The Disappeared

by C. J. Harper

  My first thought is that maybe I can sneak back into the Academy somehow. I follow the fence along to the left. Soon I can see the corner of the Academy. On the wall running away from me is a rusting fire escape descending from the top of the building to the bottom. I can’t see how you would get to it from the inside of the Academy. This whole place is badly designed. Anyway, it’s no use to me because I’m cut off by the fence which stretches as far as I can see, away to the left.

  I plod back towards the gate where Rice threw me out and on past to see what’s there. This time the fence doesn’t stretch into the distance, it makes a corner. On the other side of the fence is a steep grassy bank. At the bottom I can see a metro line and beyond that, in the distance I can make out what I think is the business sector. I try to orientate myself. The accommodation block Wilson and I went to must be over to the right somewhere. If only I could get through this fence I could escape. I step a little closer. I can hear the hum of electricity coming off it. Unless I work out a way to get under or over the fence there’s no way I can get out.

  A little further away from the Academy the ground dips and there’s a rubbish dump with a clump of bushes on the far side. Even in the cold air the rubbish stinks, so I give it a wide berth. Part of me wants to stay close to the Academy, but if I’m going to last two nights I’ve got to find some water. I decide to try the woods in the distance first, since they’ll provide me with some shelter from the wind too.

  I hope that walking will warm me up, but even with my hands jammed under my armpits, I can’t feel my fingers, and my toes are even worse.

  After a while, I look back at the Academy. It’s glowing in the sunlight. I turn away again and something catches my eye. Something dark and low in the grass. I jog towards it, my breath streaming out in great smoky plumes. It looks like a box. I hope that it’s made of something strong enough to shelter me from the wind. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’d like to rest. When I reach the box there’s something oddly familiar about its shape. It’s made of metal and it looks like a knocked-over locker. I walk round it to find an open side at the front.

  It’s a feeding pod. What on earth would a feeding pod be doing out here? I crawl inside. It’s a relief to be out of the wind. Someone has covered the bottom of the pod with shreds of dried grass. I pick up a piece, but my fingers are so numb it slips between them. The grass is paper thin. It must have taken for ever to make a pile. I stretch out my aching legs and my boots touch something soft. I reach down and find a blanket. My insides drop. A shelter with a blanket in it must belong to someone. I’m too cold to care. I’ll have to borrow the blanket and rest for at least a while. But as I struggle to pull the blanket around me, I can’t help wondering what sort of person would live in a place like this?

  And what will they do if they find me wrapped in their blanket?

  I’m back in the factory block. I’m leaning over the balcony, looking down on Wilson’s twisted body. Suddenly he turns his head. I hear his neck cracking. He stares up at me, his eyes glowing. ‘What have you done to me?’ he says.

  I wake up with a gasp and smack my head on the pod as I try to sit up. My face aches with cold. I must have been asleep for a while as night has fallen outside the pod. I rub away the ice on my eyelashes with the blanket. Wilson’s contorted face is swimming in my mind. Wilson’s dead, I think. There’s nothing you can do now. I lie back and curl myself up as tightly as I can. I wish I wasn’t alone. I wish Kay was here.

  I freeze.

  There’s someone out there. I hold my breath to listen. Someone or something is moving nearby. I lean forward and stare hard into the darkness. The frosty grass is lit up by moonlight, but I can’t see anything except the dark smudge of the woods in the distance. I lie completely still and strain my ears. I can hear my heart. Maybe it was an animal. I scan the open space in front of me again. I hold my body rigid. Nothing happens. I wait and listen; still nothing happens. I exhale slowly and start to relax my aching muscles.

  Ting!

  Something hits the back of the pod. There’s something behind me. Get out into the open, I think, run for it. But I don’t seem to be able to make myself move.

  Ting!

  Someone is throwing stones at the back of the pod. I struggle to release an arm; it feels numb and heavy as if it belongs to someone else. I pull clumsily at the blanket.

  Ting!

  I’m yanking at the material and pedalling my feet, but the blanket clings like seaweed.

  Dumpf!

  Something heavier hits the back of the pod. Something like a boot. My insides turn liquid. A wave of terror runs through me and for a second I close my eyes. Come on. I open my eyes.

  Inches from my nose is a twisted and deformed face.

  I scream.

  It’s Wilson.

  For a split second I think that he has no eyes. Then I realise that his head is upside down because he’s leaning over the pod from behind, looking in at me. My scream startles him and the head disappears. How can this be happening? He’s dead. I was sure he was dead. Am I still dreaming?

  I clamber out of my shelter and to my feet. He’s there, on the other side of the pod. One eye is closed and droops at the corner. His nose is crooked. We stand in the cold looking at each other; except he doesn’t look at my face, he stares into the middle of my chest.

  ‘Wilson,’ I say, ‘you’re alive!’

  ‘Wilson, Philip, AEP score 92,’ he says without raising his eyes from my chest.

  There’s something wrong. Not just the bashed-up face and the mangled arm. His voice. His eyes.

  ‘Wilson, what happened? How did you get here?’ I say.

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  Silence.

  ‘It’s cold,’ I say stupidly. I’m not sure what to do.

  ‘In cold conditions the body attempts thermoregulation, for example the hypothalamus sends messages to the muscles to cause shivering. If the body is unable to maintain normal temperature then hypothermia can set in.’

  I open my mouth then close it again. ‘Yes,’ I say eventually. His mind has gone completely.

  He seems oddly pleased. He nods his head.

  ‘Is this your . . . ?’ I look down at the pod. ‘Is this yours?’

  He doesn’t move. I wonder if this is shock or if he’s got brain damage. ‘Did you set this up? It’s good . . .’ I say.

  Wilson’s terrible mouth stretches into a smile. Half his teeth are missing.

  I have to choke back from gagging. ‘Did you put the grass in?’ I ask.

  ‘Thermal insulation reduces the rate of heat transfer,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, we need insulation out here.’

  He nods again.

  I can’t believe I’m talking about the weather. ‘Wilson?’

  ‘Wilson, Philip, AEP score 92,’ he repeats.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, like he’s a little boy. ‘Do you remember me? Do you know who I am?’

  Wilson lifts his eyes to my face for the first time. He winces.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ I ask again.

  His lips quiver. ‘AEP 98.5,’ he says.

  I close my eyes. ‘Oh, Wilson, none of that matters any more.’ I make myself look at his twisted face. ‘I’m so sorry. I tried to get help, really I did. They wouldn’t listen to me . . . I’m so, so sorry.’

  He shakes his head in frustration. ‘98.5,’ he says more insistently.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘That’s right, you’re right. Well remembered.’

  Wilson smiles at me and I have to dig my nails into the palm of my hand to force myself to smile back.

  In the end we both cram into the pod. Wilson has another blanket wrapped around his shoulders and we share them both. He goes on about how our proximity will help conserve body heat, but I’m just grateful to be near another human being. I lie with my back against Wilson’s and listen to the wind.

  I thought he was dead. I thought it was
my fault too. I thought that I should have stopped those men going after him, or found someone to help or something. And now he’s not dead, but he’s clearly sick. And I don’t know what to do. A few months ago it would have been simple. I would have taken him to an adult and I would have known that they’d take him to a doctor and that they’d look after him. But that’s what I knew then. It’s different to what I know now. If anyone is going to help Wilson, it’s got to be me.

  When I wake up in the morning, my limbs are stiff. Moving my legs feels like cracking icicles. I blow on my hands and Wilson wakes up. He wriggles out of the pod and starts rubbing his arms and legs. When he sees me, he stops and blinks. He seems surprised to see me.

  ‘Wilson, what happened after those men attacked us? I saw you lying on the balcony. I thought you were dead,’ I say.

  He shrugs.

  ‘Did someone help you?’ I say. Someone must have. Otherwise there’s no way that he could have survived his injuries.

  He frowns.

  ‘When I came back you were gone. Where did you go?’ I persist, I have to know what happened.

  ‘To remediate mould growth in a dwelling, reduction of moisture levels is key,’ he says.

  Mould. In a dwelling. Maybe he’s talking about that old lady from the accommodation block’s room. She had mould growing on the walls. And we’re not far from the block here. She must have taken him in after I went to fetch the police. ‘Was it an old lady? Did she help you? How long were you there?’ I ask him.

  ‘It takes a number of weeks for bones to heal.’

  ‘So you were there a long time? Have you just got . . . here?’ I wonder if Wilson realises exactly where he is.

  He breaks into a laugh. For a moment he looks and sounds just like the old Wilson. ‘She thought I was Wilderness!’ he says, slapping me on the arm.

  But I can’t laugh with him and the smile rapidly vanishes from his face.

  So the old lady helped to fix him up and then sent him straight out into the Wilderness. How did she get him through the fence? Maybe the police did it. I’ve heard stories about people with mental problems being sent to the Wilderness. How could anybody be so cruel? It’s amazing that he’s still in one piece. I look at Wilson. His hair looks clean and his nails are short. I don’t think he’s been here more than a few days. I can only hope that we can avoid running into any Wilderness inhabitants for another couple of days.

  ‘Have you seen anyone out here, Wilson?’

  He looks away and prods his twisted arm with his good hand. ‘When a bone breaks and is incorrectly or inadequately set, the bone can heal at the wrong angle. A malunion.’

  ‘It should’ve been treated by a doctor, shouldn’t it?’ I say. He doesn’t seem to mind. I hate the way he’s so calm and accepting. He’s not like the old Wilson at all.

  ‘The ability to rotate is affected by a broken radius bone,’ he says.

  ‘The ability to rotate? Wilson, you can’t use your whole efwurding arm.’

  ‘If the ulna bone and the radius bone are different lengths it causes bowing of the arm,’ he says.

  His arm is hanging like a lump of meat and he sounds like a medical student talking about someone else’s mangled body.

  ‘Stop talking. Just stop talking like that,’ I say. My voice is rising, but I can’t help it.

  Wilson drops his chin on to his chest and looks up at me with confusion in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  Wilson sticks out his lower lip. I want to shake him. He doesn’t have a clue that everything is wrong. That our whole lives were a sham. I take a deep breath. ‘Listen, what are we going to do now?’ I say.

  ‘In adverse weather conditions fuel is particularly important to the body,’ he mumbles.

  Fuel. ‘Do you know somewhere we can find food?’ I ask.

  Wilson grins.

  ‘You do?’ I just hope it doesn’t involve any kind of dead animal. ‘Show me the way.’

  He smiles again and we set off back in the direction of the Academy.

  We walk. It didn’t seem far yesterday, but even the short walk back to the Academy is much harder after a night outside. My legs feel weak and the icy grass swirls in front of my eyes. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I try to imagine what Kay is doing now, but all I can think about is water. I haven’t had a drink since yesterday and my tongue is thick and heavy. I keep trying to move it to a more comfortable position in my mouth, which is making me even drier. There’s a dull thumping on one side of my head. I’m dehydrated. There must be rules about sending students out for exclusion. I must be entitled to water. I snort out loud so that Wilson turns to look at me. Who am I kidding? As if Rice pays any attention to the rules.

  Wilson is trotting along in a businesslike fashion. He doesn’t seem to notice the cold. That’s good.

  ‘I wish we had some water,’ I say.

  Wilson looks round at me in surprise. He stops and reaches into the deep pockets of his army-style trousers. He pulls out a plastic bottle of water and hands it to me.

  ‘How did you . . . ?’ but I don’t finish the question because I’m busy drinking. It’s three-quarters full and I’m not sure how easily Wilson can get hold of more. I should be restrained, but before I know it I’ve drunk most of it. I screw the cap on and hand it back to Wilson; he doesn’t seem worried by the amount I’ve used up.

  ‘Where did you get water from?’ I ask.

  ‘Water is a requisite for all life,’ he says.

  I give him a smile. He’s still pretty smart.

  ‘Hey, Wilson, do you remember when we were going to go to an entertainment centre to meet girls?’

  Wilson blinks at me. It’s impossible to talk to him. I can’t believe the boy in front of me is the same Wilson who’s been my best friend since I was five. We carry on in silence.

  When we’re almost at the boundary gate next to the Academy Wilson veers off towards where I saw the rubbish tip yesterday. I find myself looking down into a hollow filled with junk. There are metal chunks of broken learning grids, torn-up chairs like the ones in the salon but with even less upholstery, broken circuit boards, dirty sheets and scraps of material. It’s a dump for the Academy.

  Wilson is wriggling his shoulders in excitement. He’s really pleased to show this to me. I feel horribly tired all of a sudden. I sit down on the lip of the hollow, but Wilson grabs my hand and pulls.

  ‘Get off!’ I snatch my hand away.

  Wilson draws back like a whipped puppy.

  ‘Sorry! I’m sorry. Show me where the food is.’ I’ve already got a horrible suspicion that I know exactly where the food is.

  He rubs his hands in anticipation.

  This is what he’s like now. Swinging emotions like a little kid. Or like a really old man. What am I going to do? I’ve got to come up with a plan to get him into the Academy.

  Wilson shows me an area of the dump where the black plastic bags are cleanest and newest. This is where we’ll be looking for our breakfast.

  I work methodically through the bags, but Wilson is easily distracted and when I look up half an hour later he’s making a low note by blowing across the top of a glass bottle filled with scummy water.

  ‘Frequency of the note is related to the length of the column!’ he calls.

  Whatever plan I come up with to help Wilson, it’s going to take a long time to explain it to him.

  Under some of the black bags I come across another bashed-up feeding pod, with the nozzles torn off. How did it get into such state? I guess all the stuff in here was broken by Specials. On the back of the pod there is a strut at each corner with the securing nut still screwed on. I can’t believe they waste all this stuff. You’d think they’d recycle at least some of it.

  Suddenly I realise what I’m looking at. This tip is filled with nuts and bolts and slivers of shiny shrap. I’m standing in a Specials’ jewellery shop. I remember Kay cradling her necklace to her chest. I start unscrewing bolts and filling my pocke
ts. I think about Kay’s eyes lighting up when she sees all this shiny junk.

  And then I just think about Kay.

  Later I get back to the black bags; some are full of manky packaging and used paper towels, one of them oozes something green and stinking, but Wilson was right that some also contain scraps of food. I collect: one stale bread roll, some quite clean chunks of carrot, a half-eaten ham sandwich and an almost-full packet of Corn Crispies. Wilson and I double wrap ourselves in the blankets again and share the food. I feel much better and even slightly warmer when we’ve finished.

  ‘We need to think about shelter for the night,’ I say.

  I debate whether we should move away from the Academy and maybe explore the broken-down building I can see in the distance, but I have the feeling that the further into the Wilderness we go the more likely we are to find some of its inhabitants. In the end I decide that we have the materials right here to make a shelter so we may as well use them.

  In the thicket of trees and bushes next to the dump we spend the afternoon leaning together pieces of corrugated metal and sections of broken grid. We cover the whole thing with a sheet of plastic. It’s not great, but it will help keep the worst of the wind out.

  In the evening I divide up the rags and bits of clothing we’ve come across and we huddle together in the shack. Waves of tiredness are washing over me, but I want to ask Wilson more about what happened to us that day.

  ‘Wilson, why do you think those men at the factory block wanted to hurt us?’

  He looks at me with his full attention, but he doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I mean, that was when all the weirdness started. It was almost as if they were waiting for us.’

  ‘Waiting for the red jacket,’ Wilson says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They chased me and said, “This is the one, in the red jacket.” You need accurate identification of the victim. A red jacket is not an adequate indicator.’