The Disappeared Read online

  My footsteps rang out on the stone floor. After three or four steps into the room, I had the sense that I was inside a vast cavern. I could make out the outline of some furniture to my right; I squinted into the dark. The door closed behind me and the remaining light disappeared. I stood completely still, feeling as though my body was wobbling as I tried to gather my senses.

  Somewhere behind me I could hear Simon moving around. My heart was racing. Then light flooded the room. I blinked rapidly.

  We were standing in the library’s entrance hall, a small space with a stone floor and a cubbyhole on one side that led through to an office space where the librarians must work. The hall was lined with thick mahogany beams that had been polished to a shine.

  ‘Have you been inside the library yet?’ Simon asked, coming up behind me.

  I shook my head, too busy marvelling at the space to answer him. He grinned.

  ‘You’ll enjoy this then.’ In front of us was another double door. The wood was carved elaborately and trimmed with strips of black metal. Simon opened the doors wide; the library was cavernous.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ I followed him into the main room, staring up at the high-domed ceiling, which was painted with a historical frieze. Bearded scholars pored over thick, leather-bound books while regal-looking men stood by.

  And the shelves! The shelves stretched out around me like the spokes of a wheel, each one lined with books. I was amazed.

  ‘I’ve never seen so many books all in one place! Even my university, it was nothing like this.’ I ran forward into the stacks, tracing my fingers along the spines as I went deeper into the room, stopping occasionally to read the name of a text or an author.

  Simon followed leisurely behind me. His voice was strong in the silence. ‘This is the biggest collection of books anywhere in the country. There are books here that you can’t find anywhere else. That’s one of the reasons the university is so strict about access. They don’t want just anyone coming in here. And you have to have signed approval to check anything out, which is rare. Usually students come in and work directly from the books.’

  I came to the centre of the room where there were half a dozen sets of stairs leading up to a raised platform. I waited for Simon and we climbed to the top, where I spun around in awe, gazing out over the shelves.

  ‘How many books do they have here?’ My voice was breathy.

  He shrugged. ‘No one knows, officially. They don’t keep proper records any more. But some people say there must be millions, not including the ones in storage in the basement.’

  I stared at him. ‘Millions!’

  He came and stood beside me and we looked out over the rows and rows of books, his hand so close to mine that it brushed against me whenever he moved.

  ‘How did you get a key for this place?’ I asked quietly. ‘Surely that isn’t allowed.’

  ‘Of course, not officially…’ He leaned his elbows against the railing that ran around the platform, cupping his hands against his chin. He looked up at me coyly. ‘I had a short-lived relationship with one of the librarians, years ago now. She gave me a key so that we could meet here, after hours.’

  He raised an eyebrow and I flushed.

  ‘Anyway, things burned themselves out fairly quickly, but she never asked for the key back. I think she forgot I even had it. I meant to give it back of course, but it’s so peaceful here at night, I like to come and think. Not to mention the reading.’ He sighed. ‘And eventually she went away. I think her mother fell ill, so she went back home to take care of her. There was no reason to return the key after that.’

  He smiled up at me. We stood too close; his pupils expanded slowly.

  ‘I bet you bring all the girls here.’

  ‘No, not since the librarian. And she brought me.’ He moved closer. ‘You’re the first one.’

  Four

  I sat in the back of the lecture hall, watching Simon as he paced in front of the whiteboard, animated gestures accompanying his words. Each time he paused, pens scratched across paper as his students hurried to capture every syllable.

  ‘At first, it was a slow thing, the way the country changed. After the banking crisis in 2008, the economy never really recovered. The new government began austerity measures, cutting public services to reduce national debt. A few years in and the cuts really began to bite. Ordinary people felt out of touch with the political class. They were angry that no one would listen to them, while they lost jobs and their standard of living fell. Housing became expensive and the cost of a university education grew, pricing many young people out completely.

  ‘People needed someone to blame for the lack of opportunity. And that blame fell on the immigrants who were moving to the UK and, according to certain politicians at the time, stretching the NHS and the education system. The country voted to leave the EU, which only made the economic situation worse. At the same time, there were a string of terrorist attacks across Europe, and war broke out in Syria. A wave of people fleeing the violence tried to cross the Mediterranean, but rumours of terrorists hiding among the refugees spread and there was real reluctance to help those who wanted to find sanctuary here.

  ‘Suicide bombings and attacks began to happen regularly across the UK and the fear of terrorism threatened to tear the country apart. There was a series of bombings on election day, at polling stations in Sheffield, Enfield, Harrow and Brighton. Almost 100 people were killed. That threw the election into chaos, as polling stations across the country shut down early, keeping the previous government in power. But with barely any authority left, they struggled to control the situation. The real defining moment came after the Whitehall bombing, when the prime minister was almost killed by a suicide bomber, who stepped in front of her car. Right-wing groups instigated riots, demanding tighter controls on anyone from a migrant family. People were too terrified to do everyday things. Sporting events and concerts were cancelled; shopping centres began to close as custom dwindled. More and more people stopped going to work, refusing to use public transport.

  ‘Finally there was nothing for the government to do but impose martial law. The army took to the streets, and a fragile order was restored.’

  Here Simon stopped, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I knew him well enough to recognise his exhaustion as he remembered what came next. His students were too young to recall the junta’s rise to power, but we could never forget that time. We couldn’t forget the people who disappeared as the First General gave his rallying speeches, calling for a new way of life, a freedom from terror. He promised to take back control, to restore the country’s economic standing and make it great again, but he only made things worse.

  Simon had to choose his next words carefully. There would be spies in the room; some might even be genuine students. There are so few opportunities for them now.

  They had stopped writing; their pens caught up to Simon’s words, captured them indelibly in ballpoint ink. They leaned forward almost imperceptibly, waiting for him to speak. Some of them sensed that he was conflicted. I could feel the ache of expectation in the room.

  The bell rang and the room was jolted from its reverie. Many students looked relieved, others disappointed. They began stuffing their notepads into rucksacks and shuffling out of the room in twos and threes, wrapped in the soft murmur of conversation.

  Simon stood at the whiteboard, his back to the room. I waited until the lecture hall was empty before I approached him. The plans that had begun to form earlier in the day had solidified as I listened to him speak.

  ‘That was a good talk today.’ I placed my hand on his back.

  He didn’t turn to me. ‘It was the same as every other day.’ Tension radiated from his body; I could feel it through the palm of my hand. ‘How can I call myself a history teacher when I only lecture in lies?’

  I moved closer, wrapping my arms around him and pressing my cheek against his back. My body was still jittery with energy. ‘You tell them what you have to. But we all
know…’

  ‘Do we? Some people seem to find it easier to forget.’ Simon spun around angrily, and I was reminded of the emotion in my father’s voice when he was passionate about a cause.

  I’d noticed recently that Simon was showing signs of exhaustion: he had bruises under his eyes, the grey flecks in his hair were starting to spread, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of so much history.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been thinking…’

  Out of habit I glanced around the room, checking for stragglers. Rows of empty seats stared back at me.

  ‘There is something we could do.’

  Our eyes met. I opened my mouth, but something stopped me. Simon touched my cheek.

  ‘It’s been a long day; I’m tired. Let’s go home.’

  He nodded, his eyes searching mine. ‘Are you alright?’

  I shifted my bag on to my shoulder and took his hand. ‘Let’s just go.’

  He flicked off the lights one by one as we left the lecture hall, plunging the room into an eerie blackness that echoed with suspicion and strangled dreams.

  Five

  Simon slept beside me, his face crumpled against the pillow. It was four in the morning and I still hadn’t managed to get any rest. My mind was churning with anxious thoughts. I watched the clock beside the bed as each hour ticked by.

  That evening, the journey home from the university had passed in silence. We took the bus, watching the city streets roll by, consumed with shuttered windows and the shuttered lives of the people we passed.

  We drove along streets lined with grotty-looking takeaways and pawnbrokers. Signs advertised easy-to-access loans; I didn’t need to see the small print to know the interest rates would be huge. Despite what was advertised, most of these loans were consolidated through a government scheme: fail to pay your debts and you’d be hauled off to the north somewhere to do manual labour on one of the new infrastructure projects, roads or railway bridges needing to be built.

  I couldn’t bear to look at Simon. My nerves were blazing, anticipating the conversation we would have. Instead I stared at the other passengers, wondering if there was an informer among them. I felt eyes on me wherever I looked.

  When our stop appeared it was a relief. I staggered down the steps, blinking against the late-afternoon sunlight as Simon shouldered his bag, heavy with student philosophy and marking. The bus shelter was lined with old posters encouraging residents to report suspicious behaviour among their neighbours, the paper faded and torn. The slogan We’re taking back control screamed at me from the page.

  We walked in silence past the park at the end of our street, the military checkpoint on the corner overseeing all our lives. Simon strode ahead as I tried to build up the courage to set things in motion. He paused at the door to our building, waiting for me to catch up, and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead as I stopped to look up at him, my heart heavy and my arms tired.

  ‘Here, let me carry your bag,’ he said, the familiar smile flickering suddenly across his lips. I didn’t resist as he held the door open for me. I shuffled inside and began to climb the stairs, rummaging in my jacket pocket for the door key.

  Our flat is small, smaller even than the one I lived in as a child. Years ago it would have been called a studio apartment – one room contains our double bed, a shabby sofa that has been reupholstered half a dozen times, bookshelves and a work desk that we fight over most days.

  While Simon dumped our bags on the floor and flung himself onto the bed, I crossed the room and opened the windows onto our rickety Juliet balcony. The last of the day’s warm air wafted into the apartment. I could hear the family who lived below us laughing as they cooked dinner, the rich smell of spices billowing through their open window.

  We kept a small second-hand television set, although there wasn’t much to watch; all the channels were state controlled. I had once managed to tune into a French news programme. It was fuzzy and faint, but I stared at the screen in amazement, letting the unfamiliar language wash over me, until the screen abruptly filled with static. I searched for hours, but never did find it again.

  Desperate for a diversion, I flicked on the television. The evening news was just beginning: two presenters sat in the studio, poised to read from an autocue. A title banner flashed across the screen: Night-time News with David G. Tubby and Susannah Smart. As it faded, the man began to read, his face serious.

  Reports of a planned attack by a terrorist group emerged today, after they were thwarted by the Authorisation Bureau. Members of the public are advised to report any suspicious behaviour in their neighbourhood to the confidential hotline.

  Lips pursed, I turned the volume right down. The newsreader finished his piece and smoothed a hand over his carefully styled hair, smiling confidently at his co-presenter as she began to speak. His suit looked expensive, probably more expensive than everything on the single rail that served as my wardrobe.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s been bothering you?’ Simon asked.

  I turned away from the television to find him watching me, his expression contemplative. I shook my head slightly. ‘I don’t… it’s just…’

  My heart fluttered in my throat; I was acutely aware of my own pulse. For an instant I was back in the bedroom doorway all those years ago, deafened by the blood thundering in my ears as I saw my father arrested, our home drowning in discarded paperbacks. Sometimes I felt as though I’d never escaped the confines of those walls.

  ‘I saw a family get hurt today.’

  The shame came rushing back. I pressed the heels of my hands hard against my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.

  ‘I think… they might have been killed.’

  Simon looked horrified. ‘God, Clara, that’s awful. Are you okay?’

  ‘See, that’s exactly the point. Am I okay? I just told you that I saw someone get attacked, maybe even killed, and you’re worried about how that affects me. I walked away, Simon. I fucking walked away.’

  I sat beside him on the bed. ‘I could have done something, said something, told somebody – but I just walked away, because I was scared. For years I’ve been cursing our old neighbours for not helping my father, but I did exactly the same thing. I saved myself. And they were kids. I saw this little boy chuck a rock at a girl’s head, while his friends were threatening her family. When did that become okay? When did we stop and turn our backs? We closed ourselves off from the world and it doesn’t help anyone.’

  Simon pulled me close. The familiar scent of his skin wrapped itself around me. I buried my face in his neck, in his comfort, his protection. My mother had always been scornful of our relationship. Simon was fifteen years older than me and she dismissed him as a replacement for my father. Sometimes I hated her.

  We sat there, our bodies pressed together, Simon’s hands stroking my hair. The sounds of life on the street outside filtered up to us: the voices, the cars rolling by, a dog barking. The sense of shame receded and was replaced by something else, something stronger. I was certain.

  ‘I want to teach a new class – outside the curriculum. I still have some of my father’s books that I can use.’

  Simon stared at me. I could see him processing my words, taking them apart and putting them back together in his head, unable to make them fit.

  ‘You can’t.’

  I shook my head. ‘But we can. History, literature – it all ties together. Think how powerful that message would be.’

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Clara, I love you, you know that. But you’ve gone insane. Where has this come from?’

  My eyes burned. ‘It’s always been there. My whole life, there’s been this sense of inevitability. Like a black hole drawing me slowly in. How could I choose anything else?’

  His lips were a thin line. ‘This is about your father, isn’t it? It’s always been him. Nothing else in your life has even come close, certainly not me.’ He choked on the last words and I couldn’t breathe.

  �
��That’s not true.’ My voice was a whisper.

  ‘For an intelligent woman, you can be frighteningly obtuse when it suits you. Reading you is like reading a bloody psychology textbook.’

  I jumped up from the bed. ‘Are you saying that I’m not capable of making my own choices? That I have to copy everything my father did?’

  My words grew shrill.

  ‘But what other choice is there? I can sit here for the rest of my days, with you, in this apartment. We can go to work and pretend that our lives have meaning. Who are we kidding? Every day we lie; we skim over the most important parts of the subjects we teach. We’re always walking that tightrope. Well I can’t do it any more. There has to be something… and what weapons do we have? All I have are books. Books and the things my father taught me. And when you think about it, what else do we need? The cracks are there.’ I waved my hand vaguely at the window, at the world outside. ‘If we can force them, just a little, they might grow deep enough to do some damage.’

  Simon’s face was raw with emotion. It hurt to look at him, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. ‘And what if I don’t want to do it? What if I refuse to let you?’

  ‘You don’t own me, Simon. I’m not your wife.’ He looked as though I had slapped him. ‘If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I understand. But you won’t stop me. I have to do this.’

  I took a step closer, imploring him with my eyes. ‘You don’t know how it feels. To have someone you love taken away like that. You come from a safe, suburban family who always played by the rules. You’ve never felt that agony, the not knowing…’

  He erupted to his feet so suddenly that I felt a thrill of fear. He grabbed my arms tightly, drawing his face down close to mine.

  ‘You don’t have the monopoly on pain, Clara. Maybe I didn’t lose a parent, but don’t treat me like an outsider, like I’m too sheltered to understand you.’

  He paced away from me, yanking at his hair as he moved. He spun round, jabbing a finger towards me.