The Special Ones (27 page)
‘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 Her eyes are wide and the fury from a moment ago has been replaced by something exceedingly strange.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 those 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.
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.
Someone in the front row calls out a question. ‘Why wasn’t the factory searched earlier? It can be seen from the farm. Wouldn’t that have been a fairly obvious place to start?’
‘The factory was a considerable distance from the main crime scene,’ the commissioner replies quickly. ‘It wasn’t, in the department’s opinion, an obvious site to search extensively.’
‘But isn’t it true that the police
did
search there, a week ago, and found nothing?’ another reporter presses. The crowd murmurs in agreement.
The commissioner shuffles some papers uncomfortably and concedes the point, but says with the volume of tips they’d received, they’d ‘had to rationalise certain aspects of their investigation’.
I start to seethe. Nothing about this investigation has seemed rational to me. I had to fight for them to take me seriously, to listen to me at all. Yesterday, when I rang to say I was sure the girls were hidden in the factory somewhere, I could practically see them rolling their eyes at each other. In the end, I think they only agreed to go out there because I swore I would stop calling if they did.
‘Check underground,’ I pleaded. ‘He used to leave us in the cellar.’
Suddenly, the police commissioner reaches out and claps me on the shoulder, making me jump. ‘We have this remarkable young lady’s persistence to thank for their eventual discovery,’ he says heartily. ‘She insisted that we search the factory premises again. Said she had a hunch. We went back with thermal-imaging equipment and, sure enough, there they were beneath the floor. The entrance was completely obscured by rubble.’
I fix my eyes on the edge of the door again, praying that no-one will ask me anything. It doesn’t work.
‘Tess – can you explain to us
why
you thought the girls were there?’ someone calls from the back of the room.
It’s what I’ve been dreading – because I know I can’t explain it in a way that sounds believable. How as that woman had screamed at our gates, I’d suddenly remembered the tower I could see from the farmhouse, the word
OWN
spelled out in bricks up its side. If I say that, someone will probably accuse me of claiming to have visions. ‘We used to get locked up in the cellar as punishment,’ I say, keeping my explanation as short as possible. ‘And I often used to look at that tower from the farmhouse. It seemed the logical place for him to take –’
‘I’m sorry, Tess,’ someone else butts in. ‘But don’t you think that’s just a
little
too coincidental?’ It’s a guy in a grey suit and although his tone is polite, his expression is unbearably smug.
Everyone goes quiet, waiting for my answer. When I first emerged from the farm, these same people swarmed around me, congratulating me on my escape, acting like I was a hero. Now it feels like they can’t wait to trip me up and pounce. I wish I’d been better prepared before I came here. I could’ve worked out my answers, like I used to do for evening chat. But unlike Esther, I have no remembering book to help me with this sort of thing.
‘Not to me, it doesn’t,’ I say evenly.
The guy in the grey suit continues to push. ‘You know, some people are saying that this proves you knew where they were all along. And that you’ve only revealed where they were being kept because you think it’ll help your leader.’
‘People can think what they want,’ I retort. Irritation and frustration are starting to seep through my wall of calmness and control. ‘The important thing as far as
I’m
concerned is that the girls are out of there. Now we can focus on the next step: finding
him.
’ My face burns as I swing around to face the police commissioner beside me. ‘I have a question too. What are you doing to find the person behind all this? Have you got any closer?’
The commissioner starts off on a long-winded, evasive reply, but I don’t bother to listen. I already know the answer. They’re no closer to finding
him
than they were when I first left the farm.
My only hope now is that Harry is watching this and that it’s as clear to him as it is to me that we can’t rely on the police to help us.
‘Of course,’ adds the commissioner, ‘the crucial factor in our further investigations is Harry Fernard making himself known to us.’
There’s no doubt from his tone that the police still consider Harry their number-one suspect. If he were to present himself now he would be arrested, I have no doubt at all.
Don’t do it, Harry,
I mentally will him.
Stay away.
My fury finally breaks through the delicate walls of my self-control, flooding out like a deluge. Because of all these people and their stupidity, I may never get to see or speak to Harry again. And I’ve had enough of being bombarded with questions. I’m tired of everyone assuming I have all the answers. Without really being aware of it, I find myself pushing back my chair and storming out of the conference, chased by the persistent flash of cameras.
What am I supposed to make of what Esther’s done? What she went on TV and said? Her actions are almost impossible to interpret. There’s less than a finger’s width of liquid in my purple bottle now but my need is great and so I allow myself three drops on the tip of my tongue. The vision flickers before me like a faulty light bulb, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
‘Don’t you see? This isn’t a bad thing. This will help us.’
