The Special Ones (30 page)

Time passes. Ten minutes? An hour? I can’t tell. We finally stop and I hear him get out of the driver’s seat, the engine still rattling. My breathing is loud and panicked in the pitch-black, but while the van is stopped I hurriedly try to feel my way to the back doors. They are locked, of course, and there are no windows to smash through. Even if there were, I can barely raise my arm.

Outside, there’s the whine of a gate opening. My heart thuds painfully.
We’re back on the farm
… But no, that can’t be possible. He wouldn’t go back there, not now it’s become so public. But where else could he take me?

The van sags slightly as he gets back in the driver’s seat. We move again for a few seconds more, and then we come to a complete stop. The engine cuts out. A moment later the back door creaks open and he’s there.

With a smile he reaches out to me. ‘We’re finally home!’

I stare at his hand, at him.
Home?

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, misinterpreting my expression. ‘You are allowed to touch me. I am the real Harry. You must remember that, Esther, from our last life together?’

I can’t do this
, I think, wearily.
I can’t pretend to be
her
again. Pretend to remember things that never happened.
When I don’t accept his proffered hand, he reaches into the van and wraps his fingers around my good arm. Pulls me out, all the while with that awful, fixed smile.

He seems to be gaining more strength by the minute – or maybe it’s just that mine is failing. The sensation in my arm – somehow both burning hot and freezing cold – is spreading up my neck and down into my elbow. I trip as I leave the van and he hoists me to my feet, fingers gripping into me like a claw.

‘I need to see a doctor,’ I tell him, my teeth chattering. ‘You shot me. I think the bullet is still in me.’

‘You’re fine,’ he says. ‘Let’s go inside. Then we can relax.’

Before us is a large brick house, rising like a shadow out of the ground. It’s the last place I want to enter. There are probably other houses nearby.
If I scream, maybe someone will hear …

But again he seems to know my thoughts and clamps a cold hand over my mouth before pulling me in through a door. There are shoes just inside, lined up in a neat row, and it crosses my mind that there might be other people here too. But as I’m led down a chilly corridor, that thought quickly vanishes. This place is empty of all living things. I can feel it.

There’s a strong smell to it that I know in my gut is bad. He pushes me into a room and closes the door behind us. The toxic stench is stronger in here. Now that we’re
safe
, he finally lets me go. His grip leaves a sting like nettle-burn.

I look around, trying to make sense of the room. It’s hard to turn my head, though, and my body feels so heavy that I long to sink to the floor. But I can’t. I have to stay upright. Focused.

My eyes dart around, seeking something to help me. Something I can snatch up and use as a weapon. But the room is almost completely empty, except for an old television and a worn-out purple chair. It’s a bleak, unloved space. Frayed curtains drape the window. A single globe hangs from the ceiling. I see what I think is a person, crumpled in a corner, but then I realise with a lurch it’s Esther’s leaving dress. The sound of my breathing seems to ricochet from one bare wall to the other.

In the middle of the room are some small plastic containers, grouped together.

‘I’m sorry for having to hold you so tightly,’ he says, with that awful smile. ‘But you understand, don’t you, Esther? Sometimes it has to be like that during a collection.’ He seems much more relaxed now we’re inside, and yet his excitement has also intensified.

‘Where are we?’ I need time. To think. Plan what to do. I wish my body wasn’t throbbing so much. It makes it hard to concentrate.

‘We’re in our house,’ he says. ‘I had prepared another space downstairs for your arrival, but plans have changed. I won’t need to keep you down there as we’re going to be leaving here very soon.’

I feel a little surge of hope.
We’re not staying here.
There’s still a chance of escape.

He hands me the leaving dress, stained and stinking of rubbish. ‘Put this on,’ he says, then goes and sits in the purple chair, facing me, his arms folded in his lap.

The idea of wearing the dress again is so repulsive that anger flares. ‘I’m not putting this on.’

His odd smile vanishes. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I –’ Then I think of Harry. That pool of blood. If I die now, there’s no chance of Harry surviving. No chance of defeating
him,
or making him pay for what he’s done to me and all the other girls. ‘Because I can’t lift my arm,’ I say finally, which is true. The whole side of my body is damp, although I’m not sure what’s blood and what’s sweat. The pain is so intense that I can barely move my fingers.

He rises from the chair and comes swiftly, eagerly, over to me. ‘I will help you, Esther.’

‘No, really, it’s okay,’ I say, filling with dread at the thought of him undressing me. ‘I think I can do it, after all.’

I begin struggling out of my clothes as quickly as I can, kicking off my shoes as the pain shoots up through my arm. But he stands in front of me, unzipping my bloodstained hoodie, slipping it over my shoulders. I stand very still and brace myself. The only thing I can do now is get this over with as quickly as possible. As he lifts my T-shirt, his hand grazes the bare skin of my stomach, and nausea churns inside me.

‘And now, time for the dress!’ There’s a tremor in his voice as he holds it up, its heavy layered skirts and petticoat folded like a drooping flower.

‘Please don’t do this,’ I beg him. ‘Don’t make me put that on.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ he tut-tuts. ‘You look beautiful in it, Esther. Like a goddess.’

As the dress passes over my head, I feel like I’m falling into a deep, dark well with slippery sides, from which I’ll never escape, no matter how much I struggle.

‘Now turn around so I can do you up.’ His breath is against my neck as he starts to button me up and I feel his hands move like bony, white spiders across my back. I press my arms against my side, hands gripping my legs, trying to make them stay strong and supportive.

Through the layers of the skirt I feel something solid tap against my knee, something within the dress itself. What is it? While he is fiddling with the buttons, I slowly slip my hand into the pocket. My fingers touch something metal – smooth and hard, sharply pointed at one end.

My scissors from the farm. They’re still there, where I hid them the night I left. I curl my fingers around them.

‘There!’ he says, taking a step away from me. ‘Let me look at you.’

I keep my eyes down while he examines me, praying he won’t notice the sudden flush in my cheeks.

‘You look beautiful,’ he announces, ‘except for your hair, of course. It was wrong of you to cut it, especially so close to the end. But there’s no time to correct that now.’

My hand, holding on to the scissors, trembles.
Do I dare?
I’m not sure at first where to aim. Then it comes to me.
In the chest. Through the heart.

But I can’t seem to do it. Can’t draw my hand and the scissors out of the pocket.

He fusses around, making adjustments to my clothes and hair. Then, brushing a final wisp away from my forehead, he nods. ‘Now we’re ready to move on together.’ He doesn’t seem to have noticed that blood is already seeping through the white material, the stain growing larger and larger.

‘Move on where?’ I croak. My throat feels like it’s full of husks, scratchy and dry.

When he looks at me, his eyes are all anticipation. He takes hold of my uninjured arm, just above the elbow. ‘Onto the next life, of course. You and I, together. This existence has become far too complicated. The next one will be much, much better.’

Oh my god …
Panic overtakes me and I scramble frantically for the door. But he moves faster and quickly takes hold of me again, dragging me back to the centre of the room with the gun shoved hard under my ribs.

‘Don’t spoil this, Esther. Not when we’re so close.’

He keeps the gun trained on me as he hurries over to the plastic containers and unscrews the lids. The strong chemical smell is coming from the liquid inside. ‘I’ve already done the rest of the house,’ he says, like we’re preparing for a party.

My hand has crept back into my pocket, the metal solid against my leg.

‘It needs to be thorough,’ he says as he splashes the petrol around the room, one hand holding the plastic container, the other the gun. ‘We don’t want anything left behind. No remains. That way we’ll transition into the next life quickly.’ In one corner of the room he suddenly stops, tucking the gun into his jacket pocket as he bends down and prises away one of the floorboards. He lifts out a small photograph and before I even see it I know what it is. The original image of the Special Ones.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he says, staring at the photo in his hands. ‘Everything we’ve been waiting for – it’s finally happening.’ I’m not sure who he’s addressing – me or the people in the image. ‘The wait has been hard for us. But that’s all behind us now. And this time when we return, we’ll be together right from the start, with no obstacles blocking our way. Just you and me: Esther and Harry.’

I tighten my hold on the scissors.
How can you possibly believe you’re Harry?
I want to say scornfully. He looks nothing like the figure in the photograph. He would never pass a single verification. And with a rush I remember the feeling I’d had after reading that article about Harry. How I’d promised myself that I would never again let
him
control and manipulate me. My panic disappears and something else flares in its place. Defiance. Fury.

I didn’t deserve any of this.

He lays the photograph on the ground and from the hole in the floor pulls out a box of matches. ‘Would you like to start the fire?’ he asks, as if he’s offering me the first chocolate in the box.

None of us deserved this.

My breath catches.
My chance.
‘Yes,’ I say steadily. ‘Give me the matches.’ And I take a step towards him, not hurried, keeping my mind clear of thoughts as I reach out for them.

But just as I touch the matchbox, his expression changes and he yanks it away, scowling. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says sharply. He seems to be talking to someone behind me. Someone I can’t see.

The match lights on the first strike, fizzing and flaring into life, making the grim, dingy room glow for a moment. He strides over to the door, opens it and flings the match away. Almost immediately I hear the
whoosh
of fire. Then he strikes another one and this one he throws into the corner of the room we’re in. Instantly a fire flares and crackles, dancing up the walls.

Even as the flames take hold I feel strangely calm. It’s like there’s a voice in my head, telling me what to do.
Don’t let him see your anger
.

‘Come and kneel with me, Esther,’ he says, holding out his hands. ‘We should be together as we make this transition.’

Remember what’s in your pocket.

The flames are leaping around the room and the air is rapidly filling with smoke. My eyes stream and every breath is a struggle. I stumble over to him and, as I kneel down, I pull the scissors from my pocket, keeping them hidden in the folds of my skirts.

His face, blurred by smoke, glows in the light of the flames. ‘Oh, Esther. We are going to be together forever.’

The heat is ferocious, but it doesn’t seem to affect him the way it’s affecting me. And he’s clearly not afraid. Behind me, something explodes and I turn my head to see that the TV screen has shattered. ‘Don’t worry,’ he chides me gently, reaching over and putting his hand under my chin. ‘Look at me.’

My skin feels like it’s blistering, yet I am still calm.
Now. Do it now.

It’s almost as if someone else is controlling my hand, pulling the scissors from my skirts, lifting my arm up above my head. Does he see the gleaming metal through the smoke? My hand is so swift and sure that he doesn’t even realise what’s happening until the blades are buried deep within the flesh above his collarbone. I drive them in with all the force I have left.

‘I’m – not – Esther!’ I scream above the roar of the fire. ‘I’ve
never
been her! Do you understand that? I’m not
special
and none of it was real!’

Now he’s screaming too, his face contorting like a nightmare, but I can’t hear it. The volume has suddenly muted. His hands flail about, first going to the scissors, then to grab at me as I scramble to the door and try to turn the handle. But the door doesn’t move. Is it locked? Jammed? Maybe I’m just too weak.

I feel his footsteps and when I turn, he’s stumbling towards me, the scissors flashing at his neck. He is wheezing, like the air isn’t flowing through him properly.
‘Esther!’

Desperately I slam against the door, over and over, and even though I’m giving it everything, nothing moves. I should be in pain too, but I can’t feel a thing. My body is numb. He lunges out at me, a hand connecting with my arm. His skin is still so cold, despite the heat. I kick out at him and he buckles. Finally the door gives way.

The corridor is full of thick, black smoke that fills my lungs and makes my eyes stream. I drop and crawl in the only direction not already engulfed in flames, the heavy skirts catching under my knees. The air is almost solid in the heat, too hot to breathe, and I’m sure that I’m about to die.

Then, unbelievably, there’s a loud banging noise and a voice, strong and commanding.
‘We’re coming in!’

At first the voice seems to be coming from somewhere inside and I look around, trying to see if someone else is in here, hidden by the smoke. ‘Help!’ I shout, but my voice is barely more than a whisper. Then I realise that I’ve reached the end of the hallway, and ahead of me is the front door.

‘One, two …’

I manage to roll away just as the door explodes. People in uniforms flood through.
The police. Firemen
. Someone grabs me and drags me outside, where I gulp huge mouthfuls of cool air. I’ll never get enough to fill my lungs.