The Disappeared Read online

  The driver pulled away, tyres screeching on the slick asphalt. I lay my head against the back of the seat, feeling the vibrations as the soldiers’ boots beat out a rhythm on the prisoner’s body.

  They didn’t stop us at any of the checkpoints, the unmarked van gliding through, occupants hidden behind tinted glass. The eyes of the people waiting slid away, unseeing. It’s a kind of self-preservation.

  When we arrived at headquarters, the driver swung us expertly down a narrow tunnel, into an underground parking area. It was deserted, except for two armed men, standing either side of the entrance. The metal gate rolled down behind us. The guards stared ahead, unflinching, as the driver and I exited the vehicle.

  Tucking my iPod away inside my jacket, I heaved the van doors open. The four soldiers jumped out, their feet slapping on the floor. Bloodstains smeared the concrete where they landed.

  Without waiting for instruction, they hauled the prisoner out of the vehicle and tried to force him upright. His head lolled sickeningly forward, face already swollen. His wife wouldn’t recognise him now.

  I jerked my head towards the entrance. ‘Take him inside and make sure his details are recorded. Then put him in one of the interrogation rooms.’

  They dragged him towards the cells.

  The driver appeared at my side, a bucket full of cleaning gear in his hand. He scowled at the interior of the van.

  ‘Do they ’ave to make this fuckin’ mess every single time?’

  He was a gorilla of a man, his thick neck straining the collar of his shirt. His tie was always fastened obscenely, too tight around his bulging Adam’s apple; it looked like it was strangling him. He dragged his knuckles across the dark stubble on his scalp and swung himself up into the back of his van, cursing loudly.

  ‘Can you ’ave a word with them, Sarge?’ he asked. ‘I’m sick of cleaning up this shit every time. At least make ’em clean the fucking van themselves. It’s not me in ’ere kicking the shit out of some poor bastard, is it? So why should I be the one scrubbing ’is blood off the floor?’

  He and I had joined the army at the same time. It was years since I’d been a sergeant, and he was the only one who could get away with using that name. It was his way of reminding me that we both came from the same place.

  I bent down and retrieved a rag from his bucket, tossing it into the van. He caught it one handed.

  ‘Tell them yourself, Duke. If you want to get them out here on cleaning duty, that’s fine with me. But watch who you sympathise with in future.’

  I strode towards the building, leaving him to scrub at the mess. I could hear him complaining loudly, until the guards swung the door closed behind me and I found myself in the void.

  The entrance to the Authorisation Bureau headquarters was stark and cold. I walked alone along the corridor, following the intermittent trail of blood left by the prisoner. In places it was smeared where one of the soldiers had trodden in it.

  When I eventually reached the end of the corridor, I stared up into the camera positioned in front of the door. Slowly, I held up my badge to the lens and identified myself.

  There was a pause and the door clicked open.

  I pushed my way through onto a metal staircase. My steps echoed as I jogged deeper into the bowels of the building, into the cells.

  The silence was eerie. I wasn’t expecting it to be this quiet.

  One of the young soldiers was waiting for me. He stood to attention and saluted sharply.

  ‘In here, sir.’

  *

  He was tied to a chair, wrists knotted tightly behind his back. He was slumped forward as far as his arms would allow. I couldn’t see his face.

  Pulling on my leather gloves, I grasped his chin and lifted his head. His face was caked in blood. I pulled my hand away, feeling the wetness sucking at my fingertips. He groaned.

  ‘Professor Winter,’ I said softly. He moaned again, but didn’t open his eyes. ‘Professor.’ I nudged him with my toe. When he didn’t respond, I kicked him sharply in the shin.

  He gasped and sat up, eyes wide.

  ‘Where am I?’

  His voice was little more than a croak, caught in the back of his throat. He strained to swallow and winced. When he tried to reach a hand to his mouth, he realised that he was restrained. He began to panic.

  ‘Where am I? Where’s my family? What happened?’ His eyes darted frantically around the room. ‘Where the hell am I?’

  His breathing was laboured, chest jolting with the effort.

  My voice was smooth. ‘You needn’t worry about your family, they’re fine. They’re right where you left them. Do you remember what happened?’

  He screwed his eyes closed. As though that would help. When he spoke, I could barely hear him.

  ‘You arrested me.’ There was accusation in his voice.

  ‘Now, Professor.’ I tut-tutted. ‘Let’s not pretend you’ve done nothing wrong. We both know you’ve been very naughty… teaching things you’re not supposed to.’

  He tried to keep his face impassive, but I could see it. I could see it there in his expression; guilt poured off him in waves.

  ‘No. Who told you that? No. It isn’t true.’

  I smiled. ‘Now Matthew, that’s a lie. I’d prefer it if you didn’t insult my intelligence.’

  I flexed my knuckles, adjusting the gloves so they fitted snugly against my hands. He watched in wide-eyed fascination as I clenched my fist.

  ‘We’ve been watching you for a while now. We’ve listened to your lectures, read your notes. There are photographs. Not just of you, but all those things that you shouldn’t have. Rows and rows of books, all of them fit for nothing but the fire.’

  His face darkened. ‘You won’t burn my books.’

  I laughed. ‘You think you can stop me?’

  He didn’t answer.

  I took a step towards him. Behind me, the young soldier tensed.

  ‘Perhaps there’s something I can do. If you’re prepared to help me.’

  He didn’t meet my eye; the pulse in his neck worked double time.

  ‘Tell me who you’re working with.’

  He jerked his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  I punched him in the face. I felt his nose break as my fist connected. Blood and gristle exploded, spraying across my uniform. I stared down at the mess as he tried to breathe, the air wet as it struggled through his twisted nostrils. I flicked a piece of flesh onto the floor.

  ‘Well?’

  He spat. ‘Get… fucked.’ It didn’t sound right, coming from him.

  Mouth pursed, I turned away. The soldier was watching me. I nodded. He drew his baton. His whole body was poised.

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow. You might be ready to talk by then.’

  I hadn’t even left the room when the soldier’s footsteps rushed forward. I pictured the first blow bearing down across the prisoner’s temple. Then the second that would follow to his jaw.

  As I made my way towards the exit, I counted each blow.

  Twelve

  Occasionally I indulged in the surveillance of my subjects before their arrest, if their files intrigued me. The first time I watched the professor, he was enjoying a rare night out with his wife, at the theatre where she worked.

  I followed them discreetly as they left home , dressed in their sad finery. They didn’t notice me sitting half a dozen rows behind them on the bus, staring at the wife’s reflection in the glass window as she rested her head against her husband’s shoulder. They sat like that for the whole journey, not talking but sitting with their heads bent towards each other, hands entwined.

  I slipped off the bus amidst a group of chatty middle-aged women. By the time I got onto the street, the professor and his wife were already disappearing around the corner. Loitering by the bus stop, I pretended to be reading the timetable, allowing them to pull ahead. By the time I turned onto the next street, their slow-moving figures were small in the distance. I followed t
hem carefully, hands tucked deep in the pockets of my coat, collar turned up against the cold night air.

  They arrived early at the theatre and had a drink at the bar. That evening there was a performance of Swan Lake by a celebrated Russian ballet company. They were still permitted to perform each year in the capital, thanks to a recomme ndation from their government. T hey may once have extended the tour across the country, but most of the provincial theatres were forced to close years ago . Theatre was regarded as too divisive ; it wouldn’t do to give the people ideas. But the First General kept a few venues open in the city to indulge his wife’s thirst for the stage, and as a place for the select crowd now filling the bar to congregate.

  As the professor and his wife sipped house wine in the corner, coats folded over their arms, I ordered a glass of tap water. Beside me, a large woman in a diamond necklace and voluminous purple dress loudly ordered a bottle of champagne. I assessed her covertly, and wondered who she was married to.

  It was only by flashing my identification at an usher that I gained entry to the theatre. He found me a seat at the back of the dress circle, a few rows over from my subjects, who were squashed into a pair of seats partially obstructed by a pillar. Theatre staff might get to see the shows, but they weren’t entitled to a seat that actually had a decent view.

  The lights dimmed and the hubbub in the auditorium fell silent. The curtain rose and I was aware of the dancers’ movements across the stage, but it was the professor’s wife who caught my attention. I was transfixed by the rapt expression on her face as she leaned forward to get a better view. Even in the darkness, her eyes sparkled.

  It was a long time before I remembered the presence of the professor. Reluctantly, I switched my attention to him. He wasn’t watching the production either. Instead, his gaze rested on his wife, his hand on her back protectively. As I watched, she glanced at him and smiled. A thrill of jealousy tightened in my gut, but I knew that their time together was growing short.

  *

  I found the commander in his office. He sat in front of a cluster of monitors, watching interrogations with the sound turned off. I lingered in the doorway. He leaned forward in his seat, chin buried in his steepled fingers. The blue light from the screens flickered across his face.

  I cleared my throat. He turned sharply, breaking into a grin when he saw me waiting for permission to enter.

  ‘Darius! Come in, come in.’ He jumped up from his chair and beckoned me into the room. As I closed the door, he grabbed a spare chair and pulled it across to the desk beside his.

  ‘Sit down.’ He resumed his seat and went back to the bank of monitors.

  ‘Look at Farnsworth’s technique.’ He pointed to one of the screens, where a colleague was questioning a prisoner. It was a woman, with close-cropped hair and wide eyes. She had bare feet; they were curled up beneath the chair, toes clenched inwards. She was trembling, but even with the volume turned down it was clear she was talking. Her lips were moving quickly.

  I leaned in for a better look. There were a number of dark swirls on the picture that I thought were marks on the monitor.

  ‘Is that…?’

  ‘Her hair? Yes.’ The commander inclined his head. ‘It didn’t take him long to get her gabbing once he started with the clippers. What is it with women and their damn hair?’

  I made a noise of agreement in the back of my throat, but all I could think about was how soft her hair was: Professor Matthew Winter’s wife.

  ‘Darius? Are you with me?’

  I snapped back to attention. ‘Sorry, sir. What were you saying?’

  He frowned slightly. ‘I was asking how your interrogation went. Did the prisoner give you anything useful?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet. He’s awfully stubborn for a bookworm; refused point blank to say anything. I left one of the bag squad down there with him.’ I couldn’t help but smirk. ‘He might be feeling a bit more cooperative after an hour or two of special attention.’

  The commander laughed. ‘Quite right, Darius. Let the young ones flex their muscles a bit; gives them a taste for it.’

  When they joined the Authorisation Bureau, new recruits were sent out in small groups to arrest a target, usually under the direction of a commanding officer. Often that involved snatching people off the streets or kicking down their door and dragging them screaming out of bed. They would be zip tied and shoved into the back of an anonymous van, a hood over their faces. That’s where the bag squad name came from. We encouraged it quietly because it gave the recruits a sense of mythology; they felt feared. They walked into those houses with a swagger and a sense of invincibility, a righteousness that made them drunk with power. It was intoxicating. Once they had a taste of that life, that superiority, they only wanted more.

  I glanced at my watch. ‘I might give him another hour or so, then leave the prisoner until the morning.’ My eyes settled on one of the screens. The professor was taking quite the beating. His chair was on one side on the floor; I couldn’t tell if he was still conscious. The soldier had been joined by another two recruits. There was blood up the walls.

  The commander nodded in approval. ‘You won’t get much out of him after this. Let him sleep for a few hours. He’ll be feeling a little more… pliable… in the morning.’

  He slid the drawer of his desk open. ‘Fancy one? Single malt.’ He pulled out a bottle of whisky and started pouring before I had a chance to respond. His measures were always generous.

  It was good whisky too, gave that nice burn on the way down. We drank slowly, watching the monitors. It was funny how quickly the violence became hypnotic.

  The fugue was broken when the desk phone rang. The commander sighed, tipping back the remainder of his drink.

  ‘That’ll be my driver, come to whisk me back to the wife.’ He began flicking off the monitors one by one, ignoring the phone. My hand itched with the urge to answer it.

  ‘Can I drop you at home?’ the commander asked, tugging on his jacket. I downed the last mouthful of whisky.

  ‘If you don’t mind, that would be great.’

  ‘Anything for you, Darius.’ He winked. The phone abruptly stopped ringing.

  We made our way into the corridor. I always walked slightly behind him; it wasn’t out of deference, it was safer to keep your distance.

  ‘You should have a woman waiting for you at home,’ he said. ‘It’s good to have someone there when your blood’s up – healthier that way.’

  I blustered a little, muttered about having a couple of women that I saw occasionally. But she was there again, in her negligee. Every time I closed my eyes I could see her so clearly. I wondered what she was doing behind her broken door, all alone without her husband. My skin felt hot.

  ‘Actually, I might not go home,’ I heard myself say. ‘Do you think your driver would drop me off in town?’

  The commander slapped me on the shoulder. ‘He’ll drop you off wherever I damn well tell him. Maybe I’ll even come with you, wherever it is you’re sneaking off to.’

  For a split second I was horrified. It must have been apparent on my face, because he laughed uproariously. ‘Oh, it’s a joke, don’t look so worried! I’m not going to steal her from you. The wife would never stand for that kind of behaviour.’

  I smiled and nodded. His wife was twenty-three and hated him. She probably wished that he would find another woman to play with and give her some peace. No doubt he would get tired of her soon enough; he usually did. But she wouldn’t much like the outcome of that.

  The commander’s car was sleek and expensive. I enjoyed the luxurious feel of the leather seats, the way they moulded to your body as you reclined against them. I stared out of the window as the streets flashed by; there were few people out at this time of night.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ the commander asked.

  I gave him the name of a bar that was notorious enough to attract my interest and not arouse his suspicion. It was only a few streets from the professor’s home.


  I made the final part of the journey on foot, my breath heavy in the darkness. I had forgotten that the lift in her building wasn’t working. By the time I’d reached the sixth floor my blood was singing, adrenalin flooding every nerve.

  I approached the door cautiously. Everything was dark, but I could still see the way the frame had buckled when the bag squad forced their way in. I reached for the door handle. It was stuck. I rattled it and the noise echoed along the corridor. My breathing was too loud.

  I gave one last twist but the door held. She must have shoved something against it. Somewhere a door slammed. Suddenly I felt exposed; somewhere I shouldn’t be.

  The adrenalin carried me down the stairs and onto the street. I stopped to stare up at her window. My body was on fire.

  *

  It took me two hours to get home. I forced myself to run, to burn away the excess energy flooding my body. It was the darkest part of the night, the streets empty and silent as I charged through them, the soles of my boots slapping on the ground.

  I remembered the way we ran in basic training, matching our strides to the men beside us, feet pounding a rhythm, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of our packs. I forced myself to keep going, long after my lungs began to burn and my legs started to cramp. I ran past checkpoints so fast that the men waiting there didn’t have a chance to stop me. They recognised the uniform and let me go.

  I raced through dead streets, avoiding potholes and broken glass. Silent windows stared down at me. I saw no one.

  When the buildings began to thin out and the streets grew wider and leafier, I knew I was nearing home. The last few miles were difficult in almost complete darkness. I knew the curve of the roads, followed them like second nature. As I crested the hill at the edge of the village my heart felt like it might burst.

  The house was silent but for the sound of my breathing. I switched on a light in the hall and had to shield my eyes from the glare. My uniform was soaked with sweat and plastered to my skin. When the light became bearable I took my hand away and caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was red, veins bulging. I turned away.