on the kitchen bench. It’s strange, because my parents generally don’t buy papers. Then I see the headline:

  HARRY PAID TO BE ON FARM!

  Below the headline are two photos of a boy, one taken face-forward, the other in profile. With a shock, I realise it’s Harry. He looks much younger than when I first met him, but that’s not the only reason he’s hard to recognise. The boy in the photo seems sick and dirty. His shoulders slump, his expression is closed. He’s nothing like the Harry I knew on the farm. Shaking, I start to read.

  For Harry Fernard, life on the prison farm was not a daily battle to survive. He did not need to fear that the smallest mistake would result in punishment or even death. Fernard was not one of the so-called ‘Special Ones’. His place on the farm was secure. For two years, at least.

  Many have questioned Fernard’s exact role within the cult. Some have suggested that he is in fact its spiritual leader. But recent documents obtained by the Morning Star indicate that Harry’s role filled a more basic need. For Harry Fernard, the prison farm was simply a cushy live-in job.

  Feeling dizzy, I scan the page. Halfway down is a photograph of something written out by hand. It seems to be a kind of contract.

  ‘I, Harry Fernard, agree to keep the Special Ones safe from intruders. I will also ensure that no-one leaves its confines, unless I have received other instructions…’

  For Fernard – former ward of the state, drug-addict and petty criminal who had lived on the streets since he was thirteen – this job must have seemed like a dream come true. His duties included light farm work and a little bit of eavesdropping. His main task was to make sure that any misdemeanours, insubordination or disrespect were swiftly dealt with.

  And then, of course, there were the ‘renewals’, as they were euphemistically referred to. No doubt these took a little more effort, but Harry was a model employee and carried them out without complaint. And when his two-year contract ended, he simply walked through the gates and left the others to their fate.

  Even before I’ve finished the article, I am positive that he is behind it. He’s leaked information about Harry – his last name, details of his past – to help identify him and lead to his capture. But I can tell that’s not the only motivation, or even the main one. This is a message for me. It’s meant to convince me that I too should give up on Harry. Stop defending him.

  Of course it’s a shock to read that Harry was paid to guard us, but in my heart I still believe that he’s a good person. And I am positive that it wasn’t just money that kept him with us on the farm. You can’t live as closely with someone as I did with Harry and not be able to know something of how they think and feel. Harry probably didn’t realise what he was getting involved in when he wrote that contract – it’s not so different from what happened to me, after all. Perhaps I’m the only person in the world who could understand that, but it’s still the truth. And no matter the mistakes either of us made in the past, the bad decisions, the wrong turns – neither of us should’ve had to go through what we did. We shouldn’t be blamed for the things he did.

  The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Not just because of this attack on Harry, but because of how he’s still trying to manipulate my thoughts and feelings. He obviously believes he has control.

  I stand at the kitchen bench, motionless except for the rapid pumping of my heart. Does he still have control? Am I still letting him shape my life?

  Maybe.

  But, I decide on the spot, not any more.

  It’s not that I’m no longer afraid, because I am. But now I also feel a white-hot fury that he has made me feel this way for so long. I scrunch up the newspaper and shove it in the bin. There’s a tingling in my fingers, little pricks of adrenalin, which quickly spread across my body. I’m not giving up.

  It’s only then that I become aware of people yelling outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The media pack outside Esther’s house is as dense as it’s ever been. The crowd of gawpers has doubled too, although there’s a noticeable absence of Esther lookalikes. As I pull up I’m aware of some kind of commotion, but it’s not until I park and open the door of my van that I hear the woman screaming.

  ‘Where is my daughter? Tell me what you did with her!’

  Over the top of the crowd I can just glimpse a pair of hands gripping Esther’s front gate, rattling it vigorously. The screaming rises like a wave once more. ‘I know you know something. You and Harry!’

  I grab a random parcel from the back of my van and go and stand by a man in a tracksuit with a dog on a leash. ‘What’s going on here, mate?’ I ask. ‘I’ve got a parcel to deliver to that place.’ I do my vaguely curious bystander act smoothly, but inside I’m seething. These people are in my way.

  ‘You know those prison-farm girls, from the cult?’ says the man. The dog lies down with a resigned grunt.

  ‘Hard not to have heard about it.’

  ‘Well, the girl who got out first – the tall, spooky one – she lives in there with her parents.’

  ‘And who’s the crazy person shaking the gate?’

  ‘Steady on, mate – that’s the mother of one of the missing girls,’ he says, looking at me strangely. ‘Can’t blame her for being upset. I’d be exactly the same – wanting some answers.’

  I make the sort of noise people make when they’re agreeing, then I move away – the sooner I am gone, the sooner I am forgotten. I work my way to the front of the crowd – close enough to see the hysterical woman’s blotchy face: her red, watery eyes and monstrously swollen nose, glistening with moisture. It’s so repulsive I can barely look. It’s hard to believe that anyone would let themselves be seen in public looking so undignified, so out of control.

  She rattles furiousl
y at the gate again. ‘What are you scared of, Tess? Why won’t you come out and face me?’

  On the other side of the gate is Esther’s mother. She’s changed a lot from that first day when the TV cameras recorded her emotional reunion with Esther. It’s not simply her deflated hairdo and make-up-free face. There’s something dark about her now.

  She marches up to the gate. ‘The police are on their way.’ She glares at the group outside her house. ‘Why can’t you people leave my daughter alone? Can’t you see what this is doing to her?’

  The woman on the other side of the gate explodes. ‘Your daughter! Your daughter is safely at home with you. What about my daughter?’

  Esther’s mother bunches her fists. ‘That’s not Tess’s fault.’

  ‘Yes, it is!’ shrieks the woman. She sounds like a seagull. ‘It is her fault! She kept my daughter there, didn’t she? Tricked her into believing a whole pack of lies. She and that Harry Fernard. They could’ve done something to save her.’

  It’s hurting my ears, the way this woman keeps going on. It’s so tempting to go over and tell her the facts. Don’t waste your breath. Your daughter is almost certainly dead by now.

  Even more irritating is that all this nonsense is delaying my plans. On the drive here I had been in good spirits, picturing Esther running down the driveway to greet me, smiling with joy. But owing to this lunatic woman, I may not even see Esther today.

  There’s a noise at the house and I see the front door swing open. Esther appears. She looks pale and tired, but her back is straight as she walks towards the front gate.

  The crowd, which has been noisy and jostling, falls silent. The woman stops rattling and screaming and the journalists stop yelling out questions. Esther has that effect on people. She glides down the path and stops at the gate, directly in front of the crazy woman.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, ‘but I don’t know where your daughter is.’ She doesn’t raise her voice, but somehow it’s loud enough even for those of us standing near the back of the group to hear. I notice a new tone to Esther’s voice; a hardness. It’s not surprising. She must be as tired of these people as I am.

  ‘You’re lying!’ the woman yells at her. Her voice is strained to the point of hoarseness. ‘Don’t pretend you had nothing to do with it. You know way more than you’re letting on.’

  Esther shakes her head, frustrated. ‘I don’t know where she is yet, but I am going to find her and the others. I promise you.’

  ‘You’re holding things back,’ spits the woman. ‘I can see it in your face.’

  Esther’s shoulders look high and tense. ‘Why would I lie to you?’ she says, her voice leaping upwards in pitch and volume. ‘I have told the police everything I know, every little detail about the missing girls that I can remember. I lie awake at night, wondering where they are, if they’re okay. How do you think I feel, knowing that I couldn’t save them?’ Her eyes flash with a look that would be almost murderous if it wasn’t so agonised. ‘I can’t even leave my house without being swooped by that lot,’ she adds, gesturing wildly towards the media pack. ‘I’m more trapped out here than I ever was at the farmhouse –’

  Esther’s mother rushes over and takes her arm, pulling her back towards the house. ‘It’s okay,’ she tells her. ‘You don’t have to –’

  Esther rips her arm away, her chest heaving. ‘It’s not okay, Mum!’ she shouts. ‘Don’t you see? None of this is okay.’ Then she storms towards the house.

  ‘Yes, you go back inside, where you’re nice and safe with your family,’ the woman hurls at her. ‘While my daughter is out there somewhere, all on her own.’

  Esther pauses mid-storm, her entire body suddenly rigid, and she turns back to the woman. Her eyes are wide and the fury from a moment ago has been replaced by something exceedingly strange. She stares at the woman in silence and then she runs back inside the house, slamming the door behind her.

  I drive home, nerves jangling. There was something in Esther’s face just before she turned and ran that has disturbed me. Something unfamiliar and dangerous. Being at home calms me a little and I distract myself by making sure everything is in order. I straighten up the shoes at the door and reorganise the cutlery drawer. And then I remember that there is an important task I need to complete – one that will definitely make me feel better.

  One way or another Esther will be arriving here soon, and I need to prepare.

  To begin with she will be down in the cellar. It’s not where I want her to be but I don’t expect that she will have to stay down there for long. Just until she has readjusted to life under my control.

  I haven’t been down in the cellar since the investigators came to examine the boiler after the tragedy. ‘The air intake shafts are full of dust and dirt,’ I heard one mutter to the other. ‘The fumes would’ve seeped up through the floor and out of the heaters.’

  I’d hung in the background, the grieving son and brother. They passed on their condolences and their advice: pull the whole system out and have a new one installed. ‘Although you probably won’t want to stay here anyway, right?’ they added. ‘Too many memories now.’

  But of course I was going to stay. Why on earth would I leave just when I had the place to myself? I didn’t bother to replace the boiler, either – I just kept it off. Heating is unnecessary and wasteful.

  The cellar is not the most inviting of spaces – there is no natural light and it is even dustier and grimier now than when my father used to lock me down there – but it has the benefit of being almost completely soundproof, which may prove useful while Esther readjusts. I spend an hour or so sweeping and rearranging the clutter. I spread out an old rug that I find rolled up in the corner. From my father’s camping gear, I select a sleeping bag, and dust down a cushion for a pillow. It looks quite cosy now. I think Esther will be pleased.

  As a precautionary measure I take a length of chain, add a pair of my father’s handcuffs to one end and bolt it to the wall. I sincerely hope that I won’t need to use the cuffs, but it’s best to be prepared.

  When I return upstairs it is with the feeling of tired satisfaction that comes with knowing you have done something well. I make myself some food – salted popcorn as a treat – and go into the lounge room to watch some TV. It’s not something I normally do but I definitely deserve a reward.

  At first I am not sure what I am seeing on the screen. It appears to be a live cross to a crime scene – there are lights flashing, the wail of an ambulance and people rushing around. It’s dark, but there’s still something familiar about the location. For a moment I think they’re back at the farm, but then there’s a new camera angle and in the background I see a tower, illuminated by the bluish glow of police lights. Then the true horror of what I’m seeing hits me.

  They’re at the factory.

  ‘Unbelievable scenes here tonight,’ says a reporter, coming into shot. ‘Four young girls have been found, chained up in the cellar of a deserted factory. Police have issued no statement as yet but they are believed to be the four missing girls connected with the Special Ones cult. All four appear to be alive but in a critical condition.’

  There’s a cut to the newsroom, and a question from the anchor. ‘Do we have any idea how the girls were located?’

  ‘Nothing is confirmed at this stage,’ replies the reporter, ‘but the unofficial word is that the information came from Tess Kershaw.’

  I know I should turn the television off. Watching this will just infuriate me more, but I cannot seem to move away from it. Initially there is some anger, of course – strong enough to make me hurl my plate against the far wall, where it explodes, sending popcorn flying like tiny dust clouds into the air.

  But by the time the press conference comes on, my anger has dissipated a little. Instead, I now feel wounded by Esther’s actions and puzzled by what it is she is trying to achieve. I had never for a moment believed she was sincere when she said she wanted to find the missing girls. I had assumed it was one of thos
e things you have to say, not because you mean it but because those around you apparently expect it. Like ‘your baby is beautiful’ and ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your wife’.

  So when Esther appears on the press stage, along with a gang of smug-faced police staff, I turn up the volume. I want to see if I can discover what could have motivated her to do this. There’s something else bothering me too – how she found out. A disturbing possibility has begun to nag at me. Maybe the reason I have struggled to access her thoughts recently is that she has discovered how to access mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  During verification, I used to pick a point somewhere ahead of me to focus on while we stood there. It helped keep me calm, stopped me from panicking. I automatically try to do the same thing now, during the press conference, fixing my attention on the edge of the door behind the crowd. Block out all those cameras and microphones. But my eyes keep slipping down and meeting the curious stares of the people before me. Even when they know that I’ve seen them, they continue to look, blatantly, as if I’m not a person but some artefact on display.

  It’s so hot and stuffy in this packed little room. The smell of many different shampoos, of sweat mingled with deodorant, of coffee and perfume and foot odour, all seem to coat the inside of my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. There’s something else in the air too. Something hostile and unfriendly. But I am not sure if this is coming from them, or from me.

  Just get through this, I tell myself as the police commissioner talks about how the girls were found, making it sound like it was almost entirely his own work. I concentrate on keeping my breathing steady, remind myself that I’ve agreed to do this for a reason. Maybe Harry will be watching. And if he is, I’m hoping he’ll see in my face how much I need to talk to him.