The Disappeared Read online

  I emerged onto the street, dead sound rushing in my ears. The cold hit me full force and I shivered violently, tightening my coat as I walked slowly back across the street, waiting for Simon and Elizabeth.

  They weren’t far behind me. A burst of noise escaped from the bar as the door opened; when it swung shut the sound stopped abruptly.

  ‘Where are you going? What did he say?’ Simon hissed as he came alongside me.

  ‘We have to wait for him,’ I said, moving along the street away from the bar. We stopped in a doorway, huddling together out of the light.

  Eventually Ronnie came outside. He paused to say something to the bouncer, lighting a cigarette. They shared a brief joke and then the doorman ducked into the bar. Ronnie finished his smoke.

  As he flicked the stub to the pavement, Simon put his fingers to his lips and gave a low whistle. Ronnie glanced up quickly, catching sight of us loitering on the other side of the road. He looked over his shoulder and then jogged towards us.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said, without stopping.

  He hurried away round another corner and ducked into an alleyway. Simon followed without hesitation, Elizabeth and I now trailing behind. I glanced around nervously. The street was fairly quiet, but there were several cars parked further along. I stopped, trying to see if there was anyone inside, but the street lights were dark. Rolling blackouts affected a different part of the city each night.

  ‘Clara,’ Simon hissed, beckoning for me to follow.

  They were standing in the alley, hidden from the street. The only light seeped from a window three floors above them, where a row of candles burned behind the glass.

  Ronnie was leaning against the wall, with one foot flat against the brickwork. His leg jiggled nervously. When he saw me enter the alley he stood up straight and began to speak, his voice a whisper.

  ‘We have to make this quick. I don’t want anyone finding us here.’

  The four of us moved closer. ‘We need to know if something’s happened to Jerome,’ Simon said. ‘He was supposed to meet Elizabeth here for drinks, but he didn’t show up. We haven’t been able to get in touch with him.’

  At the mention of her name, Elizabeth said something so softly I could barely hear. Colour rose in her cheeks as we all turned to look at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, voice wobbling. ‘I’m just worried about him.’

  Ronnie took another long look around. I began to think that this was more about avoiding whatever he was going to tell us, rather than checking for spies.

  He leaned forward. ‘He’s gone. The Authorisation Bureau kicked his door in during the night and dragged him off.’

  ‘But how do you know? Were you there?’ Simon’s voice was disbelieving.

  ‘Heard it from one of the lads who lives on the same corridor. There was a big ruckus about two in the morning; he looked out of the peephole to see Jerome being carted off with a bag over his head.’ He shook his head. ‘Apparently one of the other neighbours stuck his head out to see what was going on and got a kicking for his trouble. Guy’s from China; got a rich daddy who wangled him a place at the university. Don’t think he realised the situation so he tried to intervene.’

  Elizabeth started to cry. Simon put his arm round her shoulders and shushed her gently. His face was grave.

  Ronnie looked at each of us closely. ‘I don’t know what it is you’re all involved in, but if I was you, I’d be careful. They’ve got Jerome now, and once they’ve got someone, they always make them talk.’

  *

  It was late when we arrived back at the apartment; Simon insisted on taking Elizabeth home first. She didn’t live on campus, but in a dilapidated block of flats several miles and two train rides away.

  ‘It might be better if you take a break from lectures for a while – go home and see your parents,’ he told her.

  She sniffled. ‘Won’t it look worse if I run away?’ She pulled out a tissue and wiped her nose. ‘Besides, if I go home, what’s to stop them coming there to find me? No, I couldn’t do that to my parents.’

  ‘You need to stay safe, that’s the most important thing.’

  We parted ways outside her block of flats, trudging back to the station in silence. Simon had his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched against the cold. I threaded my arm through his, snuggling against him. My stomach churned; I wasn’t sure if it was with hunger or worry.

  The streets were dark, many of the lighting columns broken. It would be an ideal place for someone to stop and drag us into the back of a van with darkened windows, never to be heard of again.

  But my nightmares weren’t realised. We made it to the station, the sickly yellow lights casting eerie shadows on the faces of the waiting travellers. A lone man in overalls stood at the far end of the platform with a long-handled roller, diligently painting out graffiti. He had covered most of it up, but I could still make out the design, a tag used by one of the anti-government groups. A heart motif with intricate lettering that scrolled across the design. Underneath it read: You don’t control me. The artwork appeared mysteriously around the city, under the noses of officials, as fast as the government could have it removed.

  When we arrived home, the apartment was dark; the smell of casserole lingered, sickly and unappetising. I scraped the hardened food into the bin and left the pot to soak in the sink.

  We went to bed without eating, lying awake in the darkness.

  ‘Do you think Jerome will be okay?’ Simon said. He sounded like a little boy.

  I found his hand under the covers and squeezed it tight. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I really thought. Instead, I murmured, ‘I’m not sure any of us will be okay.’

  Ten

  That week I went to Simon’s class as normal, but the room was empty, the lights turned off. I flicked them on one by one, the cold classroom staring back at me. Fear shuddered through me. He should be here. My life felt like a series of empty rooms, haunted by missing people.

  I glanced at my watch. The time was right, I wasn’t late. Simon hadn’t said anything to me about moving to a different room, or cancelling. He’d debated it after our excursion with Elizabeth, but had said nothing more. I hadn’t seen much of him since, as he’d taken to working late, leaving me to get the bus home alone.

  A noise in the corridor outside made me jump. The cleaner was pushing a supply cart through the double doors. She looked tired and unhappy, her feet dragging as she laboured along.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I called. My voice cracked with anxiety, too quiet, and she didn’t look up. ‘Excuse me,’ I tried again.

  She stopped abruptly, looking up in surprise.

  ‘Sorry pet, you gave me a start. I wasn’t expecting anyone down here.’

  I switched off the lights and let the classroom door close.

  ‘Wasn’t there supposed to be a seminar here tonight?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not really the one to ask.’ She patted the pockets of her tabard. ‘Oh hang on, I’ve got a schedule here somewhere, let me check.’

  With a huff, she pulled the piece of paper out and unfolded it.

  ‘Let me see… looks like the room was booked, but it’s been crossed out. Must have cancelled. Doesn’t say what the class was though.’

  I thanked her, worries about Simon filling my thoughts. More than anything I felt guilty for starting this. As I pushed through the doors, the squeak of her cleaning cart began again.

  *

  It was almost midnight when Simon got home. He came into the apartment stealthily, expecting me to be in bed. Instead I sat rigid on the edge of the sofa, with only a reading lamp illuminating the room. He jumped when he saw me. There were scratches on his face and hands.

  ‘Clara! I thought you’d be asleep. I was trying not to disturb you.’

  He shifted his gaze away, fascinated by something on the kitchen wall.

  ‘Where have you been? I was so worried about you,’ I said quietly.

 
‘Oh I told you, I had a lot of work to do…’

  My sense of guilt abruptly turned to anger. I knew that Simon had never really wanted to teach this class, that I’d pushed him into it, but he’d spent a lot of time blaming me. I’d accepted that; I felt like I deserved it. But allowing me to be afraid for him was something else.

  ‘You expect me to believe that you’ve been in your office until almost midnight. Just like every other night recently.’ I snorted. ‘You must be really busy, Simon. Been giving your students extra research assignments?’

  ‘Clara, please…’

  I held up my hand. ‘Don’t bother lying to me. You’re bleeding! What’s going on? I went to class tonight and no one was there. Did you forget to tell me it was cancelled?’

  He dropped his briefcase onto the floor. ‘I was trying to protect you.’

  I stared at him, my face blank. ‘Do you think it will be better for me when one day you don’t come home? I can pretend that you never existed either, just like your bloody group.’

  He groaned. ‘Oh come on; let’s not have this discussion again. I don’t want to argue with you.’

  ‘Fine.’ I got up from the sofa and climbed into bed, turning my back on him. His footsteps hurried across the room and the mattress dipped as he sat beside me.

  ‘Listen, I found something out, Clara,’ he said urgently, close to my ear. ‘I’ve been looking for Jerome. Mine wasn’t the only group he was a part of. Apparently he was involved with some kind of protest group. You remember that minister who was carjacked outside Birmingham? That was them.’

  I sat up. ‘Are you telling me that one of your students is a bloody freedom fighter?’

  He nodded eagerly, leaning towards me. ‘Yes, apparently he was involved in all sorts.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ he ducked his head and started rubbing the bridge of his nose. I frowned. ‘One of his… colleagues… approached me.’

  For a moment I was at a loss for words. ‘Is that what you’ve been doing these last few days – meeting with terrorists?’

  ‘They aren’t terrorists.’ His voice was stern. ‘They’re a group of people who believe in doing what’s right, in making things better, for all of us.’

  ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You didn’t want to be a part of this. I had to force you to even consider taking this class, and suddenly you’re out there in the middle of the night joining terrorist groups.’

  ‘I haven’t joined them. Not yet.’

  I stared at him. ‘Simon, this whole thing scares me to death. I know it was my idea, but seeing you teaching that group, you reminded me so much of my father. You had the same conviction he had. It terrifies me that you could end up the same way. And it would be my fault.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s worth the risk.’

  Frustrated, I flung myself back on the bed. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t agree.’

  *

  We avoided the subject of missing students and militant groups for days, but it hung between us like a heavy weight.

  It was early on Saturday when Simon suggested that we do something together. ‘Let’s go and find somewhere to have lunch and we can spend the afternoon exploring, like we used to.’

  I remembered the early days of our relationship, how we would walk for hours around the city, discovering hidden gardens and quiet streets away from the bustle of daily life. We would search out street art and abandoned buildings, striking architecture and memorable views. Places that were still untouched by the creeping hand of urban decay. I had an old camera that I would tote around, capturing everything I saw, seeing the city anew through its lens. Simon joked that I couldn’t fully appreciate any sight, any moment, unless it had been immortalised on film.

  We had a photograph of the two of us, framed beside the bed. I had managed to take a self-portrait, as we laughed uproariously during a picnic in the park. We’d been discussing the future and what we wanted out of life. The conversation had turned to marriage and how people took it far too seriously. Simon remarked that it would take him years to save up for an engagement ring on his salary and I joked that I’d rather have a jelly ring, because at least I could eat it if I changed my mind.

  We were still in bed, warm beneath the covers despite the bite of autumn in the air. I rolled onto my side so I could look at him. ‘I’d like that, I miss exploring.’

  I leaned forward and brushed my lips across his. He slipped his arms around me and pulled me close. We lay like that for a long time, my head resting against his chest, his breath ruffling my hair.

  *

  It was late afternoon when we tired of wandering aimlessly. The sky was growing dark and I was getting cold, despite wearing a long winter coat and a scarf over my dress. I had resurrected my old camera and couldn’t handle it properly in gloves, so I’d opted to leave them at home.

  We were walking through a small park close to our neighbourhood. Simon watched me as I photographed a dog playing ecstatically in a pile of fallen leaves, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

  Across the park, there was a whistle. The dog pricked up its ears and shot off in a cloud of dried leaves, which rustled and crackled as it went.

  ‘You’re shivering.’ Simon put his arms round me and I snuggled against him, enjoying the warmth. ‘Do you want to head back?’

  I smiled tiredly. ‘Yeah, I think so. I’m ready to curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a book.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’ We started walking across the field, feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. Simon caught my hand as it swung at my side, my camera slung over my shoulder.

  As we approached the street, I caught sight of a park bench covered in intricate graffiti. My pace slowed as I gazed at it, imagining how I would frame it in my viewfinder.

  ‘Do you want to take a few more pictures?’ Simon asked.

  I glanced at him guiltily. ‘It’s okay; we said we’d get back. It’s getting dark now anyway.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Clara, take your photos.’ He looked across the street. ‘I might call into the corner shop and grab a couple of things while you do that. You never know, I might even get you a little surprise for later on.’

  His eyes twinkled and I laughed, happy that we had put our argument behind us. ‘That sounds interesting. How could I say no?’

  He gave me a kiss and jogged across the street, avoiding a car manoeuvring into a parking space across from the shop. The bell chimed faintly as he pushed open the door and went inside.

  I turned back to the bench, intent on my photography. After snapping away for a few minutes, Simon still hadn’t returned. I looked up as he emerged from the store, carrier bag in hand. He was grinning as he scanned the street, looking for me. I waved, slinging my camera strap across my shoulder and starting towards him.

  As he stepped into the street, eyes still fixed on me, the car that had been idling at the edge of the road suddenly screeched forward. It was a sleek black off-roader, with tinted windows and no number plates.

  The driver accelerated hard into the street and then slammed on the brakes, forcing the car into a skid. The doors flew open and four men in uniforms piled out, shouting, guns in hand. They ran towards Simon, who was staring at them in shock. I watched as comprehension dawned on his face and he turned to run, but they were already on him.

  They grabbed him roughly by the arms, forcing his head down as they dragged him towards the car. I was frozen to the spot. It was almost dark now and I didn’t know if they’d seen me, standing at the edge of the park.

  As they bundled Simon into the back of the car a voice in my head screamed at me to move. I sprinted across the street, but they were already speeding away. Simon was framed in the back window, as one of the men delivered a blow to the side of his head.

  Shaking, I grabbed my camera and started taking picture after picture, before the car turned a corner in a screech of smoking tyres and disappeared from view. I stood there, in the mi
ddle of the road, staring after them for a long time, still clutching the camera, finger on the button.

  Part Three

  Eleven

  I should have known from the beginning that she would be my downfall.

  That night wasn’t the first time I had seen her. We had her husband under surveillance for quite some time before his arrest. I’d seen her coming and going, laden with shopping or hauling dirty clothes to the launderette.

  But I never realised she was beautiful; not until she was cowering in her negligee beneath the strip lights in the bedroom they shared, watching as we dragged him away. I couldn’t look away; I knew then I had to have her.

  As I followed the others down the stairs, my head was full of her. I wasn’t thinking about her husband’s arrest, or the long night of interrogation ahead. Not then. I thought about the curve of her thigh and the way the light cast a halo around her hair. It was so soft. I could feel my fingers burning where I had touched her.

  I was sitting in the front of the transport before I came back to myself. The men were in the back of the van with the prisoner. The noise was unbearable in the enclosed space.

  I pulled an old contraband iPod from my pocket and meticulously unravelled the wires, slotting the earphones into my ears. The swell of Mozart’s Requiem filled my head. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift on the current, closing out everything else.

  When I was younger I hadn’t realised that music could make a man feel this way. I’d wasted hours raging with the shrieking rock songs of my youth, turning up the volume until the distortion was an angry snarl in my chest and I couldn’t tell the thunder of the bass from my own heartbeat.

  I was angry with everyone then: my parents, the teachers who had failed me and the government that deprived me of opportunity. That feeling still simmered beneath the surface, but along the way I learned how to use it. It gave me a focus that other people lacked.