The Disappeared Page 4

  ‘God, I’ve spent how many years listening to you cry about losing your daddy. You’ve told me again and again how special he was, how much you love him, how you would do anything to have him back. But what about me? I’m right here, in front of you, right now. I’ve been here for years and you don’t bloody see me. You’re fixated on the past.’

  I stood open mouthed. The family in the flat below had fallen silent. I burst into angry tears and slammed the window shut.

  When I turned back, Simon had gone. The front door hung open.

  I crumpled to the floor as the tears came. It was nearly twenty years since I’d lost my father, but the pain still felt fresh. It was clearer than my memories of him; so much had faded or become lost altogether. But Simon was so like him: his sleeves pushed up his forearms, his hair flopping forward over his glasses, brow furrowed.

  A falling sensation hollowed my chest. Maybe that was why I was so keen to push Simon, to make him do what my father had done. I was putting him in shadow. But what if he was right?

  I pictured my father being hauled off into the night; my father but with Simon’s face.

  *

  When he came home after our argument, Simon refused to speak to me. I waited up for him, staring at the wall as the clock ticked relentlessly onwards into the night. It was obvious that he stayed away to avoid me, expecting me to be asleep.

  I was still waiting days later. The mornings had become an agonising dance around the tiny space of our apartment. He would try to rise early, before I woke. But the muffled sound of his alarm or the floorboards creaking always broke my fitful sleep.

  We ended up getting ready at opposite ends of the room, our eyelines purposely out of sync. I stared at a photograph of us that was taken at his dad’s birthday party the year before. The three of us and Simon’s mum stood in their garden, arms round each other’s shoulders, grinning for the camera. Simon’s dad was wearing an old-fashioned party hat that his wife had crafted from coloured paper. It had been a family party, full of Simon’s cousins and their children. We’d cooked sausages in the garden and got raucously drunk on his mum’s homemade sloe gin. It was a wonderful day. I felt a pang as Simon’s back blocked my view of the picture. I missed him desperately, but my attempts at conversation were always met with silence.

  On the fifth day, he came home from work late smelling of alcohol. I was propped up in bed marking a pile of essays, my hair scraped up into an untidy topknot. The television played in the background.

  He banged the door closed behind him, unsteady on his feet.

  ‘You win,’ he slurred. ‘I’ll do it.’

  I put the papers down. ‘Do what?’

  ‘I’ll teach your bloody class.’ He slumped into one of the kitchen chairs. ‘I know it’s the right thing to do.’

  Pushing back the covers, I got out of bed and knelt on the floor in front of him. ‘I don’t want us to argue over this. I never did.’ I reached up to touch his face.

  He gripped my hand. ‘I’m sorry. For all of it; I never should have said those things about your father.’ He pressed my palm to his lips. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

  His eyes stared into mine, wet with unshed tears. My mind drifted away, planning for the first of the new classes.

  Six

  Simon had still never returned his library key. We explored the shelves after hours, searching the furthest corners for material to share with our students. Tucked between two ancient encyclopaedias, I found a copy of Brecht’s play Fear and Misery of the Third Reich, which clearly hadn’t been touched for years. I wondered if it was listed in the catalogue.

  ‘Look at this.’ I showed it to Simon. He had to peer at the cover – it was dark outside and we hadn’t dared to switch the main lights on. Dim lights lined the end of each aisle and they were just about enough to illuminate our search.

  ‘I read that at university,’ he told me. ‘I haven’t seen a copy for years.’

  The book went into my bag with a collection of Yeats’ poetry and two intriguing historical books Simon had found about the rise of nationalism in Europe and America early in the twenty-first century.

  We’d been combing the bookshelves for two hours already and my back was aching. I stretched, feeling the tense muscles relax. Smiling, Simon touched my face.

  ‘Do you want to look in the basement?’

  I felt a thrill of excitement.

  ‘Don’t they keep things there they don’t want us to see?’

  ‘That’s the rumour. I’ve never been down before. But if we’re going to do this, now seems as good a time as any.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Let’s do it.’

  The stairs to the basement were dark. Simon took my hand and we felt our way down. As we made it to the bottom, there was a soft buzzing sound and the overhead strip lights slowly came to life.

  ‘There used to be cameras down here,’ Simon told me. ‘But one of the admin staff told me the system failed a few months ago and the university never bothered to replace it.’

  I scanned the walls for a blinking red light. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  The corridor was lined with storage spaces, filled with shelves and boxes of books behind criss-crossed metal gates. We began to walk.

  ‘Do you know who you’re going to invite to class?’ I asked.

  Simon was frowning at a shelf of philosophy books.

  ‘I have a couple of people in mind. The way they write, their ideas. They’re bold.’

  Anxiety shuddered through me. This was happening.

  ‘I spoke to one of the girls in my Introduction to Poetry class today. It was terrifying.’

  Simon took my hand. I could see that he was nervous too.

  ‘There’s still time to back out, if you want.’

  His eyes studied my face. I tilted my chin. ‘No. It doesn’t matter that I’m scared, we need to do this.’

  He didn’t reply at first. But then he nodded.

  ‘I’m with you, Clara.’

  *

  It was raining when the inspectors came. I was sitting alone in my office, watching the water as it ran down the outside of the window. A volume of banned poetry lay open on my desk.

  There was a knock at the door and I jumped, shoving the book under a pile of papers. I spun round, guilt plastered across my face as the door opened to reveal one of the other English lecturers, breathless, his hair wet.

  ‘They’re here, the inspectors are here.’

  I stared at him, not taking it in.

  ‘They’re here to audit the department.’

  My stomach dropped. I had begun working on my class, putting together all the materials I would need, but it had taken time to find the right books. Most of them were banned, so it was impossible to find them in the library, or the campus bookshop. But there were other places you could go and my father had left me several from his collection. A pile of those books sat in my desk drawer, wrapped in other, more innocuous dust jackets: novels by Ray Bradbury, Kurt Vonnegut, George Orwell, Margaret Atwood and Alan Moore. A volume of poetry called The Life of X, whose author still fell victim to the void, despite publishing her work anonymously. Even now, her name is not known.

  ‘What are they doing?’ I asked. ‘Do they want to speak to everyone?’

  He nodded. ‘They’re holding a meeting in the lecture hall now. It’s compulsory.’

  I got to my feet, feeling light headed. Grabbing my bag, I followed him out of the door, only pausing to lock up my office.

  The rest of the English department were already gathered when we got downstairs. They sat in a cluster in the middle of the room, muttering amongst themselves. Four stern-looking men in suits stood at the front, unpacking their documents, along with a clunky laptop computer.

  Gradually the room fell silent. The four inspectors stood in a line, looking at us. Their faces gave nothing away. I shrank down in my seat as one of them caught my eye. He didn’t flinch. My heart fluttered, too high, caught in the back of my thr
oat.

  Then one of them stepped forward and the spell was broken.

  ‘We are from the Educational Standards Bureau,’ he said. His voice wrapped around us like a shroud. ‘We’re here to ensure that this university is maintaining the standard of teaching that the government expects from all its academic institutions. On this occasion, our focus is on the English department.’

  All around me, I felt my colleagues tense. It was possible this was a spot check. But it was equally possible that there had been a report of some kind, or there were suspicions of inappropriate activity. I tried to keep my breathing even.

  ‘We will be here for as long as it takes to confirm the legitimacy of your activity. During that time, we will speak to each of you at length about your classes, your own research and your students. If you have concerns you wish to raise, that is your opportunity.’

  He paused, his gaze raking across each member of the team. I clutched my hands tightly in my lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking.

  ‘You must make your office space, your research materials and your computers available to us on request. We will attend your lectures and classes at random. You will not be notified about this in advance.’

  He stopped speaking, and instead began to arrange a stack of papers on the desk, obviously ignoring us. One of the other inspectors clapped his hands.

  ‘You may return to your duties.’

  Silence hung in the air for a moment; no one moved. Then, as if triggered by some invisible signal, the English staff jumped up from their seats as one and filed towards the door. No one dared speak, but I could feel the tumble of words building. Once the door was safely closed and we were in the stairwell, the frightened whispers began, steadily growing louder as the anxiety rang in my ears.

  *

  It felt like the audit would never end. Even after two weeks, the inspectors were still a stifling presence in our department, present in every lecture, every seminar, every class.

  I arrived at work one morning to find my office already unlocked. With a feeling of dread, I pushed open the door and went in. A uniformed inspector was sitting at my desk – drawers open haphazardly – flicking through the pages of a book.

  She turned sharply as I came into the room.

  ‘Ah, Ms Winter, good morning.’ Her smile unnerved me.

  I wished her good morning, unsure of what else to say. The office felt small with us both in it. With her at my desk, I hovered uncertainly.

  ‘I haven’t read this, is it any good?’

  She held up the book for me to see. It was one of the set texts from the first-year course. The Lost Ones told the story of a family killed in the Whitehall bombing. I’d always found it horribly overwrought, but that was the point. You were supposed to be moved by the narrative, to be angry that a young family died so senselessly; it justified the First General’s takeover of the government.

  ‘I’ve always enjoyed it,’ I answered, in a flat tone. ‘It’s a very powerful story.’

  She nodded. ‘So I’ve heard.’

  As I watched, she turned her back on me and continued pulling things from my drawers. My stomach churned, despite the knowledge that each of the banned books had already been purged from the office. They sat in two piles beneath the floorboards of our apartment.

  With the drawers empty, their contents scattered across the desk and the floor around it, she turned her attention to the folders where I kept my lesson plans. My papers were soon scattered around her. She wasn’t careful.

  The room was warm and sweat began to prickle the small of my back. I was still wearing my coat and scarf, unable to remove them, or relax at all in her presence. My heart rate was too high; I worried she could hear it racing.

  She made a noise, a little gasp of triumph that whistled between her teeth. It jolted me back to the moment, every nerve jangling.

  ‘Well, what’s this?’

  She turned in the chair, brandishing the paper in her hand. I couldn’t see what it was, but terror flooded my system. I had begun making a list of potential students for the class one night, when I was at the office too late and too tired. It was foolish, but I was sure I’d disposed of it. As I searched my memory, doubt began to set in.

  When she opened her mouth again, I noticed her teeth. They were stained yellow with nicotine and lack of care.

  ‘These notes appear to refer to a book that you shouldn’t have access to. Are you familiar with Plato’s Republic?’

  My body stiffened. I remembered the basement storage space and the piles of philosophy books there. I hadn’t taken it away with me, but I had spent an hour tracing my finger across the pages as Simon hunted for something, absorbing these words that spoke to me across more than two thousand years.

  I’d been compelled to take notes.

  And now an inspector sat in my office with them tight in her hand, this evidence of my wrongdoing. I didn’t know what to say, or how to justify this. I thought of the half-dozen students I’d invited to a seminar in a small, isolated room later that week. My mouth opened, but no words came out.

  She fixed me with a disapproving stare.

  ‘While possession of this book would be enough to justify a warrant for your arrest, having notes is not, technically, a crime.’ She got slowly to her feet. For the first time I noticed that she was tall. She pulled her shoulders back and seemed to fill the space around her.

  ‘Fortunately for you, Ms Winter, I can’t see this book among your possessions. But I will be confiscating your notes. Your file will be updated.’

  She brushed deliberately past me as she left the room, leaving behind the faint tang of body odour. At the door, she paused.

  ‘And we will be monitoring you.’

  She let the words hang in the air. I couldn’t breathe. And then she was gone, her heavy footsteps fading along the corridor. Every instinct told me to run and find Simon, to warn him. But I held back. It was all too easy to picture the inspector, waiting in the lobby for me to burst from the stairwell and reveal more of my secrets.

  I forced myself to breathe. Instead of running, I went through the papers she had left discarded across my office, organising them carefully and returning them to the correct folders. As I worked, my fear began to turn to anger. How could anyone imagine reading a book was enough to ruin someone’s life and remove their future? Especially when that book contained a wisdom that was centuries old, far older and more impressive than this regime would ever be.

  As I returned the last folder to the shelf, my resolve hardened. I’d spent my whole life afraid of this government, of what they might do to me, what they’d already done to my family. They had taken my father away once, but planning these classes, I felt more connected to him than I had in so long. I wouldn’t let them take that away too.

  *

  When enough time had passed that it wouldn’t be suspicious, I went to look for Simon. I found him in the Humanities staff room, with a pile of essays and a red pen, immersed in his work. He looked up, startled, when I came through the door.

  ‘God, you scared me!’ He studied my face. ‘Is something wrong?’

  I was still furious about the invasion of my privacy, but looking at Simon, I faltered, ashamed of myself for making such a basic mistake. I could choose to ignore it, but this put us in danger.

  Simon was up out of his seat, papers forgotten on the floor. He took my face in both hands. ‘Clara, what’s wrong?’

  I dragged a stuttering breath into my lungs.

  ‘They know.’

  His pupils went black. ‘What do you mean, they know?’

  He kept his voice low, glancing quickly around the room. No one was there but us. I put my hands over his, our eyes locked.

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it, I took some notes on one of the books from the basement and I forgot… The inspectors just found them in my office.’

  Simon pulled away abruptly, spinning round like he couldn’t bear to look at me. He paced, like he couldn’t beli
eve what I’d just told him. For a second, I stood there like a scolded child, shoulders slumped and tears ready to flow. But crying wouldn’t do any good, I had to be strong.

  I straightened. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, my voice firmer. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen. But it doesn’t have to change anything; we’ll just have to be more cautious now.’

  The look he gave me was worse than anything he might have said.

  ‘This was your idea, all this risk…’ His hands trembled. ‘There’s no way you can be involved in teaching this class. They’ll be keeping an eye on you now. You’re a bloody fool to think you can carry on.’

  Angry colour flushed my cheeks. It masked the sting of his words. ‘This is too important for us to stop now. I need this, we all do.’

  He lifted a hand to silence me.

  ‘This is bigger than you, Clara. The work we’ve done…’ He turned to stare out of the window. ‘Teaching this class is important, you were right about that. But I’m not sure you can be there. And not just because of this. You’re too emotionally involved, you aren’t thinking clearly. What’s to stop you making another mistake and setting the bag squad after us all? It’s not just you and me now; there are students involved. The risk is too great.’

  I was boxed into a corner. If I argued, I only proved his point.

  Without another word he gathered his things and left me alone in the staff room. I was furious with him, and with myself. But underneath, a different emotion stirred that I didn’t want to acknowledge. I flung myself into a chair, heartsick and terrified of this thing I’d set in motion.

  Seven

  Two meetings passed unnoticed, before the inspectors completed their audit and left the university. Things had been tense between Simon and me, but I’d done what he wanted and stayed away from the classes, leaving him to teach alone. But the longer I stayed on the outside, unsure of what was happening, the more afraid I became.