I parked the car and walked through an overgrown garden, finding myself in front of an old wooden farmhouse – dilapidated and long abandoned, though the stone chimney stood intact. It had a big front verandah shaded by a tall, lemon-scented gum, its silvery leaves gleaming as they caught the sun.
Heart pounding, I turned around, pulling something into my mind from long ago. There will be a tower.
And, yes, jutting up on the horizon to the right of the farmhouse, there it was: a distant factory tower, the word OWN just visible on the side facing me. My entire body tingled. It wasn’t just that this place was perfect for my needs. It was also that I recognised it from my meditation sessions. This was where the Special Ones had lived before. I was sure of it.
I had not cried since that very last time my father locked me in the cellar, and this time the tears fell not from anger but from relief. Instinct, guided by a buried memory, had led me directly to the Special Ones’ original farmhouse. This place had been waiting for me all this time. For us to return.
The last thing I did before leaving the property that day was to gather up a selection of herbs, succulents and wildflowers, my hand drawn naturally to particular ones. I took them home and pulverised them into a liquid, which I poured into one of two small purple bottles I’d found buried at the back of my mother’s cupboard.
That evening I began work on the first of the remembering books, the words flowing from me in a steady, effortless stream.
After I claimed the farmhouse as my own, restoring it was my first priority. But when I got around to investigating the old factory, I recognised that it, too, would be useful for storage.
The site was surrounded by KEEP OUT: PRIVATE PROPERTY signs but, judging from the amount of rust, I doubted the owner would be around very often to bother me. I climbed in through a hole in the fencing and stood for a moment, admiring the tower. On the other side, the word FAMILY’S was spelled out in bricks, vertically from the top of the tower down. FAMILY’S OWN. I wondered briefly what had been made here. Biscuits maybe, or soap. Not that it mattered.
I scouted the space inside the main building first, with its heavy wooden doors still firmly attached to their hinges. People made things to last in the olden days. The space, although beautiful, with light filtering in from small, high windows, was too open for my needs. Even the tower was not suitable. But what piqued my interest immediately was the vast storage area under the floor – the sort of place where things could be hidden and not found again. This is where I keep my possessions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The first time I was in this police station – just after Harry left, only days ago – everyone treated me like I was the most important person in the world. They fussed around, couldn’t do enough for me. Someone brought a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, draped a coat across my shoulders. And everything, every tiny thing I had to say, was vitally interesting to them.
That’s all changed now.
I’ve made Dad drive me here and as I walk in, two of the officers hurry over to bar the door against the crowd that’s followed us from the house. The sergeant comes out of his office when he hears the commotion. ‘Hello, Tess,’ he says, his cheerfulness sounding a little forced. ‘Back again so soon! You can just call me, you know. Probably easier that way.’
His eyes flick over to the people outside calling my name and trying to take pictures of me on their phones.
‘I did call,’ I say. ‘Lots of times. But they kept telling me you were busy.’
The sergeant gestures to his office. ‘Well, come in. Let’s talk.’
My dad starts to follow me in, but I stop him. ‘Can you wait here?’
‘Really?’ he says. ‘Are you sure?’ He’s relieved, though, I can tell. He clearly hates hearing about what happened.
‘I’m sure.’
‘Well, I’m here if you need me,’ he says as I walk into the office. The sergeant clicks the door closed behind me.
‘I’ve had some more ideas about where he might be keeping the missing girls,’ I tell him before I’ve sat down. ‘It’d have to be somewhere –’
‘Tess,’ says the sergeant, taking a seat behind his desk. ‘What I’m going to say will sound blunt, but I need you to understand. There’s very little chance that those girls are still alive. We believe we’re dealing with a psychopath here, and in our experience, once a victim has ceased to be of interest to someone like that, they tend to be disposed of pretty quickly.’ He presses his fingertips together and points them at me. ‘We are searching for bodies, Tess, not living people.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m still here,’ I point out. ‘I survived.’ And so did Harry.
‘Luckily, yes,’ agrees the sergeant. ‘But you’re probably the only one.’ He leans back, gives me a searching look. ‘Have you remembered any more details of how you made it from the farm to the city?’
I force myself to hold his gaze. ‘Just what I’ve already told you. Someone happened to come past and I hitched a ride.’
The sergeant nods, but doesn’t smile. ‘It’s just such a pity that the person who gave you the ride didn’t come into the station and make a statement,’ he says. ‘It would’ve been extremely helpful. Are you sure he didn’t give you his name?’
‘No,’ I say, hoping the sergeant doesn’t notice how my face is heating up. ‘I mean, I didn’t ask.’
‘Okay. And can you tell us anything else about your arrival at the farm?’ the sergeant presses.
My head automatically swivels to see where my dad is. He’s on the other side of the waiting room, talking to an officer. There’s no chance of him overhearing, but I still lower my voice. ‘I told you everything I can remember.’
The sergeant regards me silently for a moment. ‘It’s just strange how different your story is to the statements we took from the other two girls,’ he says slowly. ‘It’s not how these perpetrators generally operate. They usually follow the same rituals every time.’
I lean forward, grasping the edge of the desk. ‘But that’s the thing about him!’ I say urgently. ‘I don’t think he’s like anyone else you’ve ever dealt with. And that’s why I want –’
‘Listen, Tess.’ The sergeant presses his palms into the desk and stands up. ‘You’ve been through a highly stressful experience. Right now, you should be focusing on recovery. Get your life back in order, that’s the most important thing. You’ve been very helpful to us and we appreciate it. But you’ve done enough. We can take it from here.’
He goes over to his door, opens it and beckons to my father. ‘Tell your daughter that it’s time for her to relax,’ he says in a loud, jovial voice. ‘Hang out with her friends. Have some fun. Try to go back to being a normal teenager.’
My dad stands up. ‘We’re working on it,’ he says.
I stay in my seat. The sound of the crowd outside the station is audible again now that the office door is open. In a minute I’ll have to push through all those people, any one of whom could be him. Like that guy in the sweatshirt and jeans, or the one looking at his phone. He could be the one with the band T-shirt, drinking a bottle of water. He could even be one of the police officers in here.
The sergeant seems to sense what I’m thinking. ‘You know, we believe he’s probably fled the country by now,’ he tells me. ‘People with this profile don’t tend to stick around. But he’ll surface again somewhere else before long, and when he does, we’ll be waiting for him.’
I shake my head. ‘He’s still here.’
‘How do you know?’ The sergeant’s voice is suddenly sharp. ‘Has he contacted you?’
‘No. But I can feel him watching me.’
The sergeant barely contains a sigh, and then ushers me out of his office. ‘Listen, if by some small chance he’s still around, there’s no need to worry. We have an officer permanently stationed outside your house, and you can always call. Believe me, you’re very well protected.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Usually I don?
??t pass a single other driver in the last stretch out to the factory, where the outer suburbs have given way to farmland and scrub. There is nothing around here to draw people off the highway. But this time, even though I don’t actually see any cars, I have the constant sensation of being followed.
I switch on the radio – something I never normally do – just to distract myself. A news bulletin blares out.
‘The manhunt for the mysterious figure behind the so-called Prison Farm kidnappings is intensifying, with federal agents now joining the search. While investigators are remaining tight-lipped about any leads, a spokeswoman said that finding the perpetrator was a top priority. Evidence seized at the farm –’
I quickly turn the radio off again. I do not want to listen to what must be lies. There was nothing at the farm that could lead them to me.
But as I drive along in silence, doubt creeps in. Maybe the virus hadn’t wiped the chat-room server completely clean. Or maybe Harry has said something. I had the impression that he was hiding, like a coward, but how do I know he hasn’t been working with the police all along?
Suddenly there are flashing lights in my rear-view mirror, and glancing back I see a sunglassed, blue-uniformed figure indicating that I need to pull over. My foot instinctively begins to press down on the accelerator. But I stop myself. There is a better way to approach this.
I slow and pull over, quickly dragging my yellow work jacket on over my shoulders. As the cop walks up to my window, I take the gun from my bag and slip it under my seat. Just in case.
‘You’re in a hurry,’ he says. His voice is neutral, unreadable.
I give a nasal, high-pitched laugh. ‘Was I speeding? Sorry, mate. It’s been a long day,’ I say. ‘I just need to get this last parcel delivered.’ I point to a parcel sitting on the back seat, one I haven’t yet got around to selling.
‘Long way to come for a delivery.’ The cop’s mouth is as thin as the slot of a ticket machine.
‘We go anywhere,’ I tell him, shrugging. ‘Company policy.’
‘I’ve never seen a delivery guy drive a Lexus before.’
‘Van’s in the shop, mate.’
The policeman’s face doesn’t reveal if he believes me or not, and I cannot seem to get into his head to read his thoughts. He asks me for my licence and I cheerily provide him with one of my false ones. He turns it over in his hand and I feel him consider whether it’s worth going to check it. Don’t, I instruct him. He hands it back to me.
‘This road’s blocked ahead,’ he says curtly. ‘You’ll have to go back to the main road, find another way through.’
I thank him for his help, and keep driving until I’m just out of view. Then I quickly turn off into the bush. I’ll just go cross-country.
As the tower looms into view through the trees, I park my van among some bushes, take the items I’ll need from the back, and make the rest of the trip on foot. I move from shadow to shadow, stopping every now and then to listen. Check I’m truly alone.
There’s a dark silence as I pull back the wire and climb into the factory grounds. The silence of sleep, or of death. It usually soothes me to be here – the solitude it carries and the simple, sturdy beauty of the mossy stone walls. But today I’m on edge and, even though the cop is far away now, the feeling that someone is close by, watching, has returned, more intensely than before. I crouch in the shadows for a long time, listening for footsteps, scanning my surroundings for anything unusual or out of place. I stiffen at a crackling sound, but it’s just a bird or a rabbit. Eventually I decide that it’s safe to unlock the door. As always, I pull a balaclava over my face and slip on my gloves before moving any closer.
The rusty padlock pulls free with some resistance and the door creaks open. The musty, cool air from inside curls around me, drawing me in. It’s like stepping into somewhere sacred; even though I’m on high alert, just being there eases my tension a little. The roof is very high and shafts of light slice downwards, catching the swirling dust. Tiny specks billow up around me as I walk over to the trapdoor in the corner. I have a sense that the cellar below was once used as a storeroom for this factory, though you’d easily miss it if you weren’t looking for it.
Sweat drips from me as I remove the pile of rubble I’ve heaped across the entrance and unlock the trapdoor underneath. It’s wedged tightly shut and the ring slips from my gloved hands several times before I manage to yank it open. The air from below instantly floods out, the powerful stench nearly knocking me over. Once I’ve steadied myself, I drop down the boxes of supplies and the ten-gallon drum I’ve brought with me. Then, taking a final deep breath of above-ground air, I pocket the padlock and lower myself into the darkness, pulling the trapdoor shut above my head. Normally I leave it open, but today I feel like it needs to be closed.
The darkness is thick and I fumble for my torch in the box, wishing I’d remembered to clip it to my belt before descending. When I switch it on I give a yelp of shock. There’s a face, barely inches away from me, the eyes fixed unblinkingly on mine. It’s one of the ex-Lucilles – at least, I think it is, because I only see it for a second before I drop the torch.
As I bend to pick it up, I am sure I hear muffled sniggering, and the gentle clinking of chains. I stand up straight, gripping the torch firmly. This is the problem with renewal. Once a Special One’s soul has vacated a body, what remains is far less pleasant and dignified.
Most people in my situation would not have bothered to keep these leftovers at all – they are simply husks now that the Special Ones’ spirits have passed through. It says a lot about the sort of person I am that I have collected them all here, allowed them to live. Besides, up until this point they have been somewhat useful. Now that the Special Ones shop is closed, however, that usefulness has come to an end.
‘Show yourselves, all of you!’ I say. ‘Line up in front of me.’
There’s movement and some more clanking, and when I shine the torch around again, all four of them have gathered in a bunch – two ex-Lucilles and two ex-Felicities. It’s a tragedy to see them. They’re nowhere near Special any more. They’re barely even human, with their knotted hair and pale, scabby skin. They stare at me and, though I know they can’t see me, their expressions make my skin crawl.
‘Well, what have you made for me?’ I ask, as though everything is normal. ‘Supplies are running low.’
One of them scuttles off into a dark corner – as far as her leg chain will allow her to go – and comes back with an armful of things: skirts, headbands, scarves, all of which she drops at my feet. I pick up one of the skirts and examine it. The standard of their work has been going downhill recently. Even so, were the shop still running these items would be snapped up.
I kick one of the supply boxes towards them. ‘There’s more material in there,’ I tell them. ‘Back-up batteries for your work lamps, if you need them, too.’
None of them move to collect the box. ‘We’re hungry and thirsty, Harry,’ whispers one of the ex-Felicities suddenly, and an echo of whispers starts up around her, like wind through long grass. We’re hungry, thirsty.
Annoyed, I push the other box over to them with my foot. Their manners are appalling. The four of them fall on it, tearing it open to get to the food. It’s a very generous amount this week. The supermarket skip was fuller than usual. ‘Better not eat it all at once,’ I say.
They are too busy gorging themselves on biscuits and stale white bread to listen. I would never consume such things myself – they contain no nutritional value – but it’s good enough for husks to eat.
While they stuff themselves I do my rounds, making sure everything is correct. As I thought, there’s nothing at all down here that could link back to me – no boxes connected with the depot, nothing. Still, it’s shocking the state they keep this place in, with no interest in tidiness at all. I order the two ex-Lucilles to funnel the contents of the toilet buckets into the ten-gallon drum I’ve brought with me, and then they push it over beside the other drums i
n the corner. It makes only a minor change to the smell, which seems to have permanently seeped into the floor. It clings to the husks themselves.
I jump when one of the ex-Felicities speaks from directly behind me. ‘We’re still hungry,’ she whimpers. ‘And cold. How can we work when we’re so cold down here?’
‘I brought you blankets last time. They should be enough.’
‘But they’re not!’
It’s the tone of voice that bothers me most. These possessions of mine used to be so anxious to please, so full of fearful respect. But that’s changed. Now it often feels like they are laughing at me.
Enough. I’ve been far too patient. Too kind. Slowly I reach down into my bag and feel around for my gun. But it’s not there and I realise with a stab of disappointment that it’s still under the seat of my car. How could I make such a stupid mistake? It’s not like me at all.
Just leave, I tell myself. Once I’m out of here, my head will clear and I’ll get myself together again. It’s being in this stinking hole with these nightmares that’s confusing me.
I start collecting my things and as I do so, one of the ex-Felicities curls her dirty little fingers around my arm.
‘Bring us something new to copy,’ she whispers. ‘Something that the ones on the farm have made.’
I leap back from her, nearly tripping on her chain in my haste. None of them have ever dared touch me like this before. The feeling of her cold, spidery fingers on my skin is beyond disgusting and, besides, I don’t want any of my DNA under her nails. This creature can’t be any older than nine or ten, but her face, caught in the beam of my torch, looks like that of an old woman.
‘You don’t need new things. Continue making the same items until I say otherwise.’ The sharpness in my voice makes the ex-Felicity retreat into the gloom, but my ill ease grows.