by Em Bailey
The idea of wearing the dress again is so repulsive that anger flares. ‘I’m not putting this on.’
His odd smile vanishes. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I –’ Then I think of Harry. That pool of blood. If I die now, there’s no chance of Harry surviving. No chance of defeating him, or making him pay for what he’s done to me and all the other girls. ‘Because I can’t lift my arm,’ I say finally, which is true. The whole side of my body is damp, although I’m not sure what’s blood and what’s sweat. The pain is so intense that I can barely move my fingers.
He rises from the chair and comes swiftly, eagerly, over to me. ‘I will help you, Esther.’
‘No, really, it’s okay,’ I say, filling with dread at the thought of him undressing me. ‘I think I can do it, after all.’
I begin struggling out of my clothes as quickly as I can, kicking off my shoes as the pain shoots up through my arm. But he stands in front of me, unzipping my bloodstained hoodie, slipping it over my shoulders. I stand very still and brace myself. The only thing I can do now is get this over with as quickly as possible. As he lifts my T-shirt, his hand grazes the bare skin of my stomach, and nausea churns inside me.
‘And now, time for the dress!’ There’s a tremor in his voice as he holds it up, its heavy layered skirts and petticoat folded like a drooping flower.
‘Please don’t do this,’ I beg him. ‘Don’t make me put that on.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he tut-tuts. ‘You look beautiful in it, Esther. Like a goddess.’
As the dress passes over my head, I feel like I’m falling into a deep, dark well with slippery sides, from which I’ll never escape, no matter how much I struggle.
‘Now turn around so I can do you up.’ His breath is against my neck as he starts to button me up and I feel his hands move like bony, white spiders across my back. I press my arms against my side, hands gripping my legs, trying to make them stay strong and supportive.
Through the layers of the skirt I feel something solid tap against my knee, something within the dress itself. What is it? While he is fiddling with the buttons, I slowly slip my hand into the pocket. My fingers touch something metal – smooth and hard, sharply pointed at one end.
My scissors from the farm. They’re still there, where I hid them the night I left. I curl my fingers around them.
‘There!’ he says, taking a step away from me. ‘Let me look at you.’
I keep my eyes down while he examines me, praying he won’t notice the sudden flush in my cheeks.
‘You look beautiful,’ he announces, ‘except for your hair, of course. It was wrong of you to cut it, especially so close to the end. But there’s no time to correct that now.’
My hand, holding on to the scissors, trembles. Do I dare? I’m not sure at first where to aim. Then it comes to me. In the chest. Through the heart.
But I can’t seem to do it. Can’t draw my hand and the scissors out of the pocket.
He fusses around, making adjustments to my clothes and hair. Then, brushing a final wisp away from my forehead, he nods. ‘Now we’re ready to move on together.’ He doesn’t seem to have noticed that blood is already seeping through the white material, the stain growing larger and larger.
‘Move on where?’ I croak. My throat feels like it’s full of husks, scratchy and dry.
When he looks at me, his eyes are all anticipation. He takes hold of my uninjured arm, just above the elbow. ‘Onto the next life, of course. You and I, together. This existence has become far too complicated. The next one will be much, much better.’
Oh my god … Panic overtakes me and I scramble frantically for the door. But he moves faster and quickly takes hold of me again, dragging me back to the centre of the room with the gun shoved hard under my ribs.
‘Don’t spoil this, Esther. Not when we’re so close.’
He keeps the gun trained on me as he hurries over to the plastic containers and unscrews the lids. The strong chemical smell is coming from the liquid inside. ‘I’ve already done the rest of the house,’ he says, like we’re preparing for a party.
My hand has crept back into my pocket, the metal solid against my leg.
‘It needs to be thorough,’ he says as he splashes the petrol around the room, one hand holding the plastic container, the other the gun. ‘We don’t want anything left behind. No remains. That way we’ll transition into the next life quickly.’ In one corner of the room he suddenly stops, tucking the gun into his jacket pocket as he bends down and prises away one of the floorboards. He lifts out a small photograph and before I even see it I know what it is. The original image of the Special Ones.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he says, staring at the photo in his hands. ‘Everything we’ve been waiting for – it’s finally happening.’ I’m not sure who he’s addressing – me or the people in the image. ‘The wait has been hard for us. But that’s all behind us now. And this time when we return, we’ll be together right from the start, with no obstacles blocking our way. Just you and me: Esther and Harry.’
I tighten my hold on the scissors. How can you possibly believe you’re Harry? I want to say scornfully. He looks nothing like the figure in the photograph. He would never pass a single verification. And with a rush I remember the feeling I’d had after reading that article about Harry. How I’d promised myself that I would never again let him control and manipulate me. My panic disappears and something else flares in its place. Defiance. Fury.
I didn’t deserve any of this.
He lays the photograph on the ground and from the hole in the floor pulls out a box of matches. ‘Would you like to start the fire?’ he asks, as if he’s offering me the first chocolate in the box.
None of us deserved this.
My breath catches. My chance. ‘Yes,’ I say steadily. ‘Give me the matches.’ And I take a step towards him, not hurried, keeping my mind clear of thoughts as I reach out for them.
But just as I touch the matchbox, his expression changes and he yanks it away, scowling. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says sharply. He seems to be talking to someone behind me. Someone I can’t see.
The match lights on the first strike, fizzing and flaring into life, making the grim, dingy room glow for a moment. He strides over to the door, opens it and flings the match away. Almost immediately I hear the whoosh of fire. Then he strikes another one and this one he throws into the corner of the room we’re in. Instantly a fire flares and crackles, dancing up the walls.
Even as the flames take hold I feel strangely calm. It’s like there’s a voice in my head, telling me what to do. Don’t let him see your anger.
‘Come and kneel with me, Esther,’ he says, holding out his hands. ‘We should be together as we make this transition.’
Remember what’s in your pocket.
The flames are leaping around the room and the air is rapidly filling with smoke. My eyes stream and every breath is a struggle. I stumble over to him and, as I kneel down, I pull the scissors from my pocket, keeping them hidden in the folds of my skirts.
His face, blurred by smoke, glows in the light of the flames. ‘Oh, Esther. We are going to be together forever.’
The heat is ferocious, but it doesn’t seem to affect him the way it’s affecting me. And he’s clearly not afraid. Behind me, something explodes and I turn my head to see that the TV screen has shattered. ‘Don’t worry,’ he chides me gently, reaching over and putting his hand under my chin. ‘Look at me.’
My skin feels like it’s blistering, yet I am still calm. Now. Do it now.
It’s almost as if someone else is controlling my hand, pulling the scissors from my skirts, lifting my arm up above my head. Does he see the gleaming metal through the smoke? My hand is so swift and sure that he doesn’t even realise what’s happening until the blades are buried deep within the flesh above his collarbone. I drive them in with all the force I have left.
‘I’m – not – Esther!’ I scream above the roar of the fire. ‘I’ve never been her! Do
you understand that? I’m not special and none of it was real!’
Now he’s screaming too, his face contorting like a nightmare, but I can’t hear it. The volume has suddenly muted. His hands flail about, first going to the scissors, then to grab at me as I scramble to the door and try to turn the handle. But the door doesn’t move. Is it locked? Jammed? Maybe I’m just too weak.
I feel his footsteps and when I turn, he’s stumbling towards me, the scissors flashing at his neck. He is wheezing, like the air isn’t flowing through him properly. ‘Esther!’
Desperately I slam against the door, over and over, and even though I’m giving it everything, nothing moves. I should be in pain too, but I can’t feel a thing. My body is numb. He lunges out at me, a hand connecting with my arm. His skin is still so cold, despite the heat. I kick out at him and he buckles. Finally the door gives way.
The corridor is full of thick, black smoke that fills my lungs and makes my eyes stream. I drop and crawl in the only direction not already engulfed in flames, the heavy skirts catching under my knees. The air is almost solid in the heat, too hot to breathe, and I’m sure that I’m about to die.
Then, unbelievably, there’s a loud banging noise and a voice, strong and commanding. ‘We’re coming in!’
At first the voice seems to be coming from somewhere inside and I look around, trying to see if someone else is in here, hidden by the smoke. ‘Help!’ I shout, but my voice is barely more than a whisper. Then I realise that I’ve reached the end of the hallway, and ahead of me is the front door.
‘One, two …’
I manage to roll away just as the door explodes. People in uniforms flood through. The police. Firemen. Someone grabs me and drags me outside, where I gulp huge mouthfuls of cool air. I’ll never get enough to fill my lungs.
There are so many people out here, yelling and running around. There are lights blinking – red and blue, red and blue – and the crackle of police radios.
‘Stretcher here!’ yells the guy who’s dragging me.
And instantly there’s a woman with a heart-shaped face leaning over me. She’d make a good Felicity, I think foggily, except she’s way too old.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart, everything’s fine,’ she’s telling me. ‘Lie down, please.’
But I can’t lie down yet. Now that I can breathe again, I have to tell someone about Harry. As I start to explain this to the ambulance lady, there’s a commotion near the house and I see two big policemen dragging him out through the front door, covered with ash and blood, the scissors still in his neck. He’s screaming.
‘We’ve got you now, mate,’ I hear one of the policemen shout.
‘You’ve got me?’ he roars. ‘Don’t you realise what you’ve done?’
‘We know what you’ve done,’ the other policeman says grimly. ‘You’ve been stealing from your employers. One of your colleagues has been keeping us up to date.’
The nice ambulance lady has started cutting the leaving dress off me, ripping away the blood-soaked material. ‘Now, hold still,’ another medic instructs as he tries to stick a needle into my arm.
But I wrench my arm away. ‘I need to talk to someone.’
‘You will, you will.’
‘I need to talk to someone now!’ I yell, as loudly as I can.
Another woman appears beside us. She is dressed in purple yoga pants, but she speaks with a cool, efficient authority. ‘I’m Detective Lewis from the Fraud and Extortion squad,’ she tells the ambulance lady. ‘Can we take her down to the station?’ Without waiting for a response, she looks at me and says, ‘What’s your involvement here?’
I am gaping at her, shaking my head. What she’s saying makes no sense.
‘Well?’ she says briskly. ‘Who are you? Do I have to put you under arrest too?’
I struggle to sit up again. ‘I’m Tess Kershaw.’
‘What?’ she barks.
‘My name is Tess Kershaw.’
Her eyes widen as she registers the name, and then I see a thought strike her. ‘Is this guy connected with that prison farm?’ Her tone is less cool now, but just as urgent. ‘Is that Harry?’
‘No. That’s him,’ I say. I’m trying to speak as few words as possible because my tongue has turned to porridge and I want to say the thing that matters. ‘Harry’s been shot. In the park near my house.’ I start to cry. ‘Someone has to help him.’
Detective Lewis starts speaking into her radio and shouting instructions at the other police. People are rushing around and I realise I can still hear him screaming, until a car door slams and his screams are cut short.
Relief floods through me. Finally, someone will go and look after Harry. I lie back down on the stretcher and look up at the sky while the needle is pushed into my arm. There are stars above me. Nowhere near as many as I saw that night with Harry on the farm, but still beautiful.
A fire engine arrives – or maybe it’s been there all along – and an ambulance leaves, and there are more lights, more sirens. I feel calm. More relaxed than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
‘Right. Let’s get you out of here,’ says the grown-up Felicity and they slide me into the back of an ambulance. It’s so bright in there and full of machines. It’s like the farm’s chat room.
‘Everything’s going to be fine,’ someone says blurrily. ‘You’re going to be fine, don’t worry.’
And somehow, despite everything, I know it to be true.
EPILOGUE
We always hug first – tightly and silently. Every time we meet, I notice how she’s grown. Her head is now almost level with my shoulder. Her parents hover twenty metres away. I wave and, in return, her mother points meaningfully at her watch. One hour … I nod and smile politely. At least they’re letting us meet.
‘So, Zoe.’ I rarely stumble over her name any more. ‘Ice-cream or walk today?’
‘Walk,’ she says decisively.
As we wander through the park, we talk about what we know.
That she and I are here – not just alive, but thriving.
That the scars people notice on us – the burns on my skin, the angry mark just above her knee – are nothing compared with the hidden scars, tucked away inside us. But those, too, are fading. Slowly.
That he is locked up and will be forever. At some point during the afternoon, Zoe will say, ‘It’s really true, right?’ and I’ll say, ‘Yes, it’s really true.’ It’s part of the ritual. Like somehow repeating it strengthens the bars, makes the locks on his cell ever stronger.
That even though we now know his name, we’re not going to say it. Ever. Not because we’re afraid of him, but because we don’t want to. Don’t need to.
Then we focus determinedly on positive things and on the future. Zoe’s going to start high school. Her birthday is coming up and she’s asked for chickens. I’m still deciding about uni next year. I’m going out. Meeting new people.
Today we arrive at the fountain as dark clouds are gathering overhead. A cool wind begins to whip up around us. Zoe picks a tiny white daisy from the grass and drops it in the water. We watch it float there for a moment, bobbing and twirling, and then we look around for a bench. They’re all full, but an elderly woman sitting alone stands up and gestures that we can take her place.
‘I’m leaving before the rain starts,’ she explains. Then she adds with a smile, ‘How beautiful you both are! Are you sisters?’
It’s strange how often we are asked this. Today we answer simultaneously. ‘Almost.’
We do not talk about Harry. It’s a forbidden topic – partly because Zoe’s parents won’t allow it, and partly because I still find it so hard myself. It’s painful to remember that night, and as time passes it’s more, not less, confusing to sort through all the feelings I have – the ones from before and the ones from now.
My therapist brings the topic up sometimes, gently pointing out that there were so many limitations on what we could say to each other, that we were so locked into our roles. ‘The situatio
n made it impossible for you to truly know each other,’ she tells me.
But she’s got it round the wrong way. As I keep trying to explain to everyone – including my parents – the situation meant that we knew each other better than anyone else. Because we couldn’t hide behind words. We knew each other from the things we didn’t say. From the space between the words.
The skies open up and the rain begins falling. Everyone around us scuttles for shelter, shrieking and laughing, but we stay on our bench, reluctant to waste our hour. Who knows when we’ll see each other again? It’s not like I get regular visitation rights. Besides, after living on the farm, neither of us will ever feel anything but relief at the sight of rain. The flower in the fountain rocks from side to side as raindrops disturb the surface of the water.
Then I look at Zoe, see how wet she’s getting, and feel guilty. Even though she is perfectly fit and well these days, I still worry about her. Esthering, Zoe calls it, with an eye-roll. But just as I’m about to suggest we leave, Zoe turns to me.
‘You know what I miss most about Harry?’ she says, and she gives me a look – one that defies me to stop her.
But I don’t try, even though my heart begins to pound. Maybe it’s time. ‘What do you miss the most?’
‘I miss how funny he was. He could always make me laugh, even when I was in the most terrible mood.’
‘What else?’
‘I miss his smile,’ she says and instantly I see it, that broad, slow smile of his. ‘And I miss how safe I always felt when he was around. Like nothing could go wrong, you know?’
I nod. Because I remember feeling like that too.
‘My parents say that he wasn’t a good person. That it was just an act and he didn’t really care about me at all.’ She looks at me, her eyes serious. ‘What do you think?’
‘He definitely cared about you,’ I say. ‘You were his favourite.’
Zoe pulls a face. ‘Don’t be dumb! You were his favourite. I was his second-favourite.’ She bats a pebble on the ground thoughtfully with her foot for a moment. ‘Sasha sent me a card. You know, Lucille. She’s pretty nice, really.’ Zoe squints up at me. ‘Do you think she’ll ever speak to you again?’