The Special Ones

I give her the best answer I can manage. ‘From everything out there.’

  Four days before Lucille is due to rejoin us, Harry and I decide to bring her out for a test run. When I tell her that she can have breakfast with us the next morning, her face lights up. ‘I can leave this room?’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s nice to see her look happy for once. But I still have my reservations. ‘Make sure you’re ready when I knock tomorrow.’

  She nods. ‘Don’t worry. I will be.’

  And, sure enough, when I unlock the door the next morning Lucille is sitting on the edge of her bed, dressed and with her dark curls neatly pinned back. Her hands are folded in her lap, her expression demure.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ she says, sounding excited and a little nervous. When I bring her into the kitchen, Felicity’s eyes widen with amazement.

  ‘You are her, after all!’ she breathes and then astonishes everyone by running over and hugging her. Lucille doesn’t try to push her off. Possibly she’s too stunned.

  Harry stands up and pulls out a chair for Lucille. ‘It’s great to have you here with us,’ he says gallantly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  For a moment, my eyes meet Harry’s and we exchange a grin. So far, so good.

  Today we are having scrambled eggs cooked in the butter I made yesterday. Using the churn is hard work but I find it strangely enjoyable. I love the way the cream transforms – separating and solidifying, becoming something utterly different from what it was before.

  Lucille looks down at her plate, frowning. ‘Can’t I have toast instead? I don’t like scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Today’s word is quiet,’ I tell her. ‘Toast is too noisy.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Every morning he gives us a word to guide us through the day,’ I say as patiently as I can. Lucille should already know about this from her remembering book. ‘Today’s word means that we must eat quiet food, speak quietly, have quiet thoughts.’

  ‘But that’s so dumb!’

  Felicity eyes her disapprovingly, putting a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t you know what quiet means?’

  My heart begins to pound as Lucille pushes away her plate. ‘I can’t believe you all just accept this stuff,’ she says loudly. ‘You just go along with it all. We should be able to walk wherever we want. There’s a big fence around this place, right? It’s not like we can go very far.’

  ‘Lucille!’ I hiss warningly. It’s not just herself she’s endangering; it’s all of us. What must he be thinking, watching this scene? My hands begin to sweat.

  Lucille goes on as if she hasn’t heard me at all. ‘My remembering book is so full of rules – and most of them are so ridiculous! Like that one about none of us being allowed to dance.’ Lucille shakes her head. ‘I mean, seriously? If we’re so “special” how come we’re not allowed to have any fun?’

  Harry seems as calm as ever. But I’m not Harry and I can’t stand this any longer. I jump up and grab the Lucille by the arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she screeches.

  ‘You’re going back to the changing room!’ I tell her. My fingernails dig into her skin as I drag her back. I can’t believe she would be so stupid. She knows better than to fight me, at least – but she keeps complaining about the ridiculous rules even after I’ve slammed the door in her face.

  When I return to the kitchen, Harry says to me, ‘You did the right thing,’ but I am not so sure he means it. I peek at his face and it’s ashen. It’s clear that he has the same concern that I do – that there’s no way Lucille will be ready to join us by the end of the week.

  It feels like I’ve only just drifted off to sleep when I wake again with a start, my heart racing. I can hear something out in the corridor. Someone calling.

  ‘Esther? Are you awake?’ Even when I realise, with a flush of relief, that it’s just Harry out there, my heart still pounds.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I received a message,’ he tells me, his voice just on the other side of my door. ‘We’re doing a sharing tonight.’ Before I can say anything, he adds, ‘Lucille has to be there too.’

  ‘Really?’ I can’t imagine Lucille standing there and confessing to the mistakes she’s made. I doubt she thinks she’s made any.

  ‘Yes,’ says Harry. ‘He was very definite about it.’

  I get up. ‘I’ll go and get her,’ I say. ‘You wake Felicity.’

  Lucille sits up as I walk into the changing room with a candle held high.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she says. There’s a glimmer of fear in her eyes. Good. This is what she should be feeling. It’s what I feel myself.

  ‘Get dressed and you’ll find out,’ I tell her. ‘And make sure you behave yourself. Believe me, you don’t want to make any mistakes tonight.’

  Lucille dresses quickly and silently while I wait. Her breathing is rapid, unsure.

  When she’s done, I lead her down the corridor to the parlour where Harry and Felicity are already waiting, hands folded in front of them. Lucille hovers in the doorway. ‘What’s going on?’ she says.

  ‘We’re doing a sharing,’ I tell her. ‘It’s when we four come together and share with the others the mistakes we’ve made. The things we’re feeling weighed down by.’

  ‘And then what?’ Lucille asks, suspiciously.

  ‘Then we wait to see who feels the burden of their guilt the most,’ I say. ‘And that person …’

  Harry finishes the sentence for me. ‘They are given a chance to have their burden taken away from them.’

  I glance at him. I suppose that’s one way of putting it.

  ‘What if I don’t feel guilty about anything?’ says Lucille.

  Harry smiles. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’ He stretches out a hand towards her. ‘Come on, Lucille. Come and join us.’

  Lucille doesn’t accept his hand, but walks over to where he and Felicity are standing. My insides squeeze together at the thought of what I must share. I grabbed Lucille by the arm and dragged her back to the changing room.

  ‘Should I go first?’ asks Felicity.

  I start to say yes, but Harry holds up a hand. ‘No. Lucille must start.’

  Lucille crosses her arms angrily. ‘I’m not saying anything!’ she says, her voice cracking at the edges. ‘Why should I? It’s all of you who should be feeling guilty about what you’ve done to me, keeping me locked up, not feeding me properly, not letting me shower or speak to my family.’

  She pauses for a moment, swallowing and shaking her head. ‘I’m the innocent one! You have no idea how hard this has been for me.’

  ‘I know you don’t really feel like that, Lucille,’ Harry says gently. ‘I reckon you’re actually feeling pretty bad about how you’ve been acting.’

  Felicity gives a little squeak of anxiety and I can tell she’s expecting what I’m expecting. That Lucille will completely lose it now.

  But Lucille doesn’t say a word. When I tilt my head, I’m shocked. She’s trembling.

  Harry’s eyes are fixed on her. ‘This has been hard for you, hasn’t it?’ he says softly. ‘Letting go of everything you thought was true. Finding out who you really are. We’ve all been through it too, don’t forget. We’re not mad at you.’

  I am, I think.

  ‘We just want you back,’ he continues. He sounds sincere. Perhaps he is. We’re under a strict deadline to reintegrate her, after all.

  Lucille suddenly lets out a low moan. It’s a shocking sound, something that seems to come from deep within her. I hear Felicity’s breath catch.

  But Harry seems unfazed. ‘It’s okay, Lucille. What matters is that you accept the truth now. And you do, don’t you? You do accept that you are a Special One.’

  Lucille chokes again and nods, her tears falling freely.

  Harry moves so he is standing in front of her. ‘Poor old Lucille. You feel bad, don’t you? Bad about fighting the truth for so long.’

 
‘Yes,’ wails Lucille.

  ‘It’s heavy, isn’t it, that guilty feeling?’ says Harry quietly. ‘We’ve all felt it.’

  ‘It’s pushing me down,’ says Lucille, panicked. ‘I can hardly stand up!’

  Harry places his hands on her shoulders. ‘Let it push you. Don’t fight it.’

  Lucille collapses to her knees, head bowed, chest heaving.

  I turn to Felicity. ‘Get the wheel.’

  Felicity hurriedly fetches the box on the mantelpiece. She doesn’t look pleased exactly as she hands it to me, but she definitely doesn’t look as sorry as she does when it’s Harry who’s about to receive punishment.

  ‘You can go,’ I tell her, as I remove the wheel from the box and set it up on the floor.

  ‘No, let me stay,’ she pleads. ‘I want to see what she gets.’

  I start to argue but Harry stops me. ‘Let her stay.’

  I spin the wheel and Felicity crouches down beside me. Lucille remains where she is, motionless. Even her trembling has stopped. Felicity watches the spinning wheel intently. The candle on the mantelpiece makes the wheel form strange, amoeba-like shadows on the floor.

  ‘Cellar!’ announces Felicity, as the wheel finally stops.

  Cellar. The worst one of all.

  Lucille doesn’t react. It’s just a word to her at the moment. She’ll find out what it means soon enough. Harry and I go over to the rug and roll it up together, revealing the trapdoor in the floor. Harry pulls on the worn brass ring. With a shudder the cellar door lifts, releasing a whoosh of stale air from deep below the house.

  Harry goes over to Lucille and holds out his hand to help her up. ‘Come on, Lucille,’ he says. His voice is so kind and patient. Almost loving.

  Lucille looks up at him and, after a slight pause, takes his hand. I think for a moment that Harry is going to get down into the cellar too, but just at the edge he stops.

  Lucille stops too and looks down. ‘I have to go in there?’ she says. She sounds very young, very small.

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ Harry reassures her. I hand him a jug of water from the side table and he in turn holds it out to her.

  I keep waiting for Lucille to wake from her strange, trance-like state and start yelling that we’re crazy if we think she’s going down there. I almost want her to. But Lucille just nods and takes the jug. Then, daintily lifting her skirts, she descends obediently into the cellar.

  The trapdoor slams down over her and Harry fixes the catch in place. He makes an odd noise and I think at first it’s from the effort of manoeuvring the door, which is heavy and awkward. But then I glance at his face.

  ‘Harry?’ I whisper. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I had to do it,’ he mutters. His voice is so strange suddenly, so fierce! ‘Going down there is her only hope now. And ours, too.’

  I’m not sure I understand exactly what Harry means, but I recognise the emotion. The survival urge forces us to do things we don’t want to do. Sometimes terrible things.

  I nod slowly. ‘We had no choice,’ I murmur.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The cellar punishment can only end when he sends a message to Harry. Usually no more than a single day passes before it arrives, but this time a whole two days go by without a word. I start to get concerned. Lucille is meant to move into the main part of the house with us in the next couple of days. As I walk around doing my chores I imagine her below me, alone, without food and with nothing but spiders for company. I spent a day and a night in the cellar once, for forgetting to leave the tonic out on the kitchen table. It felt like I’d been there for a year when the trapdoor finally opened and I was released. Time goes very slowly in the pitch-black.

  Another day passes and my thoughts become darker. How long could Lucille last down there with that single jug of water? How much longer will the punishment last? Has he forgotten about her? Then something truly terrible occurs to me. Maybe she’s being abandoned down there. Left to die. The more I think, the more certain I am that this is what’s happening. I’m not sure what to do. Pull up the trapdoor and let her out? Smuggle some food and water down to her? Or leave her to her fate to protect myself? I’ll wait one more day, I think, hating myself for being such a coward.

  And then, after breakfast the following day, Harry comes up to me and says, ‘It’s time to let her out.’

  ‘Really?’ For a moment I’m trembly with relief, but almost immediately fear clutches at me again. For the first two days I had heard the occasional noise from below the floor, which I assumed must have been Lucille moving around. But there were hardly any sounds yesterday and nothing at all so far this morning. I’m terrified of what we might find when we open the trapdoor.

  Felicity wants to watch but there is no way I’m letting her see what might be down there. I shoo her off to collect the eggs.

  Harry and I roll back the rug again and then he pulls open the trapdoor. I peer into the blackness, hoping that Lucille will stampede up the stairs. There’s no sound from down there.

  ‘Maybe she’s dead,’ I whisper. Dead from dehydration or hunger. Dead from a spider bite – or one from a snake. Dead from loneliness and fear.

  Harry shakes his head. ‘He wouldn’t let that happen.’ Does he really believe it? I can’t tell.

  I lean over the dark square, plunge my head into it. ‘Lucille?’ I call. ‘You can come out now.’

  There’s silence. Nothing.

  ‘I’ll go down and look for her,’ says Harry, his face grim despite his mild tone. ‘Maybe she’s asleep.’ But suddenly there is the sound of footsteps – very, very slow ones – and I glimpse a flash of white in the darkness.

  My heart stops as a figure floats from the gloom. Of course it’s Lucille, I tell myself. And it is, but she’s different. A layer of dust and dirt has settled on her, fading her hair, covering the colour in her skin. She looks older. Drained.

  She climbs the stairs rigidly, mechanically, like a thing that’s been wound up and has no choice but to go, go, go. Even her expression has changed. The glimmer has left her eyes. Now they’re blank.

  Harry reaches a hand to help her out, but she doesn’t seem to see it.

  I hold out a glass of water and a hunk of bread and butter I have prepared for her. Something bland but filling. ‘Here.’

  She accepts the water silently, drinks it, then hands back the empty glass. ‘Thank you, Esther,’ she says. Her voice makes me shiver. It doesn’t come from her body now but from somewhere far away or long ago. ‘I need to go and clean up,’ she says. Then she floats off down the corridor. I glance at Harry. He looks relieved.

  ‘It’s happened at last,’ he says. ‘She’s one of us now.’

  I nod but, inside, I’m not so sure that’s really what’s happened.

  I look up from laying the breakfast table to find Lucille standing there, making me jump. She has washed, changed her clothes and redone her hair.

  ‘What can I do to help, Esther?’

  ‘Nothing, just sit down!’ I say, my voice overly cheery as I attempt to cover my ill ease. ‘Ah! Here’s Felicity with the eggs.’

  Felicity stops just inside the doorway when she sees Lucille there. ‘You’re out of the cellar,’ she says. She sounds a little disappointed.

  ‘I’ll take those,’ says Lucille, holding out her hand for the basket.

  ‘No, really,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. I’ll take them.’

  Lucille shakes her head stiffly. ‘It says in my remembering book that Lucille should assist Esther whenever she can during mealtimes.’ She takes the egg basket and goes to the pantry.

  Felicity looks at me, eyes meaningfully wide. I make mine big in return. Harry walks in, grinning.

  ‘What do you think, Esther?’ he says, sitting at the table. ‘Is it time for Lucille to move out of the changing room and back into her bedroom?’

  He makes it sound like there’s an alternative. Today is the deadline for Lucille to rejoin us. Still, Lucille doesn’t know that and it won??
?t hurt her to think we have some power over what happens to her. I turn to Lucille. ‘Would you like that? To live out here with the rest of us?’

  ‘Only if you think I’m ready, Esther.’

  Her new voice gives me the creeps. I force myself to smile. ‘You’re ready. I’ll show you your room after breakfast. It’s just as you left it.’

  Lucille’s bedroom is the biggest one, and has the best view. From her window it’s possible to see out over the kitchen garden, and also to catch a glimpse of the world beyond the perimeter fence. Outside.

  Jutting up on the horizon, far beyond the fence, is a brick tower – tall and cylindrical, although slightly narrower at the top. It looks like it might belong to a factory, and although it’s probably no longer used I still find myself checking it for smoke or steam whenever I’m in Lucille’s room. I’ve never seen any, but on bright days I can just make out lettering on the tower, written with different coloured bricks – OWN.

  Maybe it’s a fragment of a word, or they’re simply someone’s initials. But for me they act as a constant reminder: You are on your own.

  Lucille doesn’t notice the tower when I take her in later that morning. There are too many other things to absorb, especially after so many days in the changing room and then in the cellar.

  She walks slowly around the room, picking things up and putting them down again. She lifts the small vase of flowers I sent Felicity out to pick and breathes deeply, her eyes closed.

  Felicity hovers in the doorway. ‘Do you think she likes them?’ she whispers and I nod.

  Lucille stands in front of the picture I’ve hung near the door. It’s a watercolour of a young girl sitting in a garden, sewing. ‘This isn’t right,’ she says, suddenly. I’m not sure what she means. Lucille swings around and faces me, frowning. ‘It’s not right,’ she says again firmly, and then points to the opposite wall. ‘This picture would look much better over there.’

  I suppress a smile. ‘You can move it,’ I say. The Lucilles always like to make minor adjustments like this. ‘I’ll ask Harry to hammer in a nail for you.’