The Disappeared

by Amy Lord

  Gravel crunched as the driver pulled up at the front entrance and a security light flashed on. They must have been watching for us, because the front door opened immediately and two women emerged.

  The first was smartly dressed and even at this late hour was neatly made up and wearing heels. The second woman I assumed was a housekeeper of some kind. She was bundled up in an old cardigan that she pulled about her expanding waistline, as she hurried down the steps.

  They waited as the driver got out and opened the door for me. I emerged into the sharp night air and accepted the hand that was offered.

  ‘You must be Clara. I’m Mrs McGreevy, the headmistress here. Welcome to Fairfields, it’s a pleasure to have you.’ She smiled warmly, leaning forwards to say, ‘I met your father once, years ago. He’s a great man.’

  I shook her hand, wondering which father she meant.

  *

  The building’s interior betrayed its roots: the decor was heavy and dated, and no doubt hadn’t been altered in over a century. Oil paintings hung on the walls, depicting various members of the family who had once called this place home.

  They probably had no right to it now, if there were any of them left. The disappearances didn’t always happen this far north, the government didn’t have the resources at first, but exceptions could easily be made for prominent figures: former ministers or those from wealthy and historic families.

  The matron, Maggie, headed for the stairs, tugging my case up behind her. She turned left at the top and we began to walk along a lengthy corridor. Stopping at the third door, she pulled an old-fashioned brass key from her pocket and unlocked the door, beckoning me to follow her inside.

  The room was small, with two beds. A second door led into a small washroom.

  ‘This is my room,’ Maggie informed me. ‘You’ll stay in here with me tonight, and then tomorrow we’ll get you settled into your own room. You’ll be sharing with three of the other girls, but they’re all in bed now as it’s so late.’

  She pointed to a narrow single bed. ‘You can sleep there. We keep a spare bed in here in case one of the girls is sick in the night and I need to keep an eye on them.’

  I stood quietly in the doorway taking everything in. I could feel my bottom lip trembling.

  Maggie must have noticed because her voice softened. ‘Now, now pet, it’ll be fine, you’ll see. They’re a good bunch here. And with a father like yours, you’ll be part of the crowd in no time. These girls all have families who are important members of the government and they’re all destined for government jobs too, just like you. We’re like the beating heart of things here, preparing the next generation to keep things running right. Now, you get washed and your nightie on, while I go and fetch your dinner. Then when you come back we’ll see about unpacking your stuff, eh?’

  She closed the door on the way out of the room and locked me inside. Feeling afraid, I went to the window, in time to see the car drive slowly away. I watched until I could no longer see the headlights in the distance and I was left alone.

  *

  I ate my supper from a tray on my lap while Maggie went through the contents of my suitcase. She touched my things almost apologetically, as though she wasn’t used to having the owner there watching her.

  All of my clothes, my shoes, my underwear, were regulation. I hadn’t brought any make-up and only basic toiletries, as most things would be provided by the school. The only things outside the list were my books and a framed photograph of my mother, the major and Will that she had insisted on packing. When she came across it, Maggie nodded approvingly, giving me a look that was surely reserved for the other dutiful daughters.

  She closed the lid of the suitcase with a satisfied click. ‘That’s all fine, sweetheart. That’s a lovely family you have there. A bonny lad.’

  I nodded, my mouth full of potatoes.

  ‘I’ve got a few things to do down in the kitchen, but you finish up your dinner and feel free to get into bed. I’ll be sure not to disturb you when I come back up.’

  This time I was ready for the metallic twist of the key in the lock. I knew there was nowhere I could go.

  I finished the food and placed the tray carefully on the floor, where it wouldn’t be in the way when Maggie returned. I took my time in the bathroom, examining my face in the mirror until my features blurred and grew undefined. I left my clothes folded neatly on the chair at the end of the bed.

  When I went to pull back the covers and climb into bed, I noticed that Maggie had left the photograph out on the bedside table. Perhaps she thought I might be missing my family. I picked up the picture in its simple silver frame and went to chuck it back into the case, but a thought crossed my mind. She would expect me to have the photo close by. With a sigh, I stood it up on the bedside table.

  Despite the long journey, I didn’t feel tired. Too many conflicting emotions were flooding my body, stirring my mind into action. I wondered where Jasmine was, what she was doing. I hoped desperately that she hadn’t been locked behind one of the steel doors in the major’s building. Instead I preferred to picture her in France, in a small cottage with her parents, eating dinner together. Either way, she was lost to me forever.

  I rummaged through my meagre possessions until I found one of the novels I had packed. I didn’t bother to look at the cover, simply grabbed the first one that came to hand. I slipped between the scratchy sheets and settled against the pillows to read.

  I frowned at the book. It wasn’t one of mine; in fact, it was years since I had seen it. I ran my fingers across the cracks on the binding and pressed it to my face, breathing in the scent of old paper and ink.

  It was a book of poetry that my father had owned, before he met my mother. He always said that his favourite poem from the collection reminded him of her. They had a friend read it out at their wedding. I hadn’t seen it for years, since the rest of his collection was sold.

  When I opened the front cover, my father’s scratchy handwriting was large on the page, the ink faded but still legible. He had dedicated the book to my mother, with promises of love and eternal happiness. She must have kept it, hidden it away somewhere, even after she married the major.

  I began flicking through the pages when something caught my attention. There was a piece of paper tucked inside the book. I drew it out carefully and felt something swell within my chest.

  It was a photograph: the one that she had meant me to have. A picture of my parents and me, grinning excitedly at the camera on a day out at the beach. My mother was sitting on a colourful picnic blanket on the sand, my tiny child’s body pulled onto her lap. Beside her my father was gazing at us with open admiration, his arm resting against my mother’s back. I must have only been about three or four. I could vaguely remember the day, a trip we had taken to the coast with my grandmother. She must have been the one behind the camera.

  This was the family picture I should have framed beside my bed. But my mother had kept it with her all these years. I slipped the photo carefully back between the pages of the novel and slid it under my pillow. When I lay down to sleep, I let my hand rest there, touching the pages, a reminder that I wasn’t quite as alone as I had thought.

  Part Five

  Twenty-three

  The air was thick with smoke and the cloying scent of perfume. The commander sat across the table from me, a cigar gripped in his teeth and a glass of cognac in his hand. He was laughing uproariously at something Major Donovan had said.

  I sawed angrily at my porterhouse steak, staring at the blood as it slowly pooled on the plate, staining the delicate crushed potatoes red. Lucia sat beside me, sipping from a champagne flute. I could see her swaying gently from the corner of my eye.

  The commander clapped Donovan on the shoulder and roared at his wife, ‘Did you hear that? Not only is he the best man in my command, but a bloody comedian as well. Brilliant, bloody brilliant!’

  The commander’s wife smiled, eyeing the young major through false lashes. She was t
he latest in an ever-growing line of barely adult brides, none of whom lasted past the age of twenty-seven. The commander liked them fresh and blonde and wide eyed. He liked them, until he didn’t. I couldn’t even remember this one’s name.

  Across the table, Donovan was smirking. The commander pulled out a second cigar and gave it to him. They leaned towards each other for a brief moment while Donovan sucked on the cigar, until it flared into life. I hunched more tightly over my meal, the din of the restaurant rattling my nerves. Lucia’s face was flushed from the champagne, her food barely touched. The tendons in her forearm were taut as she clutched her glass so tightly I expected it would shatter. A picture of her in tears with bloody hands flashed through my mind. I felt a surge of excitement.

  She looked frail tonight. Naturally her face was painted so that she would blend into this crowd of elegant wives and mistresses. Her lipstick was the right shade of red and her dress was expensive, the appropriate designer label sewn into the neckline. But her cheeks were growing hollow, the bones starting to jut. A ripple of disgust disrupted my digestion as she finished the champagne and beckoned for the waiter to refill her glass.

  I was pulled back into the conversation as the commander crowed, ‘Mark my words, Donovan here is set for big things. Hell, he might even fill my shoes one day.’

  Twenty years ago, that was me. I had sat beside the commander in a restaurant much like this, short-skirted waitresses hurrying past us carrying trays laden with drinks. He clapped me on the shoulder with his meaty palm, fed me expensive brandy and cigars until I felt like I would vomit. He told me then I was the one.

  The restaurant was full of them: all those people who knew how to rise to the heights of power and influence, no matter how many backs they had to trample across to get there. At the table across from us sat a well-known business leader and his wife. He’d been inconsequential before the First General took over, but had made a fortune during the transition. Rumour had it he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, for a price. Across the room was a famous newsreader, who appeared on our screens each night with the latest updates, straight from the pen of the Propaganda Department. But he wasn’t with his wife and co-presenter – instead he was surrounded by much younger women, all of them hanging on his every word, their eyes glassy and bright. One of them slipped from her seat and headed towards the bathroom. She didn’t even wait until she was out of sight before pulling a small sachet of powder from her bag.

  I stuffed a forkful of steak into my mouth and chewed, looking at my plate and avoiding the growing bulge of stomach spilling over my belt. I remembered how the theatre manager had sickened me, all those years ago. And I was slowly adopting his corpulent form, consoling myself with expensive food and fine wine. I looked at Donovan and the sleek line of his shirt, the way his jaw was pulled tight and the muscles in his upper arms flexed. I hated him.

  In the car on the way home, the back seat was a wasteland between my wife and me. She hunched in her seat, arms folded, staring out of the window as the streets flashed by. The diamonds in her ears glinted in the dim light. I could see the ghostly reflection of her face in the glass. For a brief moment she was the woman I had longed for; I put my hand down on the leather seat and thought about sliding it towards her. But as we paused at a junction the car flooded with harsh light. She turned to look at me and I saw that her make-up was gaudy and overdone; I saw every line on her face and the yellow tinge of her eyes. And I remembered how much she repulsed me.

  There was a certain stage she reached when she had been drinking for some time, but hadn’t yet consumed enough to slip into unconsciousness. She became brazen. She stared at me now, seeing the way my lip curled as I glared at her.

  She tilted her chin defiantly. ‘What?’

  My brows drew closer. ‘What do you mean what?’

  ‘You’re staring at me.’

  She slurred her words slightly. When she was drunk, the old lilt of her family accent re-emerged. The car pulled away again and we fell back into darkness.

  I looked away. ‘I’d forgotten, for a moment…’ My voice trailed away.

  ‘You’d forgotten what? How ugly your wife is? How much she despises you?’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘No. I won’t be quiet.’ Her voice rose, the shrill sound like nails on glass. ‘I won’t be quiet Darius. I’ve been quiet for years. And where did it get me? Well?’

  She began to sob. I couldn’t look at her. The driver’s shoulders were resolute as he drove us home, set apart from our domestic drama. Lucia’s weeping intensified and I couldn’t stand it.

  ‘Shut up.’ My words cut across the back seat of the car. But still she cried. ‘Shut up!’

  It was the crack of my hand across her face that silenced her.

  She pressed trembling fingers to her cheek. Her shattered profile was an accusation.

  The second the car slowed to a stop outside the house I was out, leaving the door flung open wide. I didn’t stop to help her; I left that for the driver. He was making his way around the car as I ran inside, catching Lucia as she stumbled out.

  A photograph from our wedding day confronted me as I fled to my study. With a shout I picked it up and flung it across the room, the glass smashing against the wall. I was full of rage. I couldn’t look at my own face, because I’d have to acknowledge my own failure. I’d been so desperate to fuck this woman, to fuck the professor’s wife, that I’d fucked myself in the process.

  I thought of Donovan driving home to his city apartment, high up in a luxury apartment block. The young officers lived in the city now, where there was more life to be had. I knew he would take a woman home, perhaps not one from the restaurant – not the commander’s pert wife as he might have preferred. No, he would go on to a bar and find someone there. Someone beautiful but disposable, who would warm his bed enthusiastically and then disappear from his life forever.

  Hands shaking, I poured myself a drink. I threw it back and poured another, settling down into my chair to work through the bottle so that I might pass out here and escape another cold night in bed with my wife.

  *

  It was worse the next day in the office, a raging hangover sickening my spirit. The interrogations I performed were brutal yet perfunctory. They were over quickly. I knew now how to take someone apart at speed. It was an art I’d perfected over the years.

  I might have struggled with Matthew Winter, but now I devoured men like him. I ruined them and they never troubled me for a second. I’d whittled my heart to nothing.

  But he still haunted me. I’d taken his wife and daughter, burned his books and broken his body, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d never touched him. I tried for a long time until we reached a stalemate. He’d been in this prison longer than anyone else. It had been so long since he saw the sun that his skin had grown pale and transparent.

  I should have killed him. I tried more than once. I stood in the corridor outside his cell with a gun in my hand, the other on the door handle, trying to summon up the will to go inside and put a bullet in his brain. But there was always something that made me hold back.

  In the end, the commander made the decision for me. After twenty years of the new regime, there was a period of amnesty, where the government agreed to release a number of political prisoners. They weren’t permitted to return to their homes – if they still existed. Instead they were sent abroad, into exile. We banished them to sympathetic regimes in Africa or South America, where they would work and die in the shadows.

  I think it was then that I lost the commander’s respect. He had indulged my obsession with Matthew Winter, although he never understood it. But by that time, when it had burrowed under my skin and weakened my heart, he had grown tired. Instead of directing my feelings into the system, where they could be of some help, I’d turned them too far inward. I’d lost sight of the cause. I don’t think he ever forgave me, although he kept me around out of some kind of loyalty. My misery gave me a brutality that he
found useful.

  I sat in the guard room, filling out a sheaf of paperwork before the bank of monitors. A dozen interrogations were happening in front of me, but it was like nothing more than some late-night film playing on a loop.

  The paperwork absorbed my attention for a long time. My hand scrawled across the forms, filling out endless details that would be filed away somewhere, a record that no one would ever see.

  My wrist was growing tired when a flicker of movement caught my eye. It was Donovan. The young major had a particular talent: he was adept in the interrogation of women. I think it was the reason he appealed so much to the commander.

  I’d heard the talk of course, the whispers, but I’d never paid much attention, too busy with my own desperation. There had been rumours for a couple of years of women who had been brutalised to the point of suicide. They were found occasionally, hanging in their cells, the bruises still fresh. One girl had somehow managed to break a piece of metal off the bedframe and use it to slit her wrists. But she must have changed her mind at the last minute, when it was already too late. The scene when she was discovered the following morning had lingered in the imaginations of some of the more squeamish men.

  Now it was all there on the screen. I saw exactly what it was that made these women crack. I watched for a long time, the light flickering across my face as I leaned into the monitor, holding my breath. I watched, a fierce heat burning low in my gut. I watched and thought of her, the woman I had wanted so badly, all those years ago.

  *

  As two of the bureau’s best interrogators, it fell to Donovan and me to teach occasional classes with students from the Authorisation Bureau academy. Sometimes we would be invited to give a guest lecture, where we would talk about our technique and the approved methods for information gathering. And sometimes the students would come to us, to watch us at work. They were always shocked at first, by the reality of the interrogation room. The smell was the first thing to affect them, as they laughed among themselves and pretended to retch. But by the end of the session, with blood and violence, it was no longer funny.