The Disappeared Page 2

  The rock arced through the air and struck the girl on the temple with a sickening crack. She didn’t cry out, just crumpled to the ground, a burst of blood on her skin. Her father didn’t flinch. The mother cried out and ran to her daughter, fussing over her prone body.

  The boys all began to laugh and catcall, cheering the young one who had thrown the rock. A few of them moved closer to the family. I couldn’t help myself: I took a step forward.

  The brother stared at me, his anger palpable. I could see he wanted to do something; there was violence brewing beneath his skin, but he knew it was futile, against these boys. His mother wept.

  ‘Leave them alone!’

  Their attention was on me then and, instantly, I knew I’d made a mistake. They turned towards me.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch,’ shouted one of the older ones. ‘You want a piece too?’

  He gestured obscenely, grabbing at his groin, as the others circled closer.

  I looked at the girl, struggling to sit up as her mother pulled at her arm. Blood ran down her face and she didn’t wipe it away. The boy’s eyes burned into mine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. And I turned my back. Clutching the bag across my chest, I let my feet carry me away, head down once again. I listened for footsteps behind me, poised for the attack, but it never came.

  As I reached the end of the street and turned back onto a busy road, I heard a faint scream and howls of laughter. I paused on the corner to look back, but the street was empty. Heart pounding, I hurried away, shame and sickness twisting in my gut.

  *

  My hands were still shaking an hour later as I sat in my office, trying to control my breathing. I couldn’t forget the faces of the family: the emptiness of the father and the anger of the son. I couldn’t bear to think about what might have happened to them. I couldn’t bear to think about what I might have done to help.

  There was a knock and the office door opened. I turned, expecting one of my students, but the new head of department stood in the doorway. His brow furrowed.

  ‘Clara, are you alright? You look awfully pale.’

  I took a breath. ‘I just…’ It all flashed through my mind again and the words were about to tumble out. But I tightened my lips instead. I wasn’t sure what Brian would understand less: my shame at walking away from someone who needed help, or my desire to stop and help in the first place.

  I pulled my shoulders back and met his eye. ‘I’m fine, just a bit of a headache.’

  He nodded. ‘It is a bit stuffy in here.’

  I didn’t reply and the silence stretched on a moment too long.

  ‘I wanted to have a word with you, about Luke Campbell.’ There was a sheaf of paper in his hand, which he held up between us. ‘You’ve given him extremely poor grades recently. His father has been in touch to complain.’

  Brian waved the papers at me. I assumed they were examples of Luke’s work. He continued, ‘I really can’t see why you would deem it necessary to mark his essays so poorly.’

  I lifted my chin.

  ‘I gave Luke low grades for a number of reasons. His work is always handed in late and without apology. His spelling is atrocious. His ideas are simplistic and even, frankly, offensive. I get the impression that he only refers to the first books he finds in the library and doesn’t bother to consider an idea in any more depth. I could go on.’

  Brian’s mouth pursed. Again, the papers in his hand fluttered.

  ‘I’m disappointed in your attitude, Clara. Luke’s father believes you have some kind of grudge against his son and, from that display, I’d have to agree. I don’t recognise any of the problems you’ve just listed in this work.’

  He shuffled through the papers and pulled one out to show me.

  ‘And what you say about work being handed in late simply isn’t true. Just look at the sign-in sheet.’

  He held the paper out to me. Feeling suddenly queasy, I took it from him. It was a list of essay submissions from Luke’s student record. According to the dates listed and signed off by the records officer, every piece of work had been handed in early.

  I stared at it in disbelief.

  ‘This can’t be right.’

  I looked up at Brian. ‘Can I see those?’

  I held out my hand for the rest of the papers and he gave them to me wordlessly. I rifled through them, recognising the titles of essays I’d set. But none of these were Luke’s essays. I’d never seen them before.

  ‘This can’t be right…’

  Luke’s father was a high-ranking official; he actually worked in the office of the First General, although I wasn’t sure what he did there. I’d met him once, at an open day for new students and their families. He was a short man, with a barrel chest and a sharp voice. He wasn’t affectionate with his son, but he clearly had high expectations for him.

  It looked like his influence extended to bribing university officials on his son’s behalf. It wouldn’t do to have a child who wasn’t even capable of stringing a sentence together, not if he wanted to maintain a certain level of respect.

  A wave of fury swept through me. I thought of the family in the abandoned park, of the brightest students in my classes, who were without exception also the poorest. I thought of my father and how he had given everything for his principles, while I wrote glowing reports on idiots and cheats.

  Brian was watching me. I really didn’t know him well at all. Perhaps he was the one who altered the records.

  I forced myself to smile apologetically. It didn’t stretch to my eyes.

  ‘There must have been some… misunderstanding,’ I heard myself say. ‘I’ll be sure to mark Luke’s work more carefully in future.’

  Brian nodded. ‘I’m pleased to hear that, Clara. I’ll be keeping an eye on Luke’s grades myself; just to make sure this doesn’t happen again.’

  My smile grew rigid, but I didn’t let it slip. There was a twitch in the corner of my eye. ‘Of course.’

  It looked as though Brian wanted to say something more, but instead he smiled. ‘Alright then.’

  When he left, he closed the door behind him. But he’d opened something in me, something that had been building for a long time without me even knowing. My father had risked so much to teach his students the truth. He’d made a difference to their lives, however small, when he broke the rules to share his books with them. There was no reason I couldn’t do the same.

  *

  Once I’d had the idea, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. People didn’t read now, the way they used to. I missed the lure of a new book, the afternoons spent in the library after school finished, wandering among the shelves searching for another world, another life to inhabit. I needed that more than ever.

  I roamed the library again, tracing my finger over the smooth, uncracked spines of the books. They were all sanitised, carefully chosen for the warped version of the truth they presented to the world. We didn’t have stories about controversial or difficult subjects; there was no diversity in the voices that inhabited the library. Each one was a friend to the regime, at least on paper.

  If they weren’t their book was banned. Perhaps not officially; there was no rule, no law that prevented you from reading certain things. But you risked yourself all the same. Certain books disappeared from the shelves, as their authors disappeared from sight. Political books, historical books, biographies, many vanished overnight. But fiction was the worst. The government didn’t like any story that explored revolution or protest, or even gave its characters too much personal freedom. They didn’t want us to remember, to get ideas outside of their control.

  I’d spent years hunting for a copy of Doctor Zhivago. My father had encouraged me to read his copy when I was young and we had spent hours discussing it, but it was left behind when we were forced to move to our flat. I still didn’t know how the story ended. Every time I entered a bookshop or a library I would search for it, but the book was never there.

  The librarian watched me from her desk
as I scrutinised the shelves. I pulled out a copy of the First General’s Manifesto and pretended to flick earnestly through the pages. Turning my body, I angled the cover so she could see what I was reading. After a moment, her attention shifted to one of the students, who was whispering a little too loudly to a friend.

  With a shove, I put the book back and moved deeper into the library, into the dusty corners where the students rarely went. There was a shelf on the back wall where the academic publications were kept. A copy of Brian’s dissertation on the social influence of a state-sponsored poet was there, the cover gritty and untouched. Lips pursed, I plucked it from the shelf and scanned a few pages. It made me hate him even more.

  As I replaced it, another book caught my eye. I glanced over my shoulder. Marcus Nielsen was a Danish poet who once taught English Literature at the university. He was a good friend of my father’s. But he disappeared too, a few months before my father did. His crime was publishing a book of poetry critical of the First General. The imagery he used was so opaque that the book went unnoticed for over a year before a disgruntled colleague published a critical analysis. Both men ended up in the Authorisation Bureau’s hands. It broke my father’s heart and ignited his activism, his rebellion. His disappearance.

  I sank to the floor, opening the cover and flicking quickly through the pages, devouring the densely structured stanzas, the poet’s fire bursting off the page. When footsteps rang out along a neighbouring aisle, I shoved the book into my bag, heart pounding. Guilt stained my face.

  Clutching my bag, I hurried back along the shelves, snatching a couple of safe titles to check out. A different librarian served me, a young man in a bright t-shirt and glasses. He smiled as he stamped the books and handed them to me. I emerged from the library into the afternoon sun, the light dazzling my eyes after the dull interior of the old building. Hugging the books to my chest, I made my way to the main lecture hall to meet Simon, anxiety fizzing in my veins.

  Three

  When I first met Simon, he was one of the university’s stars: a charismatic man who delivered passionate and intelligent lectures, pushing at the boundaries of the curriculum that the government had assigned but never straying into territory that might attract the wrong sort of attention.

  I’d recently completed my master’s programme and was anxiously anticipating the first day of my new job as a junior lecturer in the English department. It had been a difficult job to secure, with round after round of interviews and assessments and background checks. Somehow I scraped through and was assigned an official position, along with a room in an accommodation block on campus that was reserved for staff.

  The night before I was due to start, I was invited to a welcome event thrown by the university, where new staff could mingle with existing employees. I arrived late, after finding myself hopelessly lost among the narrow corridors of the economics building. After a slightly unnerving detour into the echoing depths of the basement, I managed to find a caretaker who gave me directions to the main hall, all the while looking sideways down my top.

  It only took me another two wrong turns before I found the right place. I stumbled into the room, hot and bothered from my prolonged journey through the building. The room was surprisingly full, as knots of people gathered together, deep in conversation. I lingered in the doorway, scanning the hall for anyone familiar.

  On the far side of the room, the head of the English department – who had interviewed me for the post – had spotted my entrance. I’d always enjoyed working with George: he was the first man I met, other than my father, who was driven by his love of books. But they were his downfall too, in the end. Writing a memoir about his life under the regime wasn’t the best idea; leaving the manuscript in his office was worse. None of the staff ever admitted responsibility for reporting him, but one of them was guilty. The Authorisation Bureau didn’t manage to arrest George though. In his hurry to escape them, he tripped and fell down a flight of stairs, opening his skull on the stone steps. Instead of taking him, they took his things, obliterating his presence. Over twenty years at the university, gone.

  *

  George raised a hand above his head, clutching a narrow-stemmed glass of wine in the other. ‘Clara!’ he called, making his way towards me.

  I waited for him, my smile turning rigid as he came closer.

  ‘How nice to see you again! We’d almost given you up for lost.’

  I blushed. ‘It did take me a while to find the right place, sorry.’

  He patted me on the arm. ‘Oh not to worry, it can seem like a bit of a maze until you find your way around.’ He leaned towards me confidentially. ‘When I first started here, over twenty years ago now, I once managed to get locked in the building after classes. I lost track of time in my office and then couldn’t find my way out. By the time I found the exit, everyone had gone home. Fortunately I managed to find a number for the caretaker and he came back and let me out.’

  I smiled. ‘Oh no, how awful. It must be eerie being alone in the building like that.’

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Yes, yes, I suppose it was.’

  His eyes glazed over for a moment and I could almost see him remembering. Then he snapped back to the present. ‘Well, we must get you a drink. Would you like something to eat?’

  He steered me towards the buffet table in the corner. A pile of paper plates sat beside a thin-looking spread of sandwiches and snacks. While he busied himself pouring me a drink, I took a plate and selected a couple of dry sandwiches, along with a few cocktail sausages and a mini Scotch egg.

  ‘Here you go.’ He handed me a glass of wine and I smiled gratefully.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I took a sip and almost winced: the wine was overwhelmingly sour. But I swallowed, glancing about me for somewhere to put the glass while I ate one of the sandwiches.

  I made my way through the food slowly as the head of department chatted away, telling me stories about some of the students and pointing people out to me across the room. Once I had finished eating and stowed my empty plate in an appropriate place, he took my arm and began to guide me across the room.

  ‘Let me introduce you to a few of the staff here, Clara.’

  The other English lecturers were gathered together in a huddle in the corner of the room. As we approached, they began to laugh uproariously. I hung back as the head of department marched straight into the tight circle.

  ‘Everyone, I’d like you to meet Clara Winter. She’s our new team member, starting tomorrow.’

  He gestured about the group, introducing me to each of my colleagues. I nodded and mumbled my hellos as they greeted me in turn, clutching the wine glass against my stomach. I was so nervous that I took another gulp, forgetting how foul it tasted.

  To my relief, the head of department didn’t leave me alone with the English staff. Instead he whisked me off around the room, introducing me to as many people as he could. After five minutes I’d already forgotten the names of everyone I’d met.

  My head was reeling when a petite woman with mousy hair approached us. ‘Excuse me, George, but there’s a call for you in the office. Would you mind?’

  He apologised profusely for leaving me and hurried off with her, leaving me alone in the hall with my glass of rank wine. I took another sip for something to do. My taste buds were already scarred so I barely noticed the flavour.

  I was wondering if it was too early to make my escape when someone appeared at my side.

  ‘I must be the only person in the room George didn’t introduce you to. I’m Simon.’

  He held out his hand and I shook it. ‘Clara Winter.’

  He tutted gently. ‘I can’t believe you’re drinking that rubbish. Here, give me your glass.’

  He didn’t wait for me to respond, but took the glass from my hand and turned surreptitiously away. We were standing by a window where a lone plant was wilting on the ledge. He dumped the wine into its pot and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small silver f
lask.

  ‘Ssh!’ He put my glass on the window ledge and held a finger to his lips, before pouring something gold coloured from his flask. He tucked it back into his jacket and handed me the glass. I looked at him.

  ‘Go on, take a sip.’

  The whisky burned a little as it went down, rich and smooth. It felt hot in my stomach. It was only the second time I’d ever drunk spirits.

  Simon smiled at me. There were creases at the corners of his eyes that I found endearing, salt and pepper threaded through his beard. ‘Good isn’t it? Hard to get hold of though. I keep it for special occasions.’

  I looked around the room at the academics picking at their buffet, sipping the disgusting wine as they chatted quietly about the year ahead.

  ‘This counts as a special occasion?’

  ‘I got to meet you, didn’t I?’

  It took a second for his words to sink in. My cheeks reddened and I had to look away. I felt like a girl, embarrassed by her first crush on a teacher. He brushed his fingers against my shoulder and my skin tingled.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  *

  I didn’t know where we were going. Simon led me outside and across campus, towards the university library. It was an imposing granite building, built in Victorian times. A set of wide steps led up to a pair of heavy wooden doors. They were shut tight, the building in darkness.

  ‘Isn’t it closed?’ I asked, as Simon started up the steps.

  He grinned at me over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got a key.’ He patted his pocket.

  A flood of envy rushed through me. ‘How did you manage that?’

  As I followed him up the steps, apprehension shivered across my skin. ‘Should we be doing this? What will happen if we get caught?’

  Simon laughed, wrestling the key into the lock. ‘Are you always this much of a worrier?’ He swung the door open with a long creak. Inside was pitch darkness. He gestured for me to go ahead. I stepped into the blackness.