The Special Ones
Em Bailey was born in Melbourne, Australia and used to work as a new-media designer for a children’s television production house. Now she is a full-time author.
The Special Ones
is her second novel for teenagers. Her first novel,
Shift
, won the teens’ choice Gold Inky Award in
Australia and was shortlisted for a number of other awards, including CBCA Book of the Year for Older Readers and the Aurealis YA Fiction Award.
When she’s not writing, Em is generally getting lost, losing things, reading, hanging out with her friends and family, and listening to podcasts. Although her books veer to the creepy, Em is a wimp when it comes to scary stuff and always locks her doors at night.
To Matt and Madeleine, the two other ‘em’s’.
CONTENTS
I hear the main gate slam closed, and I just know from the sound of it that Harry has news. He must have banged it really hard as the gate is a fair distance from the farmhouse. He would only do that, I’m sure, if he was sending me a message. He must have finally found our new Lucille.
Relief floods me. We’ve never gone this long without one before, not in the whole time I’ve been here. Finally, we’ll have some good news for
him
.
I’ve drawn the heavy velvet curtains on the windows, but the heat creeps in around the edges anyway. Beneath the corset and layers of petticoats, my body sweats. A heavy wind rattles the windows.
Bushfire weather
– that’s how my father would’ve described it. Fire was something my parents worried about a lot when we lived in our old house, surrounded by trees.
Fire. Family. My old home. Things I don’t let myself think about in here.
It will take Harry at least ten minutes to make it from the gate to the farmhouse – longer if Felicity spots him coming – but even so I long to gather up my skirts and dash out of the parlour, outside, to the very edge of the front verandah, and wait for him to come into view. I love watching Harry walk. There’s something so reassuring about his unhurried lope.
But I am the Esther, and Esther doesn’t dash. Her remembering book is very clear about that. Esther’s movements are dignified, considered – especially in the parlour. Esther would never let excitement or nervousness show, or waste time watching people walk.
Sometimes being Esther feels like wearing a Halloween costume. One that doesn’t fit. One I can’t ever take off.
With great effort I stay in my chair, listening to the daytime noises of the farmhouse and continuing with my work. On the little wooden table beside me are the socks for darning. Clothing repairs are normally the Lucille’s task, but the mending has piled up to the point where it can’t wait any longer. The sock I’m currently working on is one of Harry’s and it has his smell. Hay, earth, sun. As I push the needle through the fabric, I picture him striding across the farm towards me, coming closer and closer. Past the chickens and the area where the crops grow. Past the peach tree completely covered, the Felicity assures me, with promising green nubbles of fruit. Then, finally, between the two lemon-scented gums standing like border guards where the farm officially ends and the kitchen garden begins.
When I know he must be close, I strain to hear his steps – and, yes, there they are. Purposeful but not rushed, matching the steady rhythm of his breath.
I am always edgy when Harry leaves the farm. When I first arrived here,
he
made it clear that the farm was the only safe place left in the world. Beyond the gate were innumerable dangers. Security guards, police officers, doctors, teachers, parents, all lying in wait to force us back into lives which didn’t really belong to us. And even though I don’t believe this any more – not really – I’m always relieved each time Harry returns safely.
The handle of the front door rattles as it turns. There are footsteps down the hallway and finally the parlour door swings open. Harry fills the doorway as air and light flood the dark, stuffy space. He’s breathing deeply and when I sneak a quick glance at him, I notice that his wheat-coloured hair forms damp swirls against his forehead. It’s hardly surprising, considering the thick trousers and woollen jacket he’s wearing.
I put down the sock and hurry (while trying to appear not to hurry) over to the sideboard, where I have a carafe of water waiting. My hand trembles as I pour a glass for Harry.
Slow, considered movements,
I remind myself.
He
is probably watching us right now, and he mustn’t suspect how tense I am.
Outside the window, the generator whirs. I have questions, lots of them, but I keep them in check. Conversations between Harry and Esther must be as formal as a script. I hand the glass of water to Harry, careful not to let our fingers touch, or our eyes meet. ‘Did you see Lucille today?’
My voice is smooth and calm and perfectly Esther, but I’m sure Harry senses my nervousness. Last time the Lucille was renewed in four days. This time it’s been almost three weeks. The followers – especially Lucille’s – keep asking how much longer it will be before they see her again. And it’s only a matter of time before
he
loses patience with us.
Harry gulps down the water. ‘Yes,’ he says when he’s finished. ‘I saw her.’
Although it’s the answer I was expecting, I can barely keep from flinging my arms around his neck. I refill his glass to give myself time to regain composure. If any of the followers are watching they need to see that we have everything under control – that Lucille has simply gone away and will come back soon, just like she has before.
‘How is she?’ I ask.
Two dents appear on Harry’s forehead, like invisible fingers have pressed into his skin. They’re gone in an instant, but I know what they mean. When normal forms of communication are restricted, you learn to gather information in other ways. That slight frown means there are changes to the Lucille. Significant ones.
‘Her hair seems straighter, and a little lighter.’ Like me, Harry knows better than to let his concerns show in his voice. ‘She’s obviously been spending some time in the sun.’
Automatically, my eyes flick over to the photograph above the mantelpiece. Gilt-framed. Dominant. The image itself is a little blurry – like it’s been enlarged – but it’s still clear enough. Four figures stand on the verandah of an old stone farmhouse. Three of them are girls in gloves and long white dresses.
The smallest girl in the photo has thick braids and a cupid’s kiss of a face. Above her, written in old-fashioned cursive, is a name:
Felicity
.
Near her is a male and his beard makes him look older than he really is, which is probably no more than nineteen. He has one hand arm protectively around Felicity, his shoulders seeming so broad compared with her tiny child’s frame.
Harry
.
To his left is a girl with dark curls and a curvy figure. Her chin is held up in a way that could be proud or defiant, or both.
Lucille.
The fourth figure, standing near the front door, is a tall, thin girl standing with her hands clasped. Her expression is smooth and unreadable. That’s me.
Esther.
Screwed into the wall beneath the photograph is a little brass plate. I can’t read the engraving from here, but I know what it says.
The Special Ones
.
The followers often ask me during evening chat:
What were you thinking about when that photograph was taken?
At first the question frightened me so much I could barely type a reply. I was convinced they’d picked me as an impostor. That they already suspected the girl in the photo was a total stranger to me.
It’s hard to remember exactly.
My hands would shake as I typed my reply.
It was so long ago.
Not a great answer, I knew that. But no-one ever challenged me about it and gradually I became more confident. My answers improved.
When that photograph was taken I was thinking about how I, as a Special One, can help to guide you, my loyal follower, through your times of need.
Sometimes I’d even twist the question around, making it seem like
I
was doing the testing.
What do you think I was thinking?
‘The sun is good for the soul and its effects on Lucille will soon fade once she’s back here,’ Harry says mildly. ‘And her hair will right itself too.’
I turn to find that he has moved from the doorway and is standing near me now, also looking at the photograph. I nod in reply. Of course, we both know that the Lucille’s hair won’t really right itself but at least changing straight, fair hair into dark curls will be easy compared with other transformations I’ve had to make – like the time I had to turn a Felicity’s short, dark frizz into smooth, plaitable blondeness. Besides, the greatest challenges with reintroducing a Special One are not to do with physical appearance.
‘Otherwise, she’s just as she was,’ Harry adds, draining another glass of water.
I take this to mean that her height and weight are pretty accurate, which is good news. In Lucille’s remembering book, she is described as being taller than Felicity but shorter than Esther. She needs to be soft, but in no way plump.
‘And she has that same look in her eye.’
There’s the slightest hint of a chuckle in Harry’s voice as he says this. The Lucilles always have a particular expression. In her book, this is described as ‘being filled with strong emotion’, but I have always secretly thought of it as sulky and troublesome. I suspect Harry feels the same. No matter what it is, the Lucille needs to have it. That expression is what the followers will be expecting.
Harry tips his glass towards me as I pour, the water forming a connecting arc between us.
‘Where did you find her?’ I ask.
‘In a food court, eating a hotdog and chips,’ says Harry.
‘Poison,’ I say primly, but my mouth salivates. When was the last time I ate anything like that? Probably when Mum took me to the local shopping centre, soon after we moved. She was hoping, I guess, that the outing would make me see the benefits of our new location. But what fun could I possibly have without the friends I’d left a thousand kilometres behind? Mum dragged me into shops, where I steadfastly refused to try on anything, and then I picked, stony-faced, at the lunch she bought me.
‘Poison,’ agrees Harry, but I think I catch the tail end of a smile on his face before I hastily look down.
Harry and Esther are not allowed to look directly at each other for more than three seconds at a time. What does Harry make of me in those brief glances? Does he just see Esther – her neat hair, her tightly corseted body, her controlled face? I used to hope that he would see more, or at least sense the things buried deep inside. But then I wondered if this was the wrong thing to wish for. Maybe Harry wouldn’t like the real me. Esther is capable, strong. She gets on with things without complaint. She doesn’t freak out at the sight of blood or cry when things don’t go her way. In other words, she’s nothing like I am inside.