I wish I could explain that I’m just trying to protect her. But even if we could speak freely, what would I tell her I’m protecting her from, exactly? If I said ‘from renewal’, she would only be confused. After all, aren’t we currently baking biscuits to celebrate just such an event? Maybe later on today, when Harry and the new Lucille return and she sees what renewal is actually like, she’ll understand.
In the meantime, we can only hope that with the Lucille’s collection today, he will be in the mood to let a little girl’s error slide.
I try to cheer Felicity up by joking around and being silly – or as silly as Esther can be. At first she refuses to be won over, but I finally get her to laugh even though I suspect she’s only doing it to please me. When we put the biscuits into the black cast-iron stove, Felicity goes to check on the animals and I start tidying up.
I can tell from the position of the sun outside the window that it’s around four o’clock. The time Harry said the girl was meeting her friends. If everything’s gone smoothly he will already have her by now.
But the problem is the what ifs. What if the girl changed her plans and didn’t show up? What if a friend joined her earlier? What if Harry realises that she isn’t right after all, and the whole search process must begin again? That would mean more lies to the followers, more stalling, more sleepless nights.
Then there’s the biggest what if of all. What if Harry doesn’t come back this time? He must have at least considered running away during a collection. Who wouldn’t?
He makes it clear that our followers are everywhere, and that if we ever ‘got lost’ they would quickly find us. What would happen next is left unsaid.
Maybe it’s fear that motivates Harry to return, but I’d like to think he comes back because of us. Because of me.
The smell of burning biscuits brings me back into the present moment, and I rush to pull the tray out. The oven is a temperamental brute. It took me many weeks and ruined dinners to work out how to use it. I’ve got the hang of it now, but sometimes it still likes to incinerate something, just so I don’t think I’m in charge.
This time I’ve managed to get the tray out before too much damage is done, although one of the Ls Felicity made for the Lucille is completely blackened. I try not to see it as a bad omen.
Felicity suddenly bursts inside. ‘They’re back! Harry and Lucille – I can hear them coming!’ She is jumping up and down with excitement.
‘Good,’ I say, my voice smooth and light. But my chest constricts, like invisible hands are pulling the strings of my corset.
‘It’s so great,’ says Felicity joyfully. She runs to the door and flings it open. She has no idea what is about to happen.
I linger in the background. ‘Can you see them?’
‘Yes. They’re coming into the kitchen garden.’ Suddenly, Felicity stiffens.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say, although of course I know.
‘Lucille looks different,’ she says slowly.
‘Well, of course she looks a little different. She’s been away for so long.’
Felicity shakes her head. ‘She looks completely different. Like she’s not the same person at all.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Harry opens the door and comes through. ‘Come on in,’ he says to someone behind him. ‘We’re home.’
There’s a brief pause and then a girl steps into the house, almost stumbling, although there’s nothing there to trip on. Her face is flushed and she has that glazed, slightly wild look that new Special Ones always have when Harry brings them here.
It’s always the clothes that are the most out of place, especially with the Lucilles. This girl is wearing a short, filmy skirt and a loose shirt that slides off one shoulder to reveal a neon-pink bra strap. Out there there’d be nothing unusual about her outfit. But in here she looks indecent – almost naked. I’d love to reach out and touch the fabric of her skirt. It reminds me of butterfly wings, brightly coloured and paper-thin compared with the heavy, handmade, coarse materials I’ve become used to.
Although Harry had warned me, I’m a little shocked by the fine, blonde straightness of the girl’s hair. I just hope it’s not the sort that refuses to hold a curl.
The girl looks around. She’s not yet afraid. ‘Is this all part of the set?’ she says.
‘Yep,’ says Harry. ‘This is where it all happens.’
The girl sways forward like a drunk, and runs her hand along the dark wooden bench. ‘It’s all so realistic!’ she exclaims loudly, her words slurring.
Behind her, I quietly lock the door and slip the key out of sight. The girl doesn’t notice. She’s examining Felicity. ‘I love your costume. And your cute hairdo. You’re like a doll.’
Felicity is staring back at her with equal curiosity. ‘How come you look so different?’ she asks, stretching out a hand and touching the girl’s hair.
The girl pulls back, frowning. ‘Hey! Keep your sticky little mitts off me.’
Felicity’s expression darkens. ‘You’re not really Lucille,’ she says loudly. ‘You don’t look like her at all. And you smell funny.’
The new Special Ones always bring with them odours we don’t have in here. Commercial washing powder. Shampoo. Deodorant. The scents are so strong they sometimes give me a headache. It’s hard to believe I must have smelled like that once too.
The girl puts her hands on her hips, swaying like a wheat stalk in a strong wind. ‘My name is Sasha, and I do not smell funny.’ She swings around to Harry, nearly toppling. ‘Is that little girl a bit soft in the head?’
‘She’s just curious about you,’ replies Harry. His voice is soothing and friendly but a look comes over the girl’s face, like she’s just remembered that heading off with a stranger is generally considered a bad idea, no matter how nice or good-looking he is. She squints at Harry. ‘Where’s the film crew?’
It’s time for me to step in. I move over to her, a wide smile on my face, my arms outstretched, although I have no intention of embracing her. ‘Welcome home, Lucille!’ I say. ‘We’ve all missed you so much.’
The girl stares at me and her breathing quickens. Then her eyes begin to dart around, searching, I guess, for possible exits. ‘You’re a bunch of weirdos,’ she says, but I hear the crack of fear in her voice.
I keep my fake smile on full beam. ‘We’re so glad you’re back, Lucille. Sit down. Let me make you a cup of tea. We baked you some welcome-home biscuits and Felicity is going to sing for you.’
‘I’m not singing for her,’ mutters Felicity.
The girl isn’t listening. ‘I’ve had enough of this!’ She turns to lunge at the door, but Harry grabs her arm.
I come up on her other side, not touching her, but close enough that I can whisper in her ear. ‘There’s no point fighting. Just co-operate.’
She goes nuts. She shoves me away, her eyes now wide with undisguised panic. The shock of being touched stuns me, even though I know this often happens during collection. The place where her hands pressed against me burns.
‘Get away from me!’ the girl yells. ‘You’re freaks, all of you!’
She staggers towards the door and discovers it’s locked. Next she rushes to the window – also locked – then back to the front door. It’s like watching a bird trapped indoors, crazed and desperate to escape.
I’ve witnessed similar scenes too many times to be upset by this. But that’s not true for Felicity. She’s so young that she has mostly forgotten her own renewal, so this ugliness is clearly confusing for her. She jams her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes closed. ‘I don’t like this! I don’t like this!’
Beside me, Harry slowly draws in his breath and I know what it means. It’s time.
He produces a rope from behind a chair and, with a single deft movement, lassos the girl. He binds her hands as I pull out the pillowcase from my apron pocket and slip it over her head while she shrieks. It felt brutal the first time I did this to a new Special One, but generally it calms them do
wn.
This time, though, it has the opposite effect. The hooded girl struggles even more. ‘My uncle is a judge!’ she screams. ‘You’ll all go to prison for this!’
Felicity is pressed up against the wall now, shaking and white. I should’ve made her stay outside, down on the farm with a task to keep her occupied, like I’ve done with the other Felicities.
The girl thrashes wildly. ‘You can’t do this to me!’
I glance questioningly at Harry. He nods. We must get the Lucille into the changing room as quickly as possible.
‘Take some biscuits,’ I instruct Felicity, ‘and go to your room.’ Felicity flees.
Harry bundles the girl into the corridor and I move ahead to open the doors. She fights him every step of the way, swearing at the top of her lungs. It’s a long time since I’ve heard language like that. My entire body is taut.
Should Harry have given her a stronger dose of whatever it is that he gave her? Or have we made a terrible mistake this time? The Lucille is meant to be strong-willed but this one seems too strong, too resistant. I can’t imagine her sitting in the chat room, answering the followers’ questions about beauty and love.
When Harry finally gets the girl into the changing room and I’ve locked the door on her, all I want to do is slump to the floor. The girl is still in panic mode, screaming for help. I hear her throwing herself at the door, falling to the ground, staggering to her feet again. It’s awful.
Shame is a feeling I’ve mostly learned how to stifle. But sometimes, like now, it rises in an uncontrollable wave.
Harry must guess how I’m feeling. ‘We’ve done the right thing, Esther,’ he murmurs. ‘We did what we had to do.’
He sounds so sure that I feel a little less evil. For now, at least.
He takes his pipe out of his jacket pocket and leans against the wall. ‘Let her tire herself out.’
Unlike the rest of the farmhouse, the changing room is made from stone. It has no windows, just a couple of slits near the ceiling and a mesh grate set into the door. It’s always dark and cool in there, and I often think that it would make a good place to keep our food supplies in summer. Maybe that’s what it was designed for originally. But it’s also a good place to keep a newly collected girl. The thick walls almost entirely block the sound of screaming.
Harry smokes his pipe by the locked door while we wait for the girl to calm down. Normally at this time I would be in the kitchen, preparing our dinner, washing potatoes and greens for a simple meal. My stomach rumbles. But in these early stages of reintroduction, it’s crucial to stay nearby.
Instead, I work on my mental to-do list and the step-by-step strategy for turning this girl into a passable Lucille. The clothes should be easy enough. The previous Lucille’s things are already waiting in a pile on a chair near the bed. Obviously the girl’s hair will need dyeing and curling, but there’s no point attempting that for at least a couple of days. Acceptance needs to come first, or despair. Either will do.
The girl is still moving around the room, raging and yelling, but she’s slowing down now, and her voice is husky from overuse. My own tiredness builds as I watch her through the little grate in the door. She’s a mechanical toy – faltering, skipping, failing. When she finally crumples to the floor, it’s sudden and shocking – as if someone has yanked out her spine.
I give her a minute, and then when Harry nods I unlock the door. We walk in together and I pull the pillowcase from the girl’s head. Her face shines from a smeary combination of heat, snot and tears.
Our new Lucille.
I reach out a hand and lightly pat her shoulder, allowing myself a small moment to enjoy the rare sensation of touching another human being. It’s restricted and closely monitored during a collection, but Esther is allowed it.
Lucille pushes my hand away and gives me a look of stony hatred. Her eyes, I notice, are blue. Another thing that will have to change.
I sit down on the floor in front of her, my heavy skirts bunching around me like a deflated hot-air balloon. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Of course I’m not okay,’ spits the Lucille. She lifts her bound wrists and points a trembling finger at Harry. ‘He kidnapped me!’
Harry gently corrects her. ‘I brought you home.’
‘Lucille,’ I say. ‘You are back with us now. With the Special Ones.’
‘You’re insane,’ she snarls.
Harry crouches beside her, the fragrance of pipe tobacco wafting up from his hair and clothes. ‘Come on, Lucille,’ he says softly. ‘Don’t you remember us? Don’t you remember what happened?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘You were with us, then you left for a while,’ I say. When I’m doing this – reminding a girl of who she used to be – I speak in a singsong way, like I’m telling a bedtime story. ‘Then Harry found you and brought you home. Our dear, beloved Lucille. Don’t worry if you can’t remember it all yet. It’ll come back to you soon.’
The girl shakes her head savagely. ‘I know exactly who I am. I’m –’
I shush her. ‘No, Lucille. You’re confused. Your soul is still settling. False memories are blocking the pathway to remembering who you really are. But the knowledge will return soon, I promise.’
There’s another small shift in the Lucille’s expression then, so subtle that only Harry or I would be likely to spot it. Doubt. This is good, as uncertainty opens up the opportunity for a new version of the truth to be slipped into a person’s mind. The version that is needed to survive in here. But obviously there’s still a long way to go.
‘Who exactly do you think I am?’ she asks. Her speech is still slightly slurred, but it’s rapidly getting sharper. We need to work fast. The hours after Harry first brings someone back is when they are the most open to having ideas implanted. The ideas burrow deep into the still-groggy mind and begin to grow.
Harry hands me a small-scale copy of our photograph for Lucille. I show it to her and tap the dark-haired figure on the left. ‘This is you here,’ I say. ‘Your name is Lucille.’
Beneath the streaks of tears and snot, her face is very pale. ‘That photo must be a hundred years old. How could it possibly be me?’
I lean forward. If I say the right thing now it could mean the difference between an easy transition for this girl and weeks of hardship for everyone. ‘You are special, Lucille,’ I say in my lullaby voice. ‘You are one of the Special Ones. Just like Harry, Felicity and me. We live here on the land together, away from all the evils of the modern world. We are spiritual farmers who lovingly tend to our followers, shepherding them through the difficult times.’
‘They worship us,’ puts in Harry.
The girl lifts her eyes to him. ‘Worship?’ It’s clear she likes the word. The Lucilles always do.
‘Yes,’ says Harry. ‘Worship.’
She looks back at the photo again. ‘That can’t be me,’ she whispers, more to herself than to us. ‘No-one can live that long.’
She’s resisting it – of course she is – but at least she’s listening.
‘Imagine pouring milk from one glass into another,’ I say. ‘The milk stays the same, doesn’t it? It’s just the glass that has changed.’
The Lucille gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. I suppress the smallest flare of triumph.
‘Well, your soul has always lived here with us,’ I explain. ‘But your glass needs changing over time. Each time the glass renews, it messes with your memory for a little while. Kind of like the bubbles of froth you get in milk after pouring. They go away and the surface steadies again, doesn’t it? It’s a natural part of the process. Inside you’re still our Lucille. You’ll see.’
I’ve recited this passage many times. More times than I care to think about.
Lucille’s eyes are wet. ‘But what happens to my – to the other soul? Which was already in this body that Lucille has now been poured into?’
‘There was no other soul,’ I say, allowing a note of sadness into my voice. ‘That bo
dy was just a shell. It moved and talked, but there was nothing real inside. Not like now.’
Lucille is shaking her head, but I can tell I’ve struck a nerve. We all have that sense of emptiness inside, but it’s worse for some of us than others. It goes deeper and stays longer. It’s what Harry saw in the food court. It’s what he recognised in me.
I stand up, smooth down my skirts. ‘You’ll see how different you feel in a day or two, Lucille, as your soul clears.’
‘We’re really glad to have you back,’ Harry tells her and he sounds so genuine that I have another momentary flicker – is it possible Harry believes all this is actually real?
When he offers her a hand, the Lucille allows him to help her up off the cold stone floor. I smile to myself. Harry’s charm is hard to resist. He leads her to the small cot in the corner and she sits down with a snuffle, raising her bound wrists to wipe her nose.
Then Harry gently takes the picture from my hand and shows it to Lucille again, pointing to the other figures. ‘That’s Felicity,’ he tells her. ‘The little girl who was in the kitchen before. She helps her followers remember what it’s like to be a child. How to play, how to laugh, how to be filled with lightness and wonder.’
Poor Felicity. She didn’t look so full of light and wonder when she fled to her bedroom. I will have to make an extra effort to be kind to her over the next few days.
‘I’m Harry, obviously,’ he continues with a smile. ‘I work on the farm and produce the food we eat, teaching our followers how to harness the sacred bounty of the sun, earth and rain to provide sustenance.’
‘Don’t forget kidnapping,’ the Lucille says, coolly. ‘You could teach them about that as well.’ And then suddenly she looks at me. ‘Did he kidnap you, too?’ she asks. ‘Is that how you ended up here?’
I look away, my face flushed. Harry laughs good-naturedly. ‘It’s called a collection,’ he says. ‘Your soul is still settling into its new form. You’ll remember everything soon enough.’