The Special Ones (3 page)

Most evenings after dinner Harry goes back out to check the rabbit traps, or I’ll hear him behind the house, chopping firewood. But tonight, when I return from putting Felicity to bed, he’s at the table in the kitchen, smoking his pipe and repairing one of Lucille’s boots.

I also have tasks. It’s been six sunrises since I last made
his
tonic, for one thing, so I take the purple glass bottle from its shelf in the kitchen cupboard and bustle about gathering ingredients. Once I have them – the seven green herbs, the powdered mushroom, the chicken bone – I begin pounding them together in the mortar and pestle that I keep solely for this task.

The one good thing about having no Lucille is that I’ve had Harry to myself in the evenings. Often we don’t even talk much, it’s just good to have him near. But today my worries are churning too much to enjoy his company. What if something goes wrong with tomorrow’s collection? Something big? What if the new Lucille realises what’s going on and panics, or causes a fuss? A security guard might spot Harry loitering and become suspicious. Or a police officer might wander by at the wrong moment.

‘Don’t worry, Esther.’ Harry’s face is turned slightly towards me, enough that I can catch a glimpse of his slow, sun-cresting-the-horizon smile. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ he murmurs.

And though they’re just words I instantly feel calmer. Harry knows what he’s doing. He wouldn’t put us in danger.

He points to my slipper. ‘Your heel’s worn out. Pass it here and I’ll fix it for you.’

I slip off the shoe and hold it out to him. Harry takes it in his hand, this thing that just a moment ago was pressed against my skin, which has moulded to the shape of my body. Heat scorches my face and I quickly return to my work, grinding and pounding the ingredients in my mortar until they are a fine paste, not lifting my eyes again until I can tell by the colour of the evening sky that it’s time to prepare for evening chat.

Quickly but carefully I scrape the paste into the purple bottle and add twenty drops of cactus juice. Then I place the bottle in the middle of the kitchen table.

The chat room is right at the back of the house, next to the changing room; the rooms are separated from the kitchen, parlour and bedrooms by a long corridor. The chat room is always locked, other than when we go to answer followers’ questions, and in the morning, when I receive the day’s instructions. If someone needs to communicate with
him
at any other time – to report one of the others for breaking a rule, for instance – they need to ask me to unlock it. So far, no-one ever has.

The farmhouse is made from wood and stone, the surfaces smoothed by use and time. Light is provided by candles, which Lucille and I make out of beeswax collected from our hives. Life in here is blurry, indistinct. It flickers.

The chat room, in many ways, is like every other room in the farmhouse, but there are small differences that somehow make going in there like stepping into another dimension. The lock on the door is jarring: modern and chrome rather than rubbed-worn brass like every other doorhandle in here. And then there is the way the room sounds.

Elsewhere in the farmhouse, the noises are all natural ones. The floorboards expanding or contracting. A possum scampering across the roof. The wind outside and birds singing in the trees. But in here during a chat session, the dominant sound is the hum of the computers. Incessant, alluring – the song of another life.

Freshly renewed Special Ones mistakenly believe that the chat room will help them. They think it offers a way of contacting people on the other side of the gate. But there’s no search engine on these computers. No access to social media. There aren’t even any clocks. Everything is blocked. There’s a wall around our internet use which is much wider and higher than the physical wall around the farm. The chat-room computers can only be used in the way
he
intended: to speak with our followers or sometimes to him.

Like almost everything else on the farm there is a ritual to how things are prepared for a chat session. First I turn on Harry’s computer, and then the one I use. Lucille’s is next in the line and it will remain blank for another evening. Felicity’s computer goes on last. As the chat interface appears on each screen, I can see the followers who are already there waiting, their usernames blinking impatiently.

Some of the names are very familiar. Tru-to-self-92 is here every night. And Cobble_IT is also a regular. But there are new names every night too. The list of those eager to chat never seems to stop growing.

I wonder, as I do almost every night, who all these people are. What do they look like? Are they young or old? They seem so unsure of themselves, needing advice on every tiny aspect of their lives. Don’t they have family they could talk to? Or friends? But with a guilty lurch I remember that I felt like this myself once – like there was no-one in my life who understood me.

My remembering book says that no matter how banal their questions sound, how trivial, we must respond to each follower with kindness and patience. We must always model the virtues of the Special Ones. If we fail in this there will be repercussions, for
he
is always monitoring us.

As I’m checking everything, I hear a high-pitched ringing tone that fills me with dread. I smooth my skirts and nervously pat my hair – a ridiculous gesture, considering I am sure he can already see me – before I slip into my seat to accept the call.

‘Good evening, Esther.’

It’s hard to believe that this voice belongs to a real person – someone with a body and a face and blood pumping through his veins, with emotions and thoughts. The tone is soft and unmodulated. Robotic.
What must it be like, inside his head?
I quickly push the thought away. That is definitely not somewhere I would ever want to be.

‘Good evening.’

‘I gather that Lucille’s collection is taking place tomorrow?’ It’s framed as a question, but of course he already knows the answer. Not just to this, but to everything we say and do. When I first got here, I actually found that comforting.

‘Harry will bring Lucille back from the shopping centre tomorrow afternoon,’ I confirm. ‘We have been rejoicing at the news.’

If I’m expecting to earn some praise by using the guiding word, I’m mistaken. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

‘Remind Harry to stay vigilant at all times. All police are criminals – violent and evil. If they catch Harry, they will kill him. Then they will come to the farm and begin shooting, and then they will set the place on fire. They would show no mercy to any of you, Esther. Not even Felicity.’

It’s a speech I’ve heard before, one that still makes me sweat, even though I no longer really believe it. The trouble is I can picture the scene so clearly – the ringing shots, the fire, the panic, the deadly confusion. And even if I no longer think that the police are our biggest threat, I do know that what Harry is about to attempt is very risky. I tuck my trembling hands out of view. Esther doesn’t show fear, not ever.

I take a steadying breath before replying. ‘I’ll warn him.’

‘Has my tonic been made?’

‘Yes. It’s on the kitchen table.’

The call ends abruptly.

Conversations with him are always like this. Short and sweat-making.

After this, I wake Felicity. Fortunately, she’s used to getting up quickly now, and she wriggles back into her petticoat and pinafore without a word of complaint. She understands the urgency surrounding chat – the importance of being there every evening, of looking exactly how we looked the evening before, showing no signs of fatigue. We are not supposed to change. We, in our perfection, are meant to have risen above all bodily needs.

When Felicity is ready, we hurry down the hallway to the chat room. Harry is already in his seat and flashes a grin at Felicity. I am certain it is meant for me too.

‘Ready, everyone?’ he says.

I take my seat. ‘Ready.’ Then I turn to my screen and type the same words I always do at the start of evening chat:

The chat session is very busy, and my head and wrists ache after an hour of endless question-answering. Esther’s area of expertise is healing, mainly through nutrition and home medicine, but also through the power of positive thinking. I’m even busier than usual because Lucille’s followers are currently directed to me for help and I’m not nearly so familiar with her tips on bringing beauty to the world. Harry can’t help me, either, though he usually gets fewer questions than the rest of us – he only advises on self-sustenance and farming tasks.

The followers of curvy, pretty Lucille are more likely to veer off topic than my own and, although it must be clear from the teaching films that I am nothing like Lucille, they are not deterred from asking forbidden questions, saying filthy things.

Harry is very quick to react when I point these out to him and he deletes the follower immediately, but it adds to the stress of the situation.

There’s one good thing about this session, at least. When the inevitable question arises –
When is Lucille back?
– I’m able to give an answer.
She’s on her way back already.

I often drift into an almost-trance during these sessions – it helps me think like Esther. But this evening a question arrives that jolts me awake.

This sort of query pops up from time to time, and it always makes me edgy because it feels like a test. After a long pause, I write back.

A reply pops up almost immediately.

My fingertips twitch. What would happen if I wrote the truth?
I’m pretending to be the reincarnation of someone
in a photograph because some crazy guy thinks I’m an immortal being. But it’s only a matter of time before I slip up, and when that happens he’ll probably kill me.

But instead I supply a line of Esther’s, one almost threadbare from overuse.

And then I move on as quickly as I can to another question.

Yes
, I write back, the words flowing easily now I’m once again in familiar territory.
Smiling is the gateway to happiness and is the most powerful medicine of all
.

When Felicity stifles a yawn, I realise that it’s time to end this session. ‘That’s enough for tonight,’ I say.

Harry leans back in his chair and exhales. I feel my own shoulders start to sag, and force them back up. ‘It seemed busier than usual tonight,’ I remark.

‘Word of the Special Ones is spreading,’ Harry replies. Often with Harry, I can’t tell if he means something as a good thing or not.

Harry takes Felicity back to her room and I set about putting everything in order. The computers crackle as they power down, and then there’s silence.

CHAPTER FOUR

Despite my exhaustion, I have trouble falling asleep and lie in bed, listening to the night noises. After a hot day like today, the old floorboards in the hallway creak as they cool. It sounds like someone slowly pacing up and down.

When I first got here I was tempted to sneak out when I heard these noises, to see what was going on. But we are forbidden to leave our rooms overnight except in special circumstances.

I look around my little bedroom. The ceiling is low – barely high enough for me to stand under – and the two closest walls are just an arm span apart. There’s just enough room for a narrow iron-framed bed and a small chest of drawers. On the floor is a rag rug, woven by a Lucille. Tonight I’ve left the window open and a breeze occasionally inflates the white cotton curtains like lungs. Outside, the leaves of the trees rustle and shift.