The Vanishing

by John Connor

  When it came to his turn he kicked and screamed and struggled as they tore his trousers off and held his legs apart. He made as much noise as he could, ignoring the laughter, ignoring the idiotic idea that he should try to bear it in silence, to deprive them of the point. The shells started landing right then, while they were in the middle of doing him. The whistle, the crump, the world shattering, the clouds of dust and debris, the blinding flash of the blast. Then there was the usual chaos. The same every time artillery struck.

  His own side were mortaring the school. They’d had enough – some officer had decided sleep was more important than shelling his own men. The attack killed three out of the five prisoners, but maybe they would have bled to death anyway. Maxim hadn’t complained. It was an unintended consequence that the mortars saved his life. All the Chechens fled, leaving Maxim and his corporal bleeding on the floor, slipping in and out of consciousness as the world came down on them. That’s how they were found the next morning, when the advance started again and the school was retaken. They were pulled out of the rubble half dead, mutilated, their war over.

  He pulled his eyes away from the terrified black girl and picked up the magazine he had found lying on the end of the jetty. Intelligent Life. Was this what Sara Eaton read to amuse herself? He flicked through it, trying to read it, to get his mind off the black girl’s panic. It was full of glossy adverts for expensive watches and pens. It confirmed everything he thought about the wealthy. They let life slip through their hands, they had no idea what it meant to be alive.

  He heard footsteps on the jetty and looked up, throwing the magazine aside. Time to concentrate. Self-consciously, he wiped a hand across his eyes, just to check. They were dry. The man he had put on the house was walking towards him. Maxim stood to meet him. ‘Something wrong with your radio?’ he asked, once the man was near enough. He felt contempt staring at the man’s flat, ignorant, animal face. He was no better than the rest. Maxim had provided all five of the Somalis with very sophisticated radios, to speed up communications, but for some reason they wouldn’t use them. ‘Is there something wrong with your fucking radio?’ he asked again. He spoke in English. He’d been assured they all understood English.

  ‘The light has gone off,’ the man said, ignoring the question.

  Maxim nodded. It had been like this throughout his dealings with them. He had picked them because they were for hire and they matched the cover perfectly. Pirates. That’s what everyone would think. But he wished now he’d thought of something else. Arisha would tell him he was being racist, but how could he help it? All they wanted to do was rape, kill and steal. He looked down at the one in the boat, who had stood now. He would have to stay here, guarding the girl. ‘You stay with her,’ he said to the man. ‘No messing around. You understand?’ The man looked blankly at him, licked his lips, looked up to the other one. Had he understood anything? The girl had seen Max, of course, seen him telling the others what to do, so she was a problem. The cover story wouldn’t last long once she started talking. And she could identify him, if things really went wrong. He could threaten her, threaten her family – would that solve it? He really didn’t want to kill her. But he couldn’t think about it now. Right now he had to forget about her, get his mind on what was about to happen. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to the one beside him. ‘Time to start.’

  8

  Tom woke into blackness, unsure where he was, fireworks going off somewhere in the distance. It took him a while to place himself. Then he remembered in quick succession the plane journey out, the meeting with Sara Eaton, the food, the drink. Too much drink. His head was sore. He needed water. He had no watch, so no idea what time it was, and since there was no mobile cover out here he’d switched his phone off.

  He lay for a few seconds in the pitch darkness trying to recall the entire evening, most of it spent in the summerhouse with his new client. Except she had never been a client, he recalled, and wouldn’t ever be, now. That had been the disappointing conclusion to the evening. Not being able to help her with the business side she had already arranged for him to fly back to the UK in two days’ time. But she’d kept him that long. That was interesting – that she had wanted him to stay two days with her, for no apparent purpose. She had not been what he would have expected from the super-wealthy. But then, she was the only person he had ever met who fitted that description. Maybe she was typical. He didn’t have a clue.

  Another noise from outside made him remember that he had woken to the sound of fireworks. At least, that was his impression as his eyes had opened. Could that be right? Or had he dreamed it? He tried to place the sound he had just heard, but couldn’t. Something breaking? He rolled in the big bed and found the water bottle she had given him on the floor. He took a drink, clumsily in the darkness, then got his feet on to the floor. The room was so dark because he had pulled big wooden shutters over the windows, he recalled. Outside it had been clear, bright moonlight as they had sat drinking and chatting, swatting the mosquitoes. He groaned, still feeling half asleep. How much had he told her about himself? Considering her age, she had been surprisingly good at getting him to talk. And all that stuff about his eyes. He smiled to himself. Had she been flirting? Incredible. He wondered whether that would continue over the next couple of days.

  Again a noise interrupted his thoughts. Fireworks again? He could hear shouting now. Why would there be fireworks? Some private celebration among the staff? Some pagan ritual, maybe. God knows what went on out here after dark. He was in the middle of nowhere. Sara had seemed oddly normal, but at the end of the day the world she lived in was incomprehensible to him. He wouldn’t be surprised by anything.

  A loud shrieking started. It got louder before he realised it wasn’t a monkey. Immediately he was on his feet. Was it a woman? His body went into panic mode, his heart suddenly thumping furiously. A short stream of crackling explosions split the air, like firecrackers. He recognised the sound at once. He was listening to an automatic weapon, maybe more than one. What had woken him was gunfire, not fireworks. And a woman screaming in distress.

  He thought to pull his clothes on quickly and found the light switch by the bed. It didn’t work. The electricity was down. Of course. That was why he could hear everything. That was why he was sweating so much. The rattling air-conditioning unit was off. He stumbled to the window and pushed the shutters wide open. The moonlight streamed in, blinding him. He shielded his eyes and saw figures running, down by the dock and nearer, then another scream, from somewhere in front of him, not from the house.

  He stepped back, now very frightened. Something was going on. He saw he already had all his clothes on, his wallet, mobile and passport in his trouser pockets. Even his shoes were on. He must have collapsed like that into the bed, a little drunk, exhausted by the heat. But now he had to get out of here. He had to find out what was happening, hide if necessary, but not stay in here, waiting for it to come to him.

  He pulled the door open too quickly, too carelessly, then shut it again. There could be people out there, waiting to shoot at him. There were guns involved. He had to think before he acted. His brain was going into overdrive, running through the information. What could be going on?

  It was like a burglary, maybe. But they were on an inaccessible island in the Indian Ocean. Did that happen? Could burglaries happen out here? He moved cautiously back to the window and looked out again. This time he could see nothing at all – no running figures, no muzzle flashes. Had he really heard guns being fired down there? He had a dizzying sensation of confusion. Everything was silent now, totally silent. Was he dreaming it all, right now?

  He heard a man’s voice, shouting something, high-pitched, full of fear. There was nothing dreamlike about it. He went back to the door. He was on the top floor, Sara had a huge room on the floor below him. He’d been given a tour and seen where it was. He should go there. That was the only thing he could do. He edged the door open a fraction and squinted into the gloomy passageway beyond. There was no
one there. But from below he could hear running feet, doors slamming, definitely in this house. There was a palpable atmosphere of danger and panic. He realised he could smell smoke, something burning. He moved out into the passage and ran to the stairway. There was movement somewhere farther down. He looked over the edge but it was too dark to see.

  He took the stairs as quickly and quietly as possible, on tiptoe, but running. On the floor below he turned towards where her room was and immediately saw something lying in the shadows, halfway along the passage. He crept to it, his muscles tense. Before he was anywhere near he realised it was a person, lying flat on their stomach, arms spread. He took in the blood, in a dark, glistening patch on the bare boarding, the clothing pulled up around the head as after a struggle and violence. It was a man, he thought. There was no movement at all. No breathing. Was it the man called Arthur, the chef? He inched forward, intending to check for vital signs, but immediately heard Sara speaking. At the same time there were three more shots from outside, but closer. The shots drowned out her voice, so he couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear the fear in them. She was speaking very quickly, like she was pleading, breathless. He stood and moved quickly along the gloomy passage, towards the point where there were three chairs placed against the wall. Past them were the double doors to her room. They were wide open.

  He came round the chairs with his pulse racing, instinctively in a crouch. He was sure she was speaking to someone, that something was happening inside her room. He had no time to think about it, but all his police experience was screaming that there must be some kind of robbery under way. As he passed the last chair he picked it up and held it in front of him, as a shield, then stuck his head round the door.

  His brain registered the images like a series of snapshots, in a split second, everything racing. There was a tall man directly in front of him, back to the door, blocking his view, about two metres inside the room. The room was lit by moonlight streaming in through a long, wide window. The man was armed – a long weapon, a rifle. He was black, short hair, very muscular, very tall. He was pointing the gun at Sara. She was on the floor, on her knees, hands on top of her head. As Tom’s head came into view the man started to turn, towards him, following Sara’s glance. Her eyes had flicked to Tom immediately, giving him away.

  There were only two choices – move back behind the wall, drop the chair and run, or go for the man. But he was already in view. There was no turning back now, so he stepped in and threw the chair.

  The gun went off as the man was still twisting towards him, firing off to the left, smashing something. The chair hit the man’s arm, raised to ward it off. The man staggered backwards, not falling, but going down on to one knee, off balance. As he went down Tom was running forward, all his attention on the gun. He was right behind the chair as it clattered to the floor. He needed to close the man down, get him to the floor, pin him. Or at least hit him, kick him. All he could see was the gun, swinging round towards him. It looked massive, double-barrelled – a shotgun, not a rifle. He had to get his hands on it. But the chair was in his way now, between himself and the man. He was stumbling over it already. Behind them, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sara diving towards her bed, getting clear.

  He knew before he got over the chair that the gun would be pointed at him before he could get to it. So he dived low, trying to get under the barrels, going for the man’s legs. It went off again, right above his head, deafening him. But he was already into the man’s thighs, pushing him backwards and down to the floor in a clumsy rugby tackle. Something hit his shoulder and the man started to yell. Tom got his head up and started to thrash out with his fists, not feeling anything as they connected, his brain flooded with adrenalin, everything a chaotic blur of movement. He was on the floor, on top of the guy, so close he could smell the sweat on him. He struggled against the sheer weight of his body – trying desperately to get up by pushing off him, feeling only slightly the blows from the guy’s free hand – but then the butt of the weapon caught his head. He reeled backwards, falling against the chair, lights spinning through his vision. But he was up almost immediately, coming right back at the man, striking out at him again. As he got to his knees he saw the guy was again trying to get the barrels on to him, but it was point-blank range now – there wasn’t even enough room to aim. If he pulled the trigger it would blow Tom’s legs off. In a blind panic, Tom kicked out at him, catching his face, then the gun. Surprisingly, it spun out of the man’s hands and slid across the floor. Tom rolled away and started scrambling towards it. He got into a crouch, took two steps then heard a loud, percussive crack. He spun round to see Sara leaning across the bed, pointing something. The man was flat out on his back, blood spreading rapidly over his shirt, chest heaving. He opened his mouth to gasp for air and blood ran out in a thick stream. He started to convulse, back arching, fingers clawing at the floor, eyes still open. The blood was already puddling around him, spreading quickly across the boards.

  Tom started to shake uncontrollably. He put the shotgun down. Sara was clutching something that must have been a hunting rifle. Something very large calibre. There were telescopic sights, but she was staring past them, watching the man, her eyes wide, her face trembling with shock. Tom pushed himself into a standing position. He could hear shouting from outside. Her eyes came off the man. She looked at Tom and he stared back at her. ‘We have to get out of here,’ she said. ‘Right now.’

  9

  ‘It’s kidnappers,’ Sara said, her voice breaking. She was over by a small window, opening it. ‘Jean-Marc got me on the intercom. They were coming for him …’ She turned back to him and her eyes crossed the body on the floor. She flinched, then started to cry. ‘It’s finally happening,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’ve had this fear all my life. Now it’s happening. They’ve come for me. We have to get out of here. I think they killed Jean-Marc. There are more of them. They will be coming. They’ll kill you, kidnap me. We have to get out.’

  Tom looked back at the body. It was trembling, like there was still life there. He should walk over to it, check it, do first aid, he thought. He was standing in the middle of the room uselessly, in a daze. But if the man were alive, what could be done? She had shot him through the chest. He could see the hole where the round had entered. If they got him to a good casualty unit within minutes he might live. But the exit wound would be a mess, too big to patch up with any facilities they might find here, if they had time. And the nearest hospital was hours away.

  Was the man what they called a pirate? He looked like one. He looked like all the Somali pirates Tom had ever seen on TV, the same height, the same distinctive facial features.

  ‘I think I killed him,’ Sara said, very faintly.

  ‘He might not be dead …’ Tom had seen dead people before, seen violence, but never anything like this, never anything so close up. All his muscles were tight with the shock of it. He didn’t know what he should do. Then, from the stairwell beyond her door, he thought he could hear voices, raised, getting nearer. He wrenched his eyes from the body. ‘How do we get out?’ he asked, his voice betraying his panic.

  ‘Down here,’ she said, her voice rushed. She was pointing at the open window. ‘There’s a ladder. It’s a fire escape.’

  He moved quickly to the window. Outside he could see a ladder on to a roof section. ‘Is this the only way?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re in the house, below us. I can hear. We can’t go down the stairs.’

  ‘OK. You go first,’ he said. ‘Give me the gun. I’ll cover us.’

  ‘Do you know how to shoot it?’

  ‘Point it, pull the trigger.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. You go first. I’ll cover you.’

  She was right, of course. She’d already proved that. ‘Just go,’ he said. ‘Go now. Hurry. I don’t know where I’m meant to be going. I’ll follow you.’

  She slung the rifle over her shoulder and went straight over the sill. He was immediately behin
d her, over the short wooden sill and down on to the metal-runged ladder fixed to the wall of the house. He went down expecting a shot to hit him, or that he would fall off, clatter across the roof, give them away. But he made it down despite his sweaty palms, then stood panting in the warm darkness, on the short sloping first-floor roof, beside her. She was listening into the silence. ‘We jump down from here,’ she whispered. ‘Jump down and run over there, to the lab block.’ Like she had a plan. There wasn’t time to ask her about that, but to get over to the lab block made sense. There was plenty of shadow, bushes against the wall. They could crouch down and hide, think about it.

  She went a second before him, jumping with the gun in her hands. The drop was a bit more than her height. He landed easily and started immediately to sprint across the short open space to the lab block. But halfway across he realised she hadn’t followed. He doubled back into the shadow at the base of the house wall. She was leaning against it, vomiting. He put a hand on her shoulder and asked her if she was OK, at the same time glancing back across the open space behind the house, watching for movement. She was sobbing between retches, sobbing and gasping for breath. ‘I killed him,’ she hissed. ‘I shot him.’

  He kept his head moving, watching. They were too exposed. He turned her face up towards his. ‘Look. You had no choice,’ he said, not looking at her, watching instead the gap over by the summerhouse. They would come from there, he thought. Any minute now. ‘He would have killed us both,’ he said. ‘He was armed …’