The Special Ones (31 page)

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 situation 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?’

Some questions are easy to answer. ‘No.’

Then Zoe looks around, checking for her parents. Her time is nearly up. ‘Do you think I’ll ever get to see Harry again?’ she says quickly. ‘Now that he’s out of there?’

‘I don’t think so. At least, not for a very long time.’

Her face falls, but only a little. She must have known this would be the answer.

Around a bend in the path her parents appear, sharing an umbrella. They won’t be impressed that I let their daughter get so soggy. Maybe it’ll be the last straw and they’ll forbid us from meeting again.

At first I think this is why Zoe flings her arms around me. That she’s worried it will be a while before we see each other. But she presses her mouth to my ear and whispers, ‘Can you say hi to him from me? And tell him that I’m still his friend?’

Then she jumps from the bench, runs to her parents and soon she’s out of sight.

It’s later that same afternoon – after I’ve gone home and changed out of my wet clothes, and checked in with my parents so they don’t worry – that I get a chance to pass on Zoe’s message. Since Harry got out, he’s moved into a flat on the other side of town. It’s on the ground floor, of course. The physio says that one day he’ll be strong enough to manage stairs again, but it won’t be for a while yet. Nearby is an Italian cafe that is always dark and full of old guys playing cards and smoking in the doorways. If they recognise us, they aren’t interested in showing it.

This is where we meet. To sit and hold hands across the table. Often we don’t say very much. Not because we don’t have anything to talk about, because the opposite is true.

The rain is still thrumming outside and I look at Harry, wondering if he too imagines the water tank and dam filling up on the farm. Not that those things even exist now. The place has been bulldozed.

But we’re not here to talk about rain, or water tanks. Or even the farm. Today I have news. I grab my bag and pull out an opened envelope and lay it on the table between us.

Harry glances at it, and then at me. ‘Foreign stamp,’ he comments.

‘Yes.’

‘The letter’s from that university, isn’t it?’

I nod. Slowly.

‘And you were offered a place.’

‘Yes.’ And as I speak I realise I’ve made up my mind about it. ‘I’m going to accept it.’

Harry reaches across and squeezes my arm. He doesn’t say anything and a moment later his chair scratches across the tiles as he stands up.

‘I’m not leaving for another two months!’ I say in a panic, and he laughs. A couple of the old guys look around from their card game and smile at us briefly.

‘I know.’ Harry grins and holds out his hand. ‘But this deserves a celebration.’

I take his hand and stand up. He leads me through the tables towards the front door.

‘You can come and visit,’ I point out.

‘Yes,’ he agrees, even though we both know he probably won’t. He pushes open the front door and then we’re standing on the footpath in the cold.

‘And it’s not like it’s forever,’ I add, even though we both know it might be. I shiver as a droplet falls down the back of my neck. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

‘Just here,’ says Harry.

I give him a half-smile, not understanding. And then he pulls me in towards him, one arm around my back, the other still holding my hand. ‘You missed out last time,’ he murmurs. ‘This is to make up for it.’

He wants me to dance in the rain with him
, I realise. But I’m not sure I can do it. Act silly. Clown around in the rain outside a cafe in the late afternoon.

Yet Harry persists in that slow, patient way of his, which has become slightly slower but no less patient since that night in the park. And, before I know it, I’m part of it too. Part of the dance, part of this moment. Dancing with Harry as the rain falls around us.