The Special Ones (23 page)
The phone rings and I hear Mum answer it. ‘Absolutely not,’ she says crisply. ‘And it doesn’t matter how many more times you people ask, the answer will always be the same.’
I can guess who it is. Yet another reporter requesting an interview.
‘She needs to put all this behind her and move on,’ I hear Mum say before hanging up.
She and Dad are trying to protect me, I get that. But they’re also trying to squeeze me back into a memory. Into the shape of the little girl I once was.
Yesterday, Dad triumphantly presented me with a hamburger. ‘Your favourite!’ he said. I wasn’t hungry, but he was so excited that I made myself take a bite. Instantly, my mouth was flooded with so much grease and salt that I grimaced, and had to force myself to swallow. Dad made a joke of it, but I could see he was crushed. I felt bad, but also frustrated. I mean, who cares about whether I do or don’t like hamburgers any more when there are four girls missing? I hurried to my room before I said something I’d regret.
‘What’s the point of escaping from a prison farm if you spend all your time locked in your room?’ I overheard Mum say as I shut the door behind me.
Now, I close my eyes and think for the thousandth time:
If only Harry were here
.
I miss him, even though I insisted that he go. And deep down, though I could never tell anyone, it frightens me that I haven’t heard from him since I came home. I wish we’d made some kind of arrangement – a way to communicate secretly – so that we could figure out what to do next, together. But we didn’t, and now all I can do is hope that he’s safe somewhere, waiting until the time is right to come out.
Or maybe I have to accept that I won’t see him again, no matter how much I long to. Who is it exactly that I’m missing, anyway? The Harry I knew on the farm, with his pipe and his beard, is gone for good. What do I even know about the guy who met me outside the gates? For all I know, he’s not even really called Harry.
But that’s not important. He’s still the same on the inside, I’m sure of it. That calm, kind person who sat across from me in the evenings, fixing things, doing his best to make life easier for us, who might not have said much, but what he did say was heartfelt – he still exists, no matter what he’s called or how he looks.
I miss him.
I get up from my bed, pad across the room. I keep the comb Harry made for me hidden at the back of the wardrobe, on top of the folded-up leaving dress. I’m not sure what to do about the dress. I thought about burning it, but then I remember the effort Lucille put into making it and it feels wrong.
But the dress isn’t in the wardrobe. The comb is gone too. Feeling sick, I run down the hallway to the lounge room. Mum and Dad look up from the TV, startled, as I burst in.
‘Where are they? My things from the house?’
‘I threw them out this afternoon,’ says Mum. She looks a little nervous, but her chin juts out defiantly.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because you
have
to forget about that place.’
The kind of wild fury I used to feel begins burbling up inside me, but before it tips out, I find myself slipping into Esther-mode, drawing on her self-control, her dignity. ‘You couldn’t possibly understand what it was like,’ I say, in Esther’s slow, cool tone. ‘I’m not a child any more, Mum. You don’t get to make decisions for me like that.’ Then I hear myself add, ‘And the next time one of those reporters calls up about an interview, please tell them yes.’
My parents exchange an anxious look. ‘Tessy, do you really think –’ Mum begins.
‘The police have given up on those girls,’ I tell her. ‘I want to talk about it on TV. Make everyone understand that they could still be alive, and that we can’t stop searching yet.’
I mean what I say, but I don’t mention the other reason I suddenly want an interview. That by doing it, maybe I’ll be able to get a message to Harry, asking him to let me know if he’s okay at least.
Then, bracing myself, I go out the back of our house. The bin isn’t where it usually is. It must be rubbish-collection night, which means it’s been wheeled into the lane. I’ll have to leave the confines of our property if I want to check its contents. I hate the way I instantly start shivering at the thought of this, but I do my best to keep it together, opening the gate and slipping into the yard. I hope there’s no media people lurking out here – or anyone else.
The bin is on the other side of the laneway, illuminated by a streetlight. I hurry over and open it, pulling at the top bag. Rubbish spews from it, and I see there’s a slit down the length of the plastic, like it’s been deliberately sliced open. Harry’s comb clatters to the ground, spaghetti strands caught in its teeth. There’s no sign of the leaving dress. Not in this bag, or any of the others.
I stand there for a moment, hands slimy with rubbish, surrounded by empty dog-food tins and toast crusts, trying to work out what’s happened. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. It’s to my right, out of the streetlight’s reach.
I freeze. Maybe it’s just a cat. Or a shrub, being blown by the wind. Maybe it’s nothing at all. But a blind panic seizes me and I feverishly wrench the back gate open, almost tripping over in my haste to get back inside, back into the house, back into my room, where I can lock the door and window and try to breathe again.
I place the dress in the lounge room, being careful to touch it as little as possible. The odour of rubbish clings to the fabric, but it holds Esther’s scent too and I do not want to lose any more of that. Whenever I feel doubt about our current situation, I kneel in front of it, imagining the day – surely not too far away now – when its folds will be filled out by Esther’s form.
‘I really like Esther’s style,’ says Petra, during her afternoon cigarette break the next day. ‘Long skirt and high collar – it’s elegant. And that French knot thing she does with her hair – very cool.’
Judith takes a puff on her cigarette. ‘She might not look like that any more, you know.’ Her own hemline, I’ve noticed, has dropped a little lately. ‘Most of the footage they’re showing now is old stuff, from the portal. No-one’s seen her since she was rescued.’
‘Which is why tonight’s interview is going to be
so
interesting,’ says Petra, sipping her coffee. ‘I can’t wait! I might even go out to the studio and see if I can get a glimpse of her arriving.’
‘You idiot!’ laughs Judith. ‘It was filmed this morning. And I bet you couldn’t have got near the place anyway.’
She couldn’t have. I know because I tried myself and found the studio door completely blocked by gawpers, weirdos and security. All I could do was hang in the background, my gun tucked into my work jacket.
‘You know, I’m surprised she’s doing the interview at all,’ muses Judith. ‘The other two are still in hospital.’
‘It was probably the money,’ says Petra. ‘I heard that one network offered her two million for an interview.’
‘I heard three,’ says Judith. ‘But I don’t think it was the money. People who’ve gone through this sort of thing almost
never
go on TV, especially not so soon afterwards. There must be something else going on.’
Petra’s eyes gleam. ‘I can’t wait. The promos say there are going to be
explosive revelations
, whatever that means. Maybe they’ve worked out who the creep behind it all is. I heard there’ve been thousands of calls to Crime Stoppers –’
‘Are you okay?’ Judith interrupts, glancing back at me. ‘Did you just staple your thumb?’
‘No,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘Everything’s fine.’
Judith stands, takes a final drag on her cigarette and then stubs it out on an old saucer. ‘Well, like I said, whatever ends up happening tonight, I get the feeling it’s going to be interesting.’
The only chair left in the lounge room is a purple vinyl recliner – it was too modern, too ugly, to go to the farm. It was in this very chair that they found my mother, I believe, with my brother and father on the sofa nearby, the gas heating turned up to the highest setting, as usual. None of them could’ve cared less about conserving energy.
Usually I just sit on the floor or on a milk crate, but it feels appropriate to sit in my mother’s chair tonight. She used to watch
Tina Talks It Through
religiously. The show promotes itself as an ‘in-depth conversation’ between the host and whoever they’ve coerced into appearing. As far as I can tell, the main goal of the show seems to be to get the guest to cry.
As the theme music plays, the camera shows Tina arranging her notes and planning, I assume, today’s strategy for extracting tears. Opposite her, on the brown leather couch provided for the guests, is Esther.
Her back is straight, hands folded in her lap. I recognise the expression on her face. It’s how she used to look during verification. Radiantly calm, inwardly focused. Composed. How I used to love watching her standing there! But her expression is almost the only familiar thing about her. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt like she’s some ordinary teenager, and her face has been so caked with make-up that she’s barely recognisable. It hurts me to see her like this, but I take solace in what has remained the same: that serene expression, her beautiful long hair.
Looking at her makes me realise just how much I’ve missed being able to see and speak with her every day. To know what is in her head. I try to read her thoughts but it’s difficult through the television screen. All I am able to detect clearly is her immense discomfort.
I lean forward and focus on her image, in particular her forehead, pushing my words in.
Do not worry, Esther. I am here, guiding you.
The show begins with the same old footage of the police ransacking my farm, followed by the shots of Esther returning home. There’s the nauseating voice-over telling us about the
terrible lives the prisoners led under the ever-present watch of their captor
and Esther’s
daring escape from certain death
. There’s no mention at all of Harry.
When it’s over, Tina turns to Esther with a concerned smile. ‘The whole world has seen the terrible footage of that place, Tess. You were there for two years – no electricity, no contact with the outside world, continual hard labour. It would’ve broken a lot of people. How did you cope?’
Esther moves uncomfortably. ‘I coped because I had to.’
‘Well, I think I can say on behalf of everyone that you’re a pretty incredible young woman,’ says Tina. The studio audience claps and whoops and there’s a shot of some girls in the audience, Esther lookalikes, who smile and wave at the camera.
‘So what have you been doing since you returned home?’ asks Tina, when the camera focuses on her again. ‘Are you picking up your studies? Reconnecting with old friends? I guess you’ve got a lot of TV to catch up on, right?’
Esther looks a little taken aback. ‘Um, no,’ she says. ‘I’ve been trying to help find the ones who are still missing. They’re out there somewhere, and –’
‘Really?’ says Tina, her eyebrows lifting. ‘Haven’t you been through enough already? I would have thought you’d leave that to the police.’
I can tell from the way Esther’s mouth forms a grim line that she still shares my opinion of police capabilities. ‘I just pass on anything I remember that I think might help,’ she says.
Tina arranges her expression into one of concern. ‘And have you had any contact with the other two survivors from the prison farm yet?’
‘Well, no,’ says Esther, frowning. ‘Felicity – I mean Zoe – is in hospital, isn’t she, and I don’t think –’
But Tina silences her with a dazzling smile and then turns to address the camera. ‘We’re going to take a short break now, but stay with us because we’ll return with something very exciting – a special reunion here on
Tina Talks It Through.
’
During the commercial break I pace up and down the hallway as I cannot bear all those advertisements for useless, landfill-producing items. When I hear the theme music, I hurry back in. There are now two other people sitting on chairs next to Esther. One of them I recognise straight away as the last Felicity, but it takes me a few moments to realise that the other girl – with blonde, straight hair – is the last Lucille.