The Disappeared

by Amy Lord

  *

  Fortunately my Monday schedule was sparse; I don’t think I would have coped otherwise. I had a two-hour seminar in the morning that wasn’t running, as the class had an independent study week to enable them to work on their latest assignment, which was approaching deadline. In the afternoon I had to give a lecture on the work of the current Poet Laureate, whose odes to the First General were required reading.

  I had given the same lecture many times before, yet I struggled to focus without using my notes. I stammered over my words, unable to meet the gaze of my students as I usually would. I referred back to my slides frequently and kept my eyes locked on my note cards.

  As I talked, I was sensitive to them watching me, their eyes following my every move, noting each time I stumbled over a phrase. I imagined what they must be thinking; surely by now everyone would know about Simon. Even in the shadows, gossip travelled fast. I remembered how I was treated at school after my father disappeared and wondered how long it would be before the students began abandoning my classes.

  The final slide in my presentation contained a list of recommended reading. I went through the books one by one, briefly explaining how they related to the subject.

  ‘This brings us to the next assignment for this module. I want you all to select two of the collections from this list and critique them, based on one of the essay questions.’ I picked up a stack of photocopies and held them up for everyone to see. Moving to the front row, I handed the papers to the girl sitting on the end and gestured for her to pass them along. She took one sheet and handed the stack to the boy beside her.

  ‘Choose one question to answer, and make sure you write about both of your texts. I also want to see references to some of the secondary texts included on the list, but you can also use books that I haven’t mentioned.’

  I walked back to the front of the lecture hall as the students scribbled down my instructions and waited for a copy of the essay questions. ‘Once you’ve got the questions you can go. Thank you everyone.’

  There was a shuffling of feet and bags and the sound of chairs slamming upright as the students at the front made their way to the exit. I looked up to smile, but the expression froze halfway, my face contorted.

  A movement at the back of the room had caught my eye. It was the major, seated apart from the class in the last row. As I watched, he got to his feet and tucked his hat under his arm. He began to descend the stairs towards me.

  ‘Do we have to write about the books on the slideshow?’

  I was jolted back to the classroom, to find a young girl with unnaturally red hair standing in front of me, paper in hand.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I asked, trying to pull my attention back to her.

  ‘Do we have to write about the poetry collections on your list? I want to write about Thomas Elkin’s book, The Sun Kings. It’s about the First General’s success in building trade partnerships, so it would fit the topic.’

  I thought hard, trying to remember the book. I hadn’t read it, but it had received good reviews when it came out. And so it should, as the author was a retired member of the government. I focused on the girl’s face, mentally recording her as a possible party member. I’d be careful what ideas I discussed when she was in class.

  ‘Um yes, I think I can make an exception. But you’ll have to make sure that the second book is one from my list, okay?’

  She nodded, pleased with her victory. ‘Thanks.’

  As she left the room I glanced towards the stairs, seeking out the major, but he had already gone.

  *

  I made my way home slowly, waiting until the other staff in my department had left so that I wouldn’t have to talk to them on the way out of the building. I’d seen most of them in passing, but had avoided engaging in conversation. A couple had given me tentative smiles, but most had pretended to be busy whenever I walked by.

  I’d used my free time to catch up on some of the marking I needed to do, so I didn’t have a lot of work to take home with me. I couldn’t have faced it even if I did.

  I slipped my coat on and pulled on my favourite bobble hat, which Simon had given me as a gift one year on my birthday. I pulled the fabric low over my eyes, as though it would protect me from the stares of people on the street.

  Outside it was cold; the beginnings of a frost made the pavement sparkle. I made my way carefully across the deserted campus to the bus stop, walking more quickly when I saw that a bus had pulled up, brake lights flaring.

  The bus was quieter than the one I usually caught. I glanced at the other passengers from beneath the shelter of my hat, careful not to let them catch me looking. At the front of the bus sat a young man, dressed in uniform. Everyone else had kept their distance, as though he might be harmful somehow. He was running the brim of his hat through his fingers, round and round. As though he sensed my eyes on him, he looked back over his shoulder, straight at me. I looked away sharply.

  When I dared to glance back at him, he was still staring at me. He smiled and my cheeks flamed. I turned away, hunching into my overcoat and staring resolutely out of the window for the rest of the journey, seeing nothing beyond my own reflection.

  I jumped up when the bus arrived at my stop, hurried past the soldier at the front and down the steps onto the street. I walked quickly towards our apartment block as running footsteps quickened behind me.

  I stared straight ahead and walked faster. The footsteps came closer and the soldier from the bus appeared alongside me, slightly out of breath.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked, smiling.

  I stopped, not wanting him to know which building I lived in. ‘No thank you, I’m fine,’ I said stiffly, looking around for someone who might help me.

  I started walking again, intending to keep going past my flat. He followed me. ‘Have we met before? I’m sure I know you from somewhere.’

  I shook my head, not looking at him. ‘No, I don’t think so, sorry.’

  He tried again. ‘You do look awfully familiar.’

  My heart was racing as I looked over my shoulder, stepping out into the road in the hope that he wouldn’t follow. Apparently he didn’t get the message as he stuck to my side, ignoring my attempt to shake him off.

  As we approached my building, I walked even quicker, being careful to keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. I reached the end of the street and began to panic, unsure of which way to go now. How long would he keep following me? Some of the streets around our apartment were practically deserted; I didn’t want to end up alone and cornered by an unknown man.

  Abruptly, I turned left, remembering there was a pub somewhere along this road. Perhaps I could duck in there and hide until he went away. I’d climb out of the damn bathroom window if it meant losing him. But I didn’t get that far.

  I’d pulled ahead of him slightly and was praying that he would leave me alone. Instead, his hand reached for my arm, arresting my momentum. I came to a halt, forced to look at him, eyes wide beneath the brim of my knitted hat.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I cried, shrugging his hand away. ‘Get off me!’

  His hand dropped away, his face suddenly serious. He leaned towards me and said in a low voice, ‘Don’t you live back there, Clara?’

  I turned to ice. Before I could collect myself, he gave a cheery smile and jogged off in the other direction. I stood there, alone on the street, staring into the distance long after he had gone.

  *

  My hands were shaking as I struggled to get the key into the front door of my apartment. It scraped against the metal, jangling my nerves.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ I muttered to myself, checking over my shoulder.

  The door opened and I fell inside, spinning round to slam it shut and twist the deadbolt in place. I collapsed against the door, breathing heavily.

  It took a few minutes for my heart rate to slow and my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the apartment. The bed, which I had left in disarray that morning, was now neatl
y made. One of Simon’s work shirts, in need of stitching, was hanging from the cupboard door on a coat hanger when it had been over the back of a dining chair for at least three weeks.

  I flipped on the light, flooding the room with a bright glare. Squinting, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter, holding it out in front of me shakily. I rushed to the bathroom, yanking the cord to turn on the light and checking that the room was empty. I shut the door and circled the main room, checking behind the counter, in the cupboard, under the bed, my blood rushing louder in my ears with each step.

  There was no one else in the apartment. Realising that I’d been holding my breath throughout my search, I flopped on the bed, letting the air out in a rush. I shook my head at my stupidity. My mother must have come round during the day and tidied up in a bid to make amends after our disagreement. I ignored the fact that she had rarely ever cleaned in her life, even when she was married to my father. The major certainly never permitted her to pick up a dishcloth; they had a small army of household staff who took care of everything while she drank the day away.

  Putting the knife on the bed, I sank back onto the covers, my head on Simon’s pillow. Underneath, something crackled. I sat up, a sense of apprehension gnawing at the pit of my stomach.

  On the pillow was a piece of paper folded in half. I stared at it, unable to understand how it could be there. I abandoned the pretence that my mother had been in the apartment. I reached out my hand painfully slowly for the sheet of paper, as though touching it might hurt me.

  It was good-quality paper stock, thick and expensive. My name curled across the front in blue ink. It looked alien, like something that did not belong to me. Taking a deep breath I unfolded the paper. There were two lines of text printed there, nine words in total. I couldn’t breathe.

  We know where Simon is.

  They are watching you.

  I let the paper fall from my fingers and glide to the floor, like a dead leaf falling from a tree. The curtains were open, the outside world a gaping black void that could be concealing any number of prying eyes. I jumped up from the bed and ripped the curtains closed, the material quivering under the ferocity of my touch.

  I didn’t bother to undress. I lay on the bed, burying myself in the duvet, as though it might protect me. I lay down, but I did not sleep. Instead I lay awake all night, my eyes searching the darkness for monsters.

  Twenty-seven

  I was in my office when the major came to see me. I was staring blankly at my computer monitor as the radio played quietly, eyes heavy from days without sleep. My hair was shoved back into a messy bun, lank and unwashed. I hadn’t bothered with make-up or clean clothes. I jumped at the slightest unexpected sound.

  He came into the room without knocking. On the radio they were talking about a terrorist bomb that had exploded at a roadblock, killing three soldiers and the young mother whose car they were searching. I turned, expecting to see my boss, poised to deliver another lecture on the importance of maintaining a professional appearance.

  ‘Clara,’ the major said.

  I silenced the radio, waved a hand at the mess around me. The spare chair that I reserved for my students to use during office hours was barely visible beneath a pile of textbooks and stray notepaper.

  ‘I’d offer you a seat but… well.’ I shrugged.

  He looked around disdainfully. ‘Do you always work like this, or is this chaos a symptom of your situation?’

  I glowered at him. ‘What do you know about my situation?’

  He sighed. ‘Clara, do you honestly think anything happens in this city that I’m not aware of? Especially to my own… family.’ He hesitated over the word.

  I forced myself not to break down in tears. ‘What do you want?’

  He leaned against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms. ‘I know you think I don’t care about you, that I’ve never treated you like a daughter, and I suppose that’s true. When I married your mum, I found it difficult to know how to treat you. I had never had any experience of children and you’d been through a traumatic experience, with your father going missing.’

  The major rarely ever addressed the issue of my father, preferring to consign him to the depths of our collective memory, a ghost flitting around the edges of our consciousness. But when he was forced to talk about him, about what had happened, this was the term he always used: ‘went missing.’ As though my dad decided to get up and walk out of the house one day, leaving his entire life behind.

  I always wondered if it was a lesson they gave to the Authorisation Bureau during their training; never directly refer to the arrests of our citizens. If we don’t mention it, the people won’t even realise it’s happening. They’re too stupid, like cows, chewing on the cud we provide for them.

  ‘And now this thing with Simon.’ He sighed. ‘I always hoped you’d find someone reliable who would care for you, Clara.’ I scowled. Read: someone who would take you off my hands. ‘But I guess he wasn’t the one.’

  I looked at him in disbelief, but if he noticed, he chose to ignore it.

  ‘I know it’s hard when someone you love leaves like that, out of the blue. But you have to be strong. You’ll find someone else and all this will end up a distant memory.’

  I couldn’t take it any more, him looking down on me, lying like this. I stood up.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding?’

  He frowned. ‘Clara, please.’

  I held up a hand. ‘No, you’re in my office now, you can hear me out. I’m not some child who you can keep under the thumb any more. We both know exactly what happened to Simon. I stood there in the street and watched it happen.’

  His eye twitched; he hadn’t known I was there. He opened his mouth but I carried on. ‘I’m not going to stand here and listen to you tell me that the solution is for me to get a new boyfriend. That’s bullshit, and you know it.’ I folded my arms. ‘If you don’t have anything else to say, I suggest you get out of my office.’

  He stood up straight again, placing his hat carefully on the desk amongst my dirty coffee cups and half-marked essays. He looked contrite.

  ‘I’m sorry, Clara.’ He rubbed his forehead, where the hair was receding. ‘It’s been so long since… since I actually had a real conversation. My life is all about second guessing people and subterfuge, working out who will stab you in the back if they get the chance.’

  He took a step forward and put his hands on my shoulders in an almost fatherly gesture. ‘We don’t live in a world that knows how to tell the truth any more. It’s far too dangerous. But I know… the reality of things. It’s what I do. And I know what happened to Simon. That he was arrested.’

  I started to quiver, digging my nails into the palm of my hand in an effort to stop the impending tears. ‘Oh Clara,’ he sighed.

  Then he did something that he had never done before. He pulled me towards him, wrapping his arms around me tightly. My body tensed at this unexpected affection. I couldn’t bring myself to return the embrace, so I stood there stiffly and allowed him to hug me. I was too shocked to cry.

  When he released me, he looked at my face earnestly. ‘I can help you, if you want me to. I can find out why they took Simon, where he is. It might be possible for me to see him, give him a message from you. If you want?’

  I wanted to clutch at this offer like it was the only real thing in a desert mirage. But eighteen years of distrust wouldn’t be easy to abandon.

  Still, I found myself nodding, my desire for knowledge of Simon overwhelming me. ‘Yes, please; find out where he is.’

  And I started crying weakly, my face twisted in pain, although there were few tears left to fall. Drained, I collapsed into my chair and buried my face in my hands.

  The major patted me gently on the shoulder, retrieved his hat and strode from my office, closing the door softly behind him. I was so exhausted I wondered if that had really happened, or if it was a figment of my imagination.

  *

  A
fter my encounter with the soldier, I was afraid to take the bus home from work. I walked a mile out of my way to the nearest underground station instead, figuring there would be more people around, should anyone try to approach me.

  Descending the stairs into the station, I was jostled by the crowd. My chest felt tight; I remembered why I always hated taking the underground. It was always crammed full of people, surreptitious groups of pickpockets circulating through the mob. A popular urban legend recalled the tale of a woman who caught a thief sneaking her purse from her bag. Before she could cry out for help, he shoved her in front of a train. The police ruled it a suicide.

  Stories like these had been whispered about for years; I’d grown up with them and never believed that they were true. But whenever I entered the underground, the possibility of their truth would strike me.

  I clutched my bag to my chest and made my way towards the front of the platform to wait for the train. When it arrived, I was carried forward by the swell of passengers all struggling to get on board. I was caught in the aisle, my back pressed painfully against the upright metal pole. I tried to shift position as the train pulled away.

  At each stop more people crowded forward, trying to board the train. A flutter of panic settled in my chest as I was crushed more tightly into the mass of people. I could no longer see the doors and worried that I wouldn’t manage to get off at my stop.

  After almost half an hour struggling to breathe, the train arrived at the station nearest my flat. Following in the wake of three burly men in construction boots, I managed to elbow my way to the platform, narrowly escaping the doors as they slid shut with a hiss of air.

  The platform here was much quieter, the rush hour almost past. I stood and caught my breath as the builders clomped towards the exit in their steel-toed boots. The train disappeared into the tunnel, pushing on towards its next destination. As it pulled away and the sound of rushing metal subsided, the air was full of hushed yet excited chatter.