The Special Ones (26 page)
I remember the excitement of that first collection so vividly. I had driven Harry into town that evening and I could tell he was nervous, as well as confused. We parked near the dance school and waited until the blonde girl came out.
‘I know her,’ I told Harry. ‘Can you go tell her that her dad is in trouble and we need her help? I’ll wait for you both around the corner.’
Harry looked mildly uncertain as he hopped out, but did not question me. I parked around the corner and popped the boot. From under my seat I pulled a blanket – an old favourite of my brother’s – and pulled on a balaclava. I’d felt jittery with excitement until I heard the vision counselling me.
Stay calm, stay in control.
A few moments later, Harry and the girl entered the lane. I saw him gesture to my car and she peered forward, trying to see me through the tinted windscreen.
‘Is my dad okay?’ she said, looking worried.
‘I’m sure everything’s fine,’ Harry told her. ‘He just needs your help.’
A thrill passed through me as the girl came closer. Finally my little family was coming back together! The moment she turned away from the car, I stepped out quickly and threw the blanket over her, swaddling her tightly. Muffling her cries.
‘Help me lift her into the boot,’ I said to Harry. My voice was calm, but I made it clear he had to obey me.
Harry stood fixed to the spot, staring at me with an almost comical look of horror on his face. I had to heave her in by myself.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I snapped, when the boot was securely closed. ‘You’re paid to help me.’
‘You lied to her!’ His voice was strained.
‘She belongs on the farm,’ I told him. ‘She just doesn’t realise it yet.’ From within the boot came the sound of muted yelling. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, striding around to the driver’s seat.
‘No!’ said Harry. He had the nerve to sound angry. To doubt what I was doing. ‘You have to let her out!’
I knew that I did not have to justify my actions to this temporary fill-in, but then he made a move towards the boot. I pulled my gun from my jacket and pressed it to his chest. ‘If you open that, I will shoot you and then I will shoot her too.’ I spoke slowly and clearly so he would understand how serious I was. ‘Get in the car, and let’s go.’
I trawl the streets for hours, my frustration and irritation steadily growing until they threaten to spill out. I uncover no sign of Harry – not a trace. As far as I can tell he hasn’t checked into any of the boarding houses he used to frequent when he could cover the rent, or the doorsteps he’d sleep on when he couldn’t. No-one seems to have any information, not even when I threaten them or offer money.
I feel bone-weary by the time I start driving home late that evening and I am sorely tempted to take a swig from the purple bottle – but the contents are getting low and I am not sure when Esther will be back to make me a new supply.
When I stop to unbolt the front gate, I find that a newspaper has been shoved between the bars. It’s almost definitely been
passed on
from Mrs Lewis. It falls to the ground as I swing the gate open and I see the front headline:
HUNT FOR HARRY HEATS UP.
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
.
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.
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 furiously 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.
