The Special Ones (5 page)

After the morning’s chores, the three of us eat a silent lunch together in the parlour, everyone caught up in their own thoughts. As I start to clear away, Harry stands. ‘Well, I’d better go,’ he says.

I know that the main gate is only unlocked when it’s time for someone to pass through, and none of us know how long it stays open. Missing that time window would be terrible.

We walk through the kitchen and out onto the side verandah. I go with Harry to the very edge and slip him a neatly written list of things we need. Black hair dye. Tinted contact lenses. Some spools of cotton thread. Harry tucks my list into the pocket of his jacket.

Not for the first time, I wonder where he’ll get the money to buy the things on that list, or whether he’ll simply steal them. I have no idea how he gets into town, either – I used to assume that he rode a bicycle or caught a bus, but then once I heard the distant, foreign sound of a car engine soon after he’d gone.

As Harry starts to walk down the steps, Felicity clutches at his arm. ‘Don’t go,’ she begs. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling in my stomach about it.’

Harry puts an arm around her shoulders. ‘Young lady, you’ve got a bad feeling in your stomach because you ate too much lunch,’ he says, teasingly. ‘Esther will make you some fennel tea and you’ll feel fine.’ He tweaks one of her plaits. ‘I’ll be back before you know it, Flick. With Lucille. Now, how about you walk with me to the gate?’

Felicity turns to me. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course,’ I say. It’s a relief to be able to say yes for once. ‘But come straight back afterwards so we can bake those biscuits.’

Felicity nods, happy again. Or happier, at least.

Harry salutes and almost, but not quite, looks at me. ‘Back soon,’ he says.

I want to wish him good luck, but Special Ones aren’t supposed to need it. ‘I’ll be here,’ I say. ‘Waiting.’

I watch from the front door until Felicity and Harry disappear past the gum trees and into the farm. Even then I remain where I am, as if the whole mission depends upon my staying in place for as long as possible. It’s only after I hear the gate clang closed that I return inside, my stomach hollow. It’s begun.

It’s far too hot to be baking, but I can’t go back on my word. Besides, it’s a good opportunity to do some maths with Felicity: how many quarter cups of flour, how many tablespoons of sugar – that sort of thing. I slip on my apron. In the pocket I put a pillowcase. I’ll need it later.

When the dough is ready I divide it in half, giving us a ball each. I roll mine flat, planning to use my favourite knife to cut out some shapes. But the knife is not where I thought I’d left it. It’s frustrating, all these missing items, and worrying too. I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with my brain. Then I remember the note resting against the purple bottle this morning, and another possibility occurs to me.
He
took the knife. But why would he do that?

Felicity is chatting to herself as she shapes the biscuit dough into letters with her fingers. ‘E for Esther and H for Harry. L for Lucille. I’ll make it very curly and fancy because she’ll like that.’ The tip of her tongue pokes from her mouth as she works, making her look even younger than she is. ‘And for me, a very funny little Z.’

I freeze, the missing knife forgotten. ‘You mean an F. Felicity starts with an F.’

Shock fills Felicity’s face as she registers her mistake. She snatches up the Z and squishes it so the dough squirts out between her fingers. ‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I – I just forget sometimes.’

‘We need to work on your letters,’ I say, managing to smile, but although she nods I know I’ve scared her badly.

I wish I could explain that I’m just trying to protect her. But even if we could speak freely, what would I tell her I’m protecting her
from
, exactly? If I said ‘from renewal’, she would only be confused. After all, aren’t we currently baking biscuits to celebrate just such an event? Maybe later on today, when Harry and the new Lucille return and she sees what renewal is actually like, she’ll understand.

In the meantime, we can only hope that with the Lucille’s collection today,
he
will be in the mood to let a little girl’s error slide.

I try to cheer Felicity up by joking around and being silly – or as silly as Esther can be. At first she refuses to be won over, but I finally get her to laugh even though I suspect she’s only doing it to please me. When we put the biscuits into the black cast-iron stove, Felicity goes to check on the animals and I start tidying up.

I can tell from the position of the sun outside the window that it’s around four o’clock. The time Harry said the girl was meeting her friends. If everything’s gone smoothly he will already have her by now.

But the problem is the
what if
s. What if the girl changed her plans and didn’t show up? What if a friend joined her earlier? What if Harry realises that she isn’t right after all, and the whole search process must begin again? That would mean more lies to the followers, more stalling, more sleepless nights.

Then there’s the biggest
what if
of all. What if Harry doesn’t come back this time? He must have at least considered running away during a collection. Who wouldn’t?

He
makes it clear that our followers are everywhere, and that if we ever ‘got lost’ they would quickly find us. What would happen next is left unsaid.

Maybe it’s fear that motivates Harry to return, but I’d like to think he comes back because of us. Because of me.

The smell of burning biscuits brings me back into the present moment, and I rush to pull the tray out. The oven is a temperamental brute. It took me many weeks and ruined dinners to work out how to use it. I’ve got the hang of it now, but sometimes it still likes to incinerate something, just so I don’t think I’m in charge.

This time I’ve managed to get the tray out before too much damage is done, although one of the Ls Felicity made for the Lucille is completely blackened. I try not to see it as a bad omen.

Felicity suddenly bursts inside. ‘They’re back! Harry and Lucille – I can hear them coming!’ She is jumping up and down with excitement.

‘Good,’ I say, my voice smooth and light. But my chest constricts, like invisible hands are pulling the strings of my corset.

‘It’s
so
great,’ says Felicity joyfully. She runs to the door and flings it open. She has no idea what is about to happen.

I linger in the background. ‘Can you see them?’

‘Yes. They’re coming into the kitchen garden.’ Suddenly, Felicity stiffens.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, although of course I know.

‘Lucille looks different,’ she says slowly.

‘Well, of course she looks a little different. She’s been away for so long.’

Felicity shakes her head. ‘She looks
completely
different. Like she’s not the same person at all.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Harry opens the door and comes through. ‘Come on in,’ he says to someone behind him. ‘We’re home.’

There’s a brief pause and then a girl steps into the house, almost stumbling, although there’s nothing there to trip on. Her face is flushed and she has that glazed, slightly wild look that new Special Ones always have when Harry brings them here.

It’s always the clothes that are the most out of place, especially with the Lucilles. This girl is wearing a short, filmy skirt and a loose shirt that slides off one shoulder to reveal a neon-pink bra strap. Out there there’d be nothing unusual about her outfit. But in here she looks indecent – almost naked. I’d love to reach out and touch the fabric of her skirt. It reminds me of butterfly wings, brightly coloured and paper-thin compared with the heavy, handmade, coarse materials I’ve become used to.

Although Harry had warned me, I’m a little shocked by the fine, blonde straightness of the girl’s hair. I just hope it’s not the sort that refuses to hold a curl.

The girl looks around. She’s not yet afraid. ‘Is this all part of the set?’ she says.

‘Yep,’ says Harry. ‘This is where it all happens.’

The girl sways forward like a drunk, and runs her hand along the dark wooden bench. ‘It’s all so realistic!’ she exclaims loudly, her words slurring.

Behind her, I quietly lock the door and slip the key out of sight. The girl doesn’t notice. She’s examining Felicity. ‘I love your costume. And your cute hairdo. You’re like a doll.’

Felicity is staring back at her with equal curiosity. ‘How come you look so different?’ she asks, stretching out a hand and touching the girl’s hair.

The girl pulls back, frowning. ‘Hey! Keep your sticky little mitts off me.’

Felicity’s expression darkens. ‘You’re not really Lucille,’ she says loudly. ‘You don’t look like her at all. And you smell funny.’

The new Special Ones always bring with them odours we don’t have in here. Commercial washing powder. Shampoo. Deodorant. The scents are so strong they sometimes give me a headache. It’s hard to believe I must have smelled like that once too.

The girl puts her hands on her hips, swaying like a wheat stalk in a strong wind. ‘My name is Sasha, and I do
not
smell funny.’ She swings around to Harry, nearly toppling. ‘Is that little girl a bit soft in the head?’

‘She’s just curious about you,’ replies Harry. His voice is soothing and friendly but a look comes over the girl’s face, like she’s just remembered that heading off with a stranger is generally considered a bad idea, no matter how nice or good-looking he is. She squints at Harry. ‘Where’s the film crew?’

It’s time for me to step in. I move over to her, a wide smile on my face, my arms outstretched, although I have no intention of embracing her. ‘Welcome home, Lucille!’ I say. ‘We’ve all missed you so much.’

The girl stares at me and her breathing quickens. Then her eyes begin to dart around, searching, I guess, for possible exits. ‘You’re a bunch of weirdos,’ she says, but I hear the crack of fear in her voice.

I keep my fake smile on full beam. ‘We’re so glad you’re back, Lucille. Sit down. Let me make you a cup of tea. We baked you some welcome-home biscuits and Felicity is going to sing for you.’

‘I’m not singing for
her
,’ mutters Felicity.

The girl isn’t listening. ‘I’ve had enough of this!’ She turns to lunge at the door, but Harry grabs her arm.

I come up on her other side, not touching her, but close enough that I can whisper in her ear. ‘There’s no point fighting. Just co-operate.’

She goes nuts. She shoves me away, her eyes now wide with undisguised panic. The shock of being touched stuns me, even though I know this often happens during collection. The place where her hands pressed against me burns.

‘Get away from me!’ the girl yells. ‘You’re freaks, all of you!’

She staggers towards the door and discovers it’s locked. Next she rushes to the window – also locked – then back to the front door. It’s like watching a bird trapped indoors, crazed and desperate to escape.

I’ve witnessed similar scenes too many times to be upset by this. But that’s not true for Felicity. She’s so young that she has mostly forgotten her own renewal, so this ugliness is clearly confusing for her. She jams her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes closed. ‘I don’t like this! I don’t like this!’

Beside me, Harry slowly draws in his breath and I know what it means. It’s time.

He produces a rope from behind a chair and, with a single deft movement, lassos the girl. He binds her hands as I pull out the pillowcase from my apron pocket and slip it over her head while she shrieks. It felt brutal the first time I did this to a new Special One, but generally it calms them down.

This time, though, it has the opposite effect. The hooded girl struggles even more. ‘My uncle is a judge!’ she screams. ‘You’ll all go to prison for this!’

Felicity is pressed up against the wall now, shaking and white. I should’ve made her stay outside, down on the farm with a task to keep her occupied, like I’ve done with the other Felicities.

The girl thrashes wildly. ‘You can’t do this to me!’

I glance questioningly at Harry. He nods. We must get the Lucille into the changing room as quickly as possible.

‘Take some biscuits,’ I instruct Felicity, ‘and go to your room.’ Felicity flees.

Harry bundles the girl into the corridor and I move ahead to open the doors. She fights him every step of the way, swearing at the top of her lungs. It’s a long time since I’ve heard language like that. My entire body is taut.

Should Harry have given her a stronger dose of whatever it is that he gave her? Or have we made a terrible mistake this time? The Lucille is meant to be strong-willed but this one seems
too
strong, too resistant. I can’t imagine her sitting in the chat room, answering the followers’ questions about beauty and love.

When Harry finally gets the girl into the changing room and I’ve locked the door on her, all I want to do is slump to the floor. The girl is still in panic mode, screaming for help. I hear her throwing herself at the door, falling to the ground, staggering to her feet again. It’s awful.

Shame is a feeling I’ve mostly learned how to stifle. But sometimes, like now, it rises in an uncontrollable wave.