The Disappeared

by Amy Lord

The major stalked across the room to pick up his son, awkwardly cradling the baby against his chest. His foot knocked the vodka bottle and sent it clattering across the floor.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ he asked, his face growing tight. ‘Are you drunk, when you’re supposed to be looking after our child?’

  He thrust Will into my arms and pushed me out of the room.

  ‘Take him downstairs.’

  He slammed the door in my face so hard it bounced open again. I couldn’t move. I stood there watching as the major advanced across the room, cursing my mother for being a drunk.

  With a crack, he brought his palm across her face. Her head snapped to one side and she cried out. Blood welled on her split lip. The baby was staring into the bedroom and I took a step away towards the stairs, then another. He murmured and reached out, but for the first time he didn’t cry, eyes wide, taking it all in. I walked part-way down the stairs and sat, listening to my mother whimpering and the dull thuds of the major’s fists on her flesh.

  *

  It was late and I couldn’t sleep. The rain hadn’t stopped all night. I lay in bed with the curtains open, listening to the sound of the storm striking the glass. I wondered if Jasmine was out there somewhere, in a boat on the open ocean.

  My throat was dry. I wanted my mother. I pulled back the covers, shuddering as the cold air wrapped itself around me. Wrapping my arms across my chest, I went to her room.

  From the landing, I heard the major’s voice. I hadn’t heard him come home; after their argument earlier he’d summoned the driver and he was still out when I went to bed. The door was ajar and the blue light of the television flickered. He was watching the government channel, with its endless propaganda cycle masquerading as news. My mother was in bed beside him. I could hear her faint snores.

  Tonight there were raids on properties across the city, where associates of those responsible for the Whitehall bombing were taken into custody. In total, thirty-seven people were arrested.

  My stomach dropped. I crept closer to the door, just enough so I could peek into the room and see the screen. A young man was standing in front of a block of flats, a blaze of light behind him as three men and a girl were dragged outside in handcuffs and shoved into the back of unmarked cars, blue lights strobing on their roofs. The caption in the corner of the screen read: David G. Tubby reporting live. Uneasiness prickled across my skin. This wasn’t how the Authorisation Bureau usually operated. They arrested people in silence and secrecy; there were no light shows or television cameras to record the moment for posterity. But they wanted people to see this.

  I focused on the family, being dragged away in the back of the shot, praying it wasn’t Jasmine or her parents. The girl looked even younger than we were. Two of the men weren’t even men at all, just teenage boys. The third man might have been their grandfather. He was stooped, his shoulders slumped, refusing to acknowledge the camera.

  When the major spoke, I jumped. For a horrible moment I thought he was talking to me.

  ‘I’m watching now. It looks like the raids went well. Hmm. Well that’s a pity.’

  He was on the phone. There was a long pause.

  ‘Look, I know these people have nothing to do with the bombings, but it wouldn’t be the first time a few nobodies had to disappear to strengthen our hand.’

  I stopped breathing.

  ‘No, no. Of course, sir. That’s right, it was my plan. We managed to round up all those who took part in the bombing campaign last month, but I didn’t feel it was enough. We’ve caught three of these groups in the last six months, all trying to rebel against us. What if they start banding together next? There are enough of them out there.’

  He fell silent again.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, sir. We have to do something public. There has to be a deterrent. And what can we connect it to? The Whitehall bombing is still one of the worst atrocities to happen in this country. Even now, people are still furious about it. Can you imagine if they ever found out we did it ourselves, so we could step in and take control? They’d rise up in the streets.’

  It took me a moment to realise what he meant. All those people: the ones who died in the bombing and those who were lost afterwards, in its name; Jasmine’s brother, her whole family. The major did this.

  I couldn’t contain myself. As he finished his conversation and hung up the phone, I launched myself into the room.

  ‘How could you? You killed those people!’

  He turned in surprise, eyes widening as I flung myself at him, arms flailing and clad in flannel pyjamas. I struck him on the side of the head. A shock of pain rushed through my hand and into my wrist, but he barely flinched. He tried to grab my hands, pull my arms down to my sides. We struggled for a minute, but I couldn’t match his strength. As he wrapped his body around mine, making me small, the reporter on the television carried on talking, praising the brave men who had broken up this terror cell before they could do further harm. As he spoke, photos of the Whitehall victims flashed onto the screen.

  ‘Clara, calm down please,’ he said in my ear, like he was settling an animal. ‘You need to stop this.’

  I screamed at him, jerking my head back instinctively, but it bounced off his chin and I only dazed myself. ‘You did this! You killed them and blamed Jasmine’s brother.’

  My mother stirred and let out a grumble. But she didn’t wake, didn’t say anything. She’d been drinking again. Anything to numb the pain from her bruises. I didn’t know whether it was the physical scars or the emotional ones that troubled her most.

  The fight went out of me in a rush and the major let go. I flopped onto the sofa, my arms and legs trembling, head spinning. Bile threatened to rush up my throat. The whole world was falling out from underneath me and the major started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he had to bend over, hands on his knees and tears in his eyes.

  ‘Oh Clara, if you only knew the half of it.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked quietly.

  His laughter faded and he stood straight, his face growing serious.

  ‘How else would we have taken control?’

  I stared at him and my heart turned to ice.

  Twenty-two

  The next morning the major told my mother he was sending me away to school. She didn’t ask him why, didn’t even fight for me to stay. She didn’t seem to feel strongly about the situation at all.

  The major’s driver was assigned the task of delivering me to my Scottish boarding school. When we set off, there was snow on the ground and the sky was thick with clouds. My mother embraced me in the hallway, the smell of alcohol on her breath.

  She touched my face softly, ‘I’ll miss you, Clara.’ She kissed both my cheeks carefully, in her old-fashioned European way.

  I did not reply.

  The major had left early for work. As he slid into the car, the driver informed me that my stepfather wanted to see me before I left. He took me to the Authorisation Bureau headquarters, a place I’d never been. As we drove through the heavy gates, past walls lined with razor wire, a sense of dread overwhelmed me.

  We parked underground, where the major was waiting alone. It was still early and the place was quiet, the only sound a dripping water pipe somewhere in the shadows.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said abruptly, walking away so quickly I was forced into an awkward half-run to keep up with him. The driver didn’t move, just stayed where he was, leaning against the car, a cigarette in his mouth. I looked back as the major led me through a metal door into the building to see him watching us.

  I followed the major along narrow corridors with no windows, only harsh strip lights unsteady above us. The further we went into the building, the more I lost my sense of direction. The smell of bleach burned my nostrils.

  Eventually the major stopped and unlocked a heavy metal door. He stood aside to let me go first into the room. It was an empty cell, a camera blinking in the corner. I couldn’t take my eyes off a dark stain in the corner, afrai
d it might be blood.

  ‘This is where we brought your father.’

  It was a cruel thing to say and my mind didn’t know how to cope with the sudden flood of images, as I imagined the man I loved in this room. I realised that I’d always held a lingering hope that I might see him again. But standing here, that light was extinguished.

  The major stepped closer, his expression never changing.

  ‘You know a secret now, Clara. One you shouldn’t know. If you ever tell a soul about it, there’s a room just like this waiting for you.’

  *

  The drive to Scotland took most of the day; nine hours spent in silence in the back of the car, staring out of the window as the rest of the country flashed by. I had barely ever been outside London, not since the days before the military government, when we were still a family.

  I was used to the checkpoints; the bus had to stop at them each day as I travelled from the village where the major’s house was to my school in the city. Usually the guards would board the bus, guns strapped to their chests, and glance quickly at the passengers.

  But out here it was different. There were roadblocks everywhere. Each large town had rows of soldiers who stopped every car, whether coming or going, and waved the occupants out onto the side of the road. Cocooned inside the major’s official car, we coasted past the checkpoints, my nose pressed to the glass as I watched the other drivers hand over their ID cards and submit to a rough search.

  The faces of the people were blank as the guards manhandled them. At a checkpoint somewhere in the north, half a dozen guards suddenly descended on one man and hauled him to the ground even as he struggled, his wife and child beside him. We had already passed by when the gunshots rang out. I sat back in my seat, feeling nauseous. In the rear-view mirror, I caught the driver watching me.

  ‘It happens,’ he said quietly. ‘More than you’d think.’

  Then he turned his gaze back to the road and I allowed my head to loll back against the headrest, slowly drifting into a troubled sleep.

  *

  I woke as the car came to a stop, the engine dying. It was growing dark. We were in a shadowy forecourt surrounded by a chain-link fence. Barbed wire ran around the top.

  ‘Where are we?’

  It was a fuel stop; the old-fashioned kind, with half a dozen petrol pumps at the front and an abandoned building that might once have been a family restaurant. The driver got out of the car and began filling it with petrol. I climbed out behind him and stretched carefully as I took a look around.

  There were a handful of other cars inside the gates, but most looked as though they had been parked there a while. On one side of the building was a small shop; someone was moving around inside. As the driver busied himself with the fuel, I started to wander towards the building. The radio buzzed inside.

  On the pavement outside stood a rickety metal carousel, filled with postcards of Scottish landscapes. On the floor beside it was a pile of newspapers, bundled together with twine. A couple were loose on top of the rest; I picked one up and unfolded it so I could scan the front page. It was dominated by a picture of the First General. I’d heard a rumour at school that he was sickening, in the grip of a degenerative disease that slowed his body and withered his mind. But the picture the paper had chosen to print was old. It showed the general at one of his early rallies, shortly after the junta came to power. He stood proud behind a podium as he gave a famous speech proclaiming freedom for the people. His hands pumped the air in celebration as the audience cheered wildly. A woman at the front was crying ecstatically.

  I didn’t read the headline; looking at the newspaper made me feel sick. I dropped it, the First General’s face falling flat on the dusty concrete.

  ‘You ain’t a fan then?’

  I jumped violently. The man was watching me from the doorway of the shop, leaning against the frame as he smoked a cigarette.

  ‘Sorry, I… I was just looking…’

  He took a heavy pull on the cigarette, letting my words hang awkwardly between us. With a thick cough, he stubbed it out against the wall and flicked the end away, the embers dying away to nothing.

  He was young, no more than twenty-five. At some point his hairline had begun to recede and he had responded by shaving his head, so that only a soft black fuzz remained. It suited him though. He had an angular jaw and sharp cheekbones, stubble heavy across his cheeks. He dug the cigarette packet out of the pocket of his jeans and as he did so his sleeve rode up. I glimpsed the bright swirl of tattoos on his arm.

  He saw me looking and pushed his sleeves up further. The design covered his forearms. My eyes traced the different colours. On his right arm was an anchor, surrounded by intricate patterns. There was a heart on his left arm, with a sun emerging above it. A scroll twisted across it, with a single word printed in black script. Marianne.

  He smiled wryly as he drew a cigarette from the packet and lit it. I noticed his fingers were yellow with nicotine, his nails cracked and dirty. He held the packet out towards me. ‘Smoke?’

  I shook my head quickly. ‘No, thanks.’

  He shrugged. The fuel pump clicked as the driver finished filling up the car.

  ‘You’re not from round here.’ He said it plainly, a fact rather than a question.

  ‘No.’

  He looked away, his eyes finding some point in the distance as he smoked slowly. ‘Not many are now.’

  I didn’t know how to answer him. My feet shifted uncomfortably. I wanted to say something profound; I wanted him to think me older, more worldly, not just a sheltered schoolgirl. But I was wearing my new uniform.

  The moment stretched to breaking point and then the driver appeared at my shoulder. The younger man tossed his cigarette away.

  ‘Fuel?’

  The driver inclined his head. ‘And some water. Do you have any food?’

  ‘In the back.’

  I followed them inside. The shop was dimly lit and the faint smell of mould assailed my nostrils. I wandered the aisles as the driver went in search of sustenance. The shelves were almost bare, occasional items punctuating the emptiness. The radio was tuned to the approved station; a newscaster was reading the headlines in a monotone voice. There had been a series of attacks on off-duty officers, but those responsible had been apprehended. A rash of graffiti had sprung up in the centre of London, but had been quickly dealt with. There was a rice shortage thanks to restrictions put in place by overseas suppliers.

  The young man drifted towards the till, where he sat, one booted foot propped up against the counter. The radio continued to drone in the background. A noticeboard in the corner caught my attention. I moved closer so that I could study the things that were posted there. There was a flyer advertising an old car for sale. A photograph of a lost cat. A poster listing the names and pictures of criminals thought to be in the area.

  I continued reading as the driver dumped a small loaf of bread and a tin of corned beef on the counter, along with two bottles of water. He paid for them, and for his petrol. The young man put everything in a brown paper bag and handed it to the driver.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said as he walked past me.

  I looked back at the young man, alone behind the counter. It seemed right to raise my hand in farewell. His mouth seemed to twitch, and then he too lifted his hand.

  The last thing I read on the noticeboard was a ‘missing’ poster, with a black and white photograph of a beautiful girl with long pale hair. Her name was Marianne.

  *

  When I woke again it was dark. I was dazzled briefly by a car heading in the other direction, the full beam of its headlights raking across my face.

  ‘Not long to go now,’ the driver told me. I could hear the tiredness in his voice and knew he would be looking forward to his bed, in a small guesthouse close to the school. There was no way he could make the return drive that night.

  I’d never spoken much to the driver; I always associated him too closely with the major. But I was glad that
there would be someone I knew nearby for that first night, when I was alone in an unfamiliar place.

  I squinted out of the window at the black bulk of a row of Scottish mountains that ran alongside the road. I could see their silhouette out through the windscreen as the road twisted and began to climb. As we neared the highest point of the road, I could make out a row of lights in the distance. My stomach tightened.

  We drove through the village first, past the hotel where the driver would spend the night. He turned his head to look. The building was old and rundown, with layers of mesh barring the windows. The sign above the door was peeling and the car park was empty, but for an old Citroen with the exhaust hanging off.

  The village was little more than one main street, with a dozen houses lining either side of the road, their gardens overgrown. Bags of rubbish were piled up on the pavement, their guts spilling out onto the tarmac.

  I was relieved when the village was behind us, until I caught sight of a sign looming out of the darkness, proclaiming that this was the way to the Fairfields School for Elite Girls.

  The driver slowed the car and we turned onto a narrow road that disappeared into the middle of a thick wood, so dense that tree branches scraped across the windows of the car. Something burst out of the undergrowth on one side and bolted across the road, forcing the driver to curse and slam on the brakes. I was jolted forward, the seatbelt cutting into my chest.

  As he accelerated again, the driver muttered, ‘I wouldn’t much fancy being stuck out here in the back of beyond. Creepy, this is.’

  I didn’t know how to reply, so I kept quiet, picking at the skin around my fingernails. After what felt like an eternity, we emerged from the woods and the school came into view. It had once been a grand Gothic manor house but, like the village, it had fallen into disrepair. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but I could make out the shadow of loose guttering and missing roof tiles. Weeds had begun to creep among the paving slabs.