The Disappeared Read online

  He paused to gather his thoughts. ‘Mum said Uncle Josh was always a bit of a lad. He’d been a joker since he was young, class clown, you know? Well anyway, they’d all had a couple of drinks on the bus on the way down, like it was a normal day out. His friends told my gran that afterwards.

  ‘They’d been marching for about an hour when they came to a barricade of soldiers. They all had guns, but they weren’t doing anything, just stopping the people from getting anywhere near Parliament. The crowd was fairly good natured: they shouted a few insults, chucked a couple of empty cans, but there was no real violence or anything.

  ‘But Uncle Josh thought it would be funny to try to take a picture on his mobile phone – they all had them then, right?’

  He glanced at Simon, who nodded.

  ‘Well, the thing was, he tried to grab the gun off one of the soldiers. He was larking about, being stupid. He didn’t mean anything by it. I think the soldier must have been surprised, ’cos Josh even got the gun off him too. His friends were all laughing and taking pictures. Other people in the crowd had started to notice.

  ‘The soldier whose gun it was didn’t even react too badly. They said he seemed to realise it was a joke. He took the gun off Josh and went back to his post. But Josh didn’t leave it. He was flushed from the prank, trying to play the clown. He grabbed the gun again, laughing the whole time. But the soldier didn’t let go. They wrestled a bit and Josh slipped and went down – he’d been drinking, after all. As he fell, somehow the gun went off. When he got back up, the toe of his shoe was missing where the bullet had gone right through – without hitting him.’

  The students were all smiling, amused by the story.

  ‘They all went mental, thinking it was so funny. The soldier was in shock; he didn’t know what to do. The crowd around them was laughing and cheering. Well, one of the commanding officers had seen what had happened. He was one of their core people, the junta. Before anyone realised what was happening he had walked over, took his gun out and shot Uncle Josh in the head. Then he turned round and blasted the soldier in the face.’

  There were gasps from his classmates. Jerome fell silent, his lips pressed together in a tight line. The air in the room felt heavy.

  Simon got up from his perch on the desk. ‘Thank you for sharing that, Jerome.’ He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about your uncle.’ There were murmurs around the room as the others agreed.

  ‘But Jerome’s story is actually the perfect example of what we were discussing. When the army resorted to violence, we weren’t prepared. These soldiers were ordinary men; they were a part of our families. They hadn’t been indoctrinated or grown up with war and horror. But this still happened. The army still became a monster, from the head down. It was all the more powerful, all the more sudden, because we never expected it. Things changed while we were sleeping and we no longer had the power to change them back.’

  Nine

  Once a month, we would meet my mother for Sunday brunch at a local restaurant. It was a place that she disapproved of, but we continued to go because it was convenient. Every time we visited she would sneer delicately at the traditional decor and the black and white cityscapes that lined the walls. She preferred her eateries chic and minimalist, all glass and exposed steel, with expensive wine lists.

  She always ordered the same thing: braised kale frittata with a Bloody Mary. The drink would disappear quickly and be replaced with another, over and over, as we pretended not to notice. She would pick at her food while we scoffed mounds of American-style pancakes with maple syrup or French toast covered in cinnamon, food we wouldn’t have been able to afford without the fifty-pound notes she would slip into my pocket, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

  ‘Tell me, Simon,’ she asked, taking a sip of her crimson drink, ‘how is the manuscript coming along? Surely you must be almost finished by now?’

  Simon swallowed a mouthful of sticky pancake and wiped his mouth. ‘Actually, I haven’t had much time to work on it lately. I’ve been teaching some extra classes and that has rather monopolised my time.’ He smiled. ‘The students are very keen.’

  A heavy pearl bracelet slid up and down her wrist as she cut the frittata into tiny pieces, without taking a bite. ‘Really? How nice.’ She smiled thinly, the blood seeping from her lips as she pressed them together in a tight line. ‘But you must make the time to work on your book. It’s so important as an academic to be published. Isn’t that right, darling?’

  I sighed inwardly. ‘Well, of course it’s lovely to have written a book, mother, but it isn’t everything. And you know that Simon has had over a dozen articles published in journals over the years. He’s even won awards.’

  I squeezed Simon’s hand under the table. He squeezed back and gave me a quick wink as my mother put down her knife and fork and stabbed instead at her phone, which had shrilled self-importantly.

  She scrolled through to read the incoming message and frowned. Shoving the phone into her designer handbag, she picked up her glass and drained it, a thick drop of tomato juice sliding down her chin. She banged the glass unsteadily onto the table and waved her other hand for the waiter to bring a refill.

  ‘Honestly,’ she muttered. ‘Your father knows that I always come here to meet you for brunch. I don’t know why he insists on pestering me, asking where I am.’

  A lump of toast caught in my throat and I gave a sharp cough. My voice hoarse, I said, ‘Why do you insist on referring to him as my father? You know how I feel about it.’

  She wafted her hand at me dismissively, accepting a fresh glass from the waiter who had scurried over from the bar. ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, Clara. Darius is your father, even if you refuse to use his name.’

  When my mother remarried, I had been forced to take her new husband’s surname, effectively wiping my own father out of existence. It was only when I left home and began teaching that I reverted back to Winter. No doubt my name would be on a watchlist somewhere, as the child of a disenfranchised academic. The name change would only have drawn attention to my existence, but it was the one act of rebellion I could safely commit. In fact, if my stepfather hadn’t been an important member of the Authorisation Bureau, I would never have been permitted to abandon my father’s name. They didn’t like it when people tried to hide the true nature of their identity.

  She was beginning to sway a little now, a sign of impending drunkenness. I changed the subject. ‘And how is Will? Is he enjoying the academy?’

  My half-brother was sixteen and had recently finished school. He had followed in his father’s boot prints by deciding to join the military and was currently enrolled at an academy for elite officer training, which was widely known as a recruiting ground for the Authorisation Bureau. We had never been close. He was too like his father.

  She stiffened slightly before she replied, avoiding my eye. ‘He’s fine; he seems to be getting on well there. Your father has a friend on the staff; he said some extremely favourable things about Will.’

  There was a lull in the conversation. Unsure of what to say next, I busied myself with my food. Beside me, Simon did the same, while my mother busied herself with her fourth Bloody Mary.

  I remembered Will as a child, tormenting the frogs in the garden pond with a stick. Once he caught one and trapped it in a glass jar until it suffocated. He left the tiny corpse in my bed, under the pillow. I still recall the sensation of its cold flesh against my skin as I slipped my hand beneath the pillow, trying to get comfortable. Even at seven years old, Will had found my screams hilarious.

  I put down my fork, no longer hungry. My mother was staring into space, glass in hand, tomato residue clinging to the sides. ‘What time did you tell him you’d be back?’ I asked.

  She didn’t seem to hear me. ‘Mum,’ I said, reaching out to touch her hand. She jumped, brought back to the present moment. ‘What time do you have to leave?’

  She flicked her wrist, glancing at the face of her gold watch. ‘About twenty m
inutes, I think. The driver will be collecting me.’ My mother rarely went anywhere alone.

  I nodded. ‘Do you want a coffee before you go?’

  She squinted at me, as though deciding whether or not to be insulted.

  ‘I’m having one,’ Simon said, gesturing for the waiter. ‘Lucia?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, alright then. A latte.’

  Simon ordered the drinks and the waiter hurried away. I watched as the girl behind the counter began pulling levers on an elaborate but aged coffee machine, slowly filling three cups.

  We sipped our coffee in silence. My mother had that washed-out look that comes after drinking too much alcohol, when it starts to seep into your bloodstream and make you nauseous.

  Simon was at the counter paying our bill with the fifty-pound note when my mother’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, ‘It’s the driver.’

  I waited while she spoke to him, a brief conversation that consisted of barely half a dozen words on her part. ‘He’s outside,’ she told me, hanging up.

  I nodded and picked up her coat, which was hanging from the back of her chair. I held it out for her as she struggled to get her arms in the right place. She fastened the buttons as I shrugged into my old leather jacket and wrapped a scarf around my neck.

  She stepped around the table and gave me a hug. I was surprised, but returned the embrace. I caught Simon looking at us over her shoulder; he raised his eyebrows and I smiled in return.

  My mother pulled back and looked at me properly for the first time that day. Lifting a hand to touch my cheek, she said, ‘We should get you a proper coat, Clara. You must be cold, always wearing that old thing.’ She tugged both sides of the jacket together and fastened the zip. ‘There, that’s better.’

  She gave me a soft smile. ‘You look after yourself, darling. I’ll see you again soon.’

  Then she tottered off, the heels of her suede boots clicking on the wooden floor of the restaurant. She didn’t say goodbye to Simon, but then she never did. He would always retreat to the counter to pay the bill so that she could make her escape without acknowledging him.

  He came back, tucking his wallet into the pocket of his trousers. ‘You ready to go?’

  ‘Yep.’ I smiled and he bent to give me a kiss, his lips lingering against mine. He took my hand and we made our way outside, shielding our eyes as we emerged from the dimly lit restaurant into the bright autumn sunshine.

  *

  On Sunday evenings, we had a ritual. Simon would cook a meal, usually something vaguely exotic from a cookbook he found in the library. Sometimes he had to improvise, if he couldn’t get hold of all the ingredients. So we ate bizarre versions of dishes we remembered from our childhoods, like chicken curry with most of the spices missing.

  It was an unspoken rule that we would take a day off from our work, the university and our students.

  That evening, Simon had prepared a casserole. The television played in the background, a familiar theme song signalling the start of that day’s news. I don’t know why we insisted on watching it, when it only made us both angry.

  I’m David G. Tubby, and I’m Susannah Smart. In tonight’s news, we reveal the secret plan to bring down our government, which was averted thanks to the swift intervention of the Authorisation Bureau, who arrested a dozen suspects today.

  Simon slammed a cup down on the counter. I hurried across the room to silence the television. We were moving around the kitchen in a well-rehearsed dance when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘You expecting someone?’ I asked, gripping a serving spoon in my hand.

  He shook his head. ‘It could be your mum.’

  I actually laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid. When has my mother ever been here?’

  The knock came again. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, Simon answered it. I hovered in the kitchen, keeping a firm grip on my spoon, craning my neck to see round him.

  I raised my eyebrows. It was the girl from class. She was dressed for a party, in a short dress that clung to her body but her hair was wild and she was breathing hard. She jittered in the corridor, shifting from one foot to another. My eyes were drawn to the delicate tattoo that curled around her ankle.

  ‘Elizabeth! What are you doing here?’ Simon asked.

  She rushed in, eyes darting around the room. I folded my arms.

  ‘Can we help you with something?’

  Simon threw me an exasperated look. ‘What’s wrong?’

  There was a pause. ‘Jerome’s disappeared.’

  We both stared at her. Simon’s brow puckered. ‘Disappeared?’

  She nodded, running a hand through her hair. ‘I was supposed to meet him for a few drinks, but he didn’t turn up. I waited, like, nearly an hour.’ She started to pace. ‘So I went over to his place. When I got there his room was empty and the door had been kicked in.’

  She was shaking. ‘Here,’ I guided her to the sofa. ‘Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ She nodded, eyes glistening.

  As I filled the kettle, Simon began questioning her. ‘Did you see anyone else when you were there?’

  ‘No. If anyone was home they were inside. The guy in the next room is friends with Jerome. I knocked, but he didn’t answer.’

  Simon was walking in circles around the kitchen. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘I think it was, mmm… Tuesday. We had a lecture together. We went to the library afterwards and arranged to meet up tonight.’ She fiddled with her hair again. ‘It’s not like Jerome not to turn up. Something must have happened.’

  ‘Let’s not panic.’ Simon held his hands up in front of him reassuringly. ‘Maybe he went out somewhere and lost track of time, forgot he’d agreed to meet you. Or there could have been an emergency.’ It was obvious he didn’t believe it.

  I gave Elizabeth her tea and perched on the other end of the sofa.

  ‘Is there someone we can get in touch with? What about his parents?’ Simon said.

  She shook her head. ‘They live up north somewhere. I don’t think they have a phone. It’s easier to avoid the surveillance.’

  ‘He must have friends you can contact?’

  ‘There might be one…’ She fidgeted, twisting her hands together. ‘Ronnie might know. He works with Jerome, at a bar near the university. We go there sometimes after lectures.’

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘He’ll be at the bar; he works Sunday night.’

  Simon was already putting on his coat.

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea to turn up and start asking questions?’ I said softly. ‘You don’t know who else might be there.’

  ‘If something’s happened to Jerome, we need to know about it. And this lad might have information. So we go.’ Simon was wrestling with the buttons on his coat. ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Clara.’

  I jumped up. ‘Of course I’m bloody going. I’m not going to sit here wondering where you are and if you’re okay.’

  ‘Fine.’ He didn’t look happy. He pulled my jacket off the hook behind the door and held it out. We left the apartment; the Sunday evening casserole cold and congealing on the hob.

  *

  The bar was a mile or so from our apartment. It was Sunday night so there were few buses. We made the journey on foot, Simon striding ahead.

  It took almost half an hour to find the place. We stood across the street, watching as people went in and out. The bar patrons seemed young. They looked like an edgy crowd; I caught a glimpse of metal piercings glinting under the flickering neon signage, of tattoos and elaborately shaved hair. Elizabeth shivered in her thin jacket.

  It was me who took the initiative. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  I strode across the street and past the sullen bouncer in his leather coat. He eyed me as I walked by but I ignored him, pushing the door open and descending into the depths of the bar, the heat beating at me like a wave. Simon and Elizabeth scurried at my heels.

  The stairs took us into
what must have once been an old cellar, with a low brick ceiling. The club was small and dark, the air thick with smoke. The beat of the music pulsed in my chest. The bar was tucked away in a corner, crowded with people. I pushed my way forward, reaching back to grip Elizabeth’s hand.

  ‘Which one is Ronnie?’ I yelled into her ear.

  ‘What?’ she shouted back.

  ‘Point him out to me.’

  She stopped, straining to see over the mass of drinkers gathered around the bar. ‘There.’ She pointed at a tall guy who was emerging from a back room, carrying a crate of lager, a beanie hat pulled low over his eyes.

  Elizabeth stiffened. ‘That’s him!’

  ‘Wait here.’ I wound my way through the throng of bodies, until I was close enough to lean on the bar. I waited for my turn, waving away a young girl with a pierced septum when she tried to serve me. She shrugged and shifted her attention to the couple next to me.

  Eventually Ronnie met my eye and nodded. I beckoned him closer. He leaned over the counter towards me and I got close enough that my lips brushed his ear. I had to shout to be heard over the dull pounding of the music.

  ‘You know Jerome, right?’

  When he understood what I was asking, he pulled back and stared at me with open suspicion. The pierced girl glanced over with interest, then went back to her drinks order.

  I twisted around to point at Elizabeth. ‘I’m with her.’

  He frowned, his eyes roaming across the crowd until they fixed on the right girl. He took a step closer and rested his elbows on the bar, his face close to mine.

  ‘Not here. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.’

  He pushed a glass towards me and turned away to serve someone else as though I had never existed. I picked up the glass and took a sip. It was water. I threaded my way towards the exit, slipping the glass onto a table as I went.