The Man Who Vanishes_a gripping horror thriller spanning 3 timelines_One Man. Everywhere.

by J M Gonzalez Riley

  Feeling sorry for himself, Simmons ambled back to the bathroom, where he slid open the glass door of the medicine cabinet. He found some headache tablets and swallowed two, washing them down with a fresh glass of water. Then he turned the hot water dial in the shower and stepped in.

  His mouth tasted of sick and aspirin.

  He thought of Frank.

  Frank had been in pretty bad shape yesterday, following the crazy’s assault on him. Simmons grinned, pleased to have seen the bastard so shaken.

  He closed his eyes against the piping hot water, his hands on the shower unit to steady himself. The heat felt good, cleansing. It washed his weariness away the piss off his legs.

  His head cleared a little.

  The screaming man, disappearing.

  Simmons was no longer scared. He was, in fact, finding it hard to believe that what he had witnessed twice in as many days was nothing more than a dream. Mornings always did this to him. He knew he was becoming desensitised, his mind working to turn the traumatic memories into a dull, doubtful recollection, shielding him from reality. Only now there was a second witness: the sceptic, level-headed Frank.

  Feeling a little invigorated from the shower, Simmons pulled on his bathrobe and walked back into the kitchen.

  Was the man an angel? He wondered.

  He switched the electric kettle on, unhooking a chipped cappuccino mug from a wall fitting and placing it on the worktop.

  An angel...

  He unscrewed the lid of the coffee jar and shook it over the mug, pouring out a perfect measure. He never bothered to use a spoon – it would mean washing it first.

  What did an angel want with a psychiatrist?

  The kettle boiled and clicked. Simmons poured steaming water into the mug, then placed the kettle back on its cradle. Leaning back against the worktop, he picked the mug up and took a sip, absent-mindedly.

  ‘Shit!’ He cursed, burning his top lip and his tongue, almost dropping the mug.

  Why was the angel asking for help?

  His phone rang, driving the thoughts away from his head. Simmons ran into the living room, searching for his mobile. He found it on the chair, where he’d been sitting last night.

  Frank’s name filled the screen.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Simmons yelled, diverting the call and throwing his phone against the chair. The phone bounced off and fell on the carpet.

  It started ringing again.

  Simmons lunged himself at it, was about to throw it at the wall, when he saw that this time it was Clara, his secretary.

  Shit, he thought. The office.

  Clara always opened up in the mornings. She only worked half days, because that’s all he could afford to pay her, and so she had missed the vanishing man on both occasions. He hadn’t - couldn’t - told her about him. She would never believe him, and worse, she might think he was insane.

  He didn’t know how long he could keep hiding from her in the mornings, avoiding conversation, but now it was too late: this time the evidence was impossible to conceal.

  Clara was hysterical. She told Simmons about the state of the office, between sobs, and he had to persuade her not to call the police.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he told her in as calm a voice as he could muster. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll explain everything then’.

  When Simmons got there, he was surprised to find Frank’s Jag parked outside his office. On his spot. Simmons parked his old Mondeo on the other side of the road, walking slowly, almost apprehensively, across the road. He held his breath, tasting the acrid taste of exhaust fumes rising from the passing traffic.

  Clara appeared at the door, wringing her hands anxiously, small and red-faced. She was about to speak when Frank appeared behind her, cutting her off.

  ‘Pete! I tried to call you on my way here.’

  Frank was unshaven and tie-less. He wore his gabardine over a white, creased shirt and baggy beige slacks. Moreover, he was smoking a cigar, stinking the place out.

  Simmons didn’t feel the anger he’d felt this morning. He felt oddly detached.

  ‘What is going on?’ Clara hissed quietly at Simmons, drawing his attention back to her. He noticed the angry red blotches appearing on her face and neck.

  ‘I gave her the day off,’ Frank said pompously behind her.

  Simmons stared at him. He felt the anger stirring inside him, as if awoken.

  ‘What do you mean you-'

  But he didn’t finish his sentence. Frank was making dramatic gestures at him, behind Clara, distracting him, waving his hands toward the office door and raising his eyebrows with urgency. He was attempting to communicate something to him.

  ‘There’s a man in the office,’ Clara said flatly. Frank looked at her in disbelief, as if she had given away his secret to the world.

  A man in the office.

  Simmons tensed, looked quickly back at Frank, the little flash of anger gone, replaced with a wave of anxiety.

  ‘We have a lot to discuss,’ Frank said flatly, aiming the comment at the back of Clara’s head.

  Simmons felt unwell, tasted this morning’s vomit. Frank was an arrogant bastard, but now was not the time to deal with that. He had to focus and stay calm, for Clara’s sake.

  Simmons took a deep breath and looked at both of them. Frank was acting surprisingly cool, so the man in the office could not be the vanishing man. But who then?

  Simmons cleared his throat, then pulled his secretary aside.

  ‘Clara, he’s right. You take the day off. I’ll explain everything to you soon. I promise.’

  Clara stared at him as though he had slapped her. She had never taken time off, had, in fact, stood by him these past two years, through thick and thin. She was his first and only secretary, and was still here, doing her job. Simmons realised he had hurt her feelings, but there was no time to explain things now. He could not concentrate with Frank hovering behind her, making faces, and he was eager to find out about the man in his office.

  He grabbed her arms gently.

  ‘Clara, please trust me on this one. Take the day off. We both know there are no appointments this week.’

  Clara looked down at her shoes, away from his eyes. She felt small and frail in his hands, and he felt a pang of guilt when she nodded her head slightly.

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’ she asked, sheepishly, still looking down.

  Simmons nodded and helped her with her coat. When she was gone, he locked the door and turned to Frank.

  ‘She cares about you, Pete,’ he winked across the room.

  Simmons felt a sudden flash of anger toward Frank. He felt himself glow with embarrassment at the thought of his body language betraying him so readily.

  But Frank had other things in his mind. He was pointing at the office again, his face deadly serious. He ground his cigar on the worn carpet and went through into the next room.

  Simmons was about to complain, but saw no point. Instead, he followed him in, his heart beating faster with every step. He noticed the burnt-out power point on the wall and wondered what had happened to it.

  The man in the office stood by the upturned chair, leaning casually on the windowsill. He was young, lean and full of confidence. He wore his thick, blonde shoulder-length hair in a ponytail, his clothes dark and sharp.

  ‘I work for the MOD,’ he said flatly, by way of introduction.

  Simmons looked at Frank gravely. The Minister of fucking Defence! What have you done?

  Frank looked at him with a blank expression.

  ‘I’m here to talk about the man who vanishes.’

  Simmons looked back at the MOD man, unsure of what to say. He looked back at Frank for help, but Frank seemed to have ceased up on the spot.

  The MOD man already knew about the vanishing man, so it was pointless denying that much.

  ‘He is not a patient of mine,’ Simmons said, weakly.

  The MOD man regarded him coldly, studying him. Simmons felt himself grow h
ot under his collar.

  The MOD man tilted his head slightly to one side, unsettling him even more.

  ‘His name is Kayn,’ he said finally, ‘and he is very dangerous.’

  Simmons felt uncomfortable with this information. Knowing the man’s name made him feel somehow implicated. This had obviously been the intended effect. He realised the MOD man was probably trained to provoke subjects and analyse their reactions.

  Simmons straightened. He was not about to be psyched out by an amateur.

  He wondered at Frank’s expression. Perhaps he was hung over too.

  Simmons relaxed his face muscles.

  ‘Like I said: he is not my patient.’

  The MOD man looked around him at the wreckage in the room.

  ‘He did this,’ he said, looking back at Simmons. ‘And he’ll do more if you don’t cooperate, doctor.’

  Simmons shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’ he asked.

  The MOD man pushed himself away from the windowsill, stepping closer. Uncomfortably close.

  ‘He will be back,’ he said, hovering over him.

  Simmons gulped. His whole life seemed to have been ruined in just two visits. He did not want the man to come back. Ever.

  ‘Why is that?’ Frank spoke at last.

  Simmons’s head turned sharply in his direction, surprised. He had given up on any help from him.

  The MOD man looked at Frank, moved – to Simmons’ relief – toward him with swift agility.

  ‘That’s classified,’ he said, simply, a thin, dry smile on his lips.

  ‘Who is he?’ Simmons asked. Maybe they could confound him with questions, driving the conversation in circles like they had used to do to with their old psychology teacher back in university. They had called it game-play, and more often than not, a whole, inexperienced class failed to cage the wizened lecturer with this technique. Frank looked over at Simmons as the MOD man moved back toward him again.

  ‘Classified,’ the man repeated.

  ‘How can we help you if we don’t know anything about him?’ Frank asked straight away.

  The agent looked back at Frank. He frowned, as if suspecting their game.

  ‘Let me know when he comes back,’ he said.

  ‘But you must be able to tell us something about him,’ Simmons said. ‘We can’t know what to expect from him if we don’t know anything.’

  The agent looked at him darkly.

  ‘He’s a killer,’ Frank said, looking over at Simmons. ‘That’s why he is dangerous.’

  They both looked at the MOD man expectantly.

  He looked annoyed.

  ‘He is capable of killing,’ he conceded.

  ‘But so are we,’ said Frank. ‘And just about everybody else on this planet.’

  ‘He is trained to kill,’ said the agent sharply.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Like yourself?’ asked Frank.

  The MOD man glared at him.

  ‘Why aren’t the police involved?’ asked Simmons. ‘If he’s a killer on the loose, shouldn’t the police be involved?’

  ‘This is beyond the local constabulary,’ the MOD man said quickly, turning toward him. ‘This matter concerns national security. Holding any information on the whereabouts of this man can and will be constituted as a breach of national security. With, I might add, very serious consequences.’

  Silence.

  The MOD man had won this bout.

  He stepped through the door into the reception area, placing a card with a number on Clara’s desk.

  ‘Call me as soon as you see him,’ he said, stepping outside.

  ‘We didn’t catch your name,’ Frank shouted after him.

  The MOD man studied him for a long moment, and then smiled thinly.

  ‘My name is Adain,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

  6

  Present Day

  Frank would not speak in Simmons’ office, nor in his own car. Instead, he drove into the city centre and dragged Simmons into a café situated on the outer edge of the main ring road. They sat by a window, nursing lattes, in silence. They watched the continuous stream of people pass in both directions, dressed in heavy coats to fend off the cold, carrying briefcases and bags with shop logos. Everybody was in a rush.

  Traffic lights changed and people spilled on to the pedestrian crossing, colliding like atoms, finding their way back across the street in time for the lights to change and the traffic to steam through anew in an endless cycle.

  Frank ripped open three sachets of brown sugar and poured them into his mug, spilling granules all over the table. Simmons watched him. He was pleased to see Frank looked like he felt.

  ‘You’re not working today, Frank?’ he said, trying to keep a straight face.

  Frank sipped his latte.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Like yourself,’ he added acidly.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of razor blades?’ Simmons grinned.

  Frank studied him over the rim of his mug. Slowly, his mouth curled into a tired smile.

  ‘I look like shit, right?’ he said, stroking his chin.

  Simmons nodded.

  Frank stared into his latte. The crowd outside the window continued unabated.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he said, looking up from his mug.

  Simmons nodded.

  ‘About six months. Before your divorce.’

  Simmons grimaced.

  ‘Miriam is ambitious and impatient,’ he grumbled defensively. ‘She couldn’t wait for me to make something out of the business.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What about your secretary?’

  Simmons looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Christ, Frank! I work with her!’

  He had done it again: the involuntary jolt, the quick lie. So easy to read.

  He changed the subject.

  ‘How’s Liz?’

  Frank shrugged, staring out of the window.

  ‘Pissed off at me,’ he said, finally. ‘I started smoking again last night.’

  Simmons nodded, pensive.

  Good to see it’s not just me that’s falling apart.

  Frank picked up his mug and looked at Simmons.

  ‘Pete, I don’t know where to begin,’ he croaked, setting the mug back down on the table without drinking from it. ‘There are so many things running around in my head… The man yesterday. Jesus. What happened?’

  Simmons stared at his latte.

  ‘He came to me for help two days ago. Clara had already gone home. He just burst into the office, screaming. Then, whoosh. He was gone. Yesterday he did the same. You know the rest.’

  Frank looked ashen.

  ‘Have you told anybody else?’

  Simmons shook his head.

  ‘Clara?’ Frank asked.

  Simmons shook his head again.

  ‘What would I tell her? Besides, I thought I was hallucinating. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, what with the divorce and trying to run the business. I called you partly because I needed somebody else to see.’

  Frank nodded.

  And because I don’t have any idea what to do.

  ‘I know what you must be thinking,’ Frank said after a pause. ‘But I did not call the MOD. Or anybody else, for that matter. I really don’t know how they know.’

  Simmons studied him for a long moment. He had no doubt Frank was telling the truth.

  Frank looked around him, then leaned across the table, closer to Simmons.

  ‘Yesterday, I had an email from the MOD,’ he said. ‘Nathan woke me up this morning with the news. He got the email, but it was addressed to me.’

  He looked out of the window at the crowd, his brow creased with unspoken thoughts.

  ‘How does the MOD know Nathan’s email? And how do they know who he is?’

  Frank shrugged. He looked troubled.

  Simmons drank from his mug, pensive.

  ‘It seems the MOD have been keeping u
p with this Kayn for some time,’ Frank continued. ‘The email warned not to harbour Kayn, but to inform the MOD of his whereabouts.’

  Simmons said nothing.

  Why warn you, and not me?

  The bustle of the crowd grew loud, as if rushing to fill a void.

  ‘They must have been watching him coming to my practice,’ Simmons said at last. ‘And they would have seen you, yesterday. Maybe that’s how they traced you.’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘My car,’ he said. ‘They could have traced the number plate back to me.’

  Simmons nodded.

  So why you Frank? Is it because of your connections?

  Frank scowled into his mug.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Simmons asked him.

  ‘Feynmann,’ he said.

  Simmons was thrown back by the name. He could not place it straight away, but the sound of it brought sour feelings to his mind. And then he had it.

  ‘College. Arsehole Feynmann. He went to work for the Neuropsychiatric Institute as a researcher. And then as a fully qualified Nazi.’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘Why are you thinking of him, Frank? The guy’s a military scientist.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Simmons frowned.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head vigorously. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I don’t like the guy. He’s a bully and a ruthless, immoral tyrant all rolled into one.’

  ‘He might already be involved,’ Frank said.

  ‘Involved? How?’

  Frank took a deep breath.

  ‘I have a coupe of theories,‘ he said.

  Simmons looked at him, sceptical.

  ‘Let’s hear them,’ he said.

  ‘OK. To begin with, I’m not convinced by the MOD man.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Frank considered his words.

  ‘I don’t think the MOD man was straight with us. You saw his face: he was lying about something.’

  Simmons conceded that point.

  ‘Also, did you notice that he couldn’t seem to get out of your office fast enough, once we gave him the chance?’