The Disappeared

by Roger Scruton

  ‘Yes, you can go away. But first please open that porthole.’

  He is still holding your hands away from your face. But with a sudden movement of recoil he drops them and goes quickly through the door into the corridor. After a moment he returns with a monkey wrench, and applies it to the batten of the porthole. It comes open with a crack, and flakes of white paint fall onto the berth. He brushes them away, and puts the wrench on the floor. Sea air rushes in around you, and the sound of seagulls.

  ‘So what’s your name?’ he asks again.

  ‘Why do you want my name? Are you going to steal that too?’

  ‘Listen, we gotta be friends, see? Otherwise you’re in trouble.’

  ‘I am in trouble.’

  ‘Not real trouble, not yet.’

  He looks at you. There is a hesitancy in his manner that suggests he is not really part of the gang that has kidnapped you. You are too desolate to exploit this fact. But you notice it all the same.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Normally they hand the girls to an agent in Kaliningrad – a real dump of a place. But you wunna stay there for long. Actually they hanna decided what to do with you. I mean, there was a mistake, see.’

  The young man has pushed the tray of food aside and sat down on the berth. The monkey wrench is just out of reach on the floor, and you concentrate all your thoughts on how to get hold of it. But he has made no move, and you must keep him talking.

  ‘Yes,’ you say, ‘there was a mistake. And you’ll pay for it.’

  ‘I mean Zdenko let himself into the flat, and there was the girl on her own, doing her homework just like we told him, because she is a bit of a swot see, and they bring her to Hull as normal and out on to the boat and it’s not the right girl.’

  He tells the story in a matter-of-fact tone, as though it does not concern you. But it twists the knife in your stomach and you cry for revenge.

  ‘Then you had better get me back to England. Now.’

  He looks at you with an air of assessment.

  ‘No, we canna do that. The other girl, see, we done her over. I mean she was ready, and we’d put her off in Kaliningrad and that would be the last we heard of her. You though, you’re different. If we dunna do things right you’ll make trouble.’

  You are trembling now and huddling away from him. But he still has made no move.

  ‘See, the others, they say we’ll give her the treatment, she’ll be that scared in a day or two she’ll just go along with the Russian bit like they all do. I say no, I’ll look after her.’

  He reaches for the Coca-Cola can and snaps it open. He holds it out in your direction, nodding at you to drink. You shake your head and retreat from him. He takes a sip, returns the can to the tray and suddenly stands up. You reach for the monkey wrench but he quickly kicks it away from the berth.

  ‘What are you doing?’ you cry.

  ‘Just be nice, OK?’

  He has taken a packet of condoms from his pocket.

  ‘I’ll use one of these, see. Then you dunna have to worry afterwards. No bother.’

  ‘No!’ you shout, ‘no!’

  And a sudden blackness falls like a shutter across your eyes.

  Chapter 9

  Justin’s first thought was to ring the police. They had given Muhibbah a number to call in case of threats, and he had written the number in his pocket book. He stared at the corner where she had sat. He recalled her curious glances, fleeting touches and enigmatic words. But it was as though Muhibbah were sealed, offering no place from which to peel away the membrane that protected her. Her path through life had been charted on some other planet, and she received instructions for her future in a language that he could not understand. She had gone out of his life as she had entered it, without an explanation.

  But the thought of it made him sick. She would be drugged, gagged, kicked and beaten, maybe even raped, then bundled through that dark doorway in Waziristan, the fourth wife of some bigoted slave-master, who would smother her dear face in his stinking beard, and fill her sweet body with his children.

  ‘Impossible,’ he said aloud.

  He took the phone from his pocket, scrolled down to the number of the mobile he had given her, and pressed the key. As he held the device to his ear another phone began ringing in the office, and his heart missed a beat.

  ‘What the hell…’

  He located it in the sleeveless grey coat that hung from the door. He reached into the pocket: the first time he had his hands in her clothing and her clothing in his hands. Pushed down alongside the phone were two pieces of paper. One seemed to be a letter in Arabic. The other, neatly copied out, was a poem. He recognized it as Yeats:

  Wine comes in at the mouth

  And love comes in at the eye;

  That’s all we shall know for truth

  Before we grow old and die.

  I lift the glass to my mouth,

  I look at you, and I sigh.

  He knew the handwriting, and it was hers. How was it that Muhibbah, who allowed neither wine nor love to cross her boundaries, had found meaning in those words? Was there such a ‘you’ in her life? He doubted it; indeed he insisted that it could not be true. He replaced the pieces of paper in the pocket with a puzzled shake of the head.

  The screen of the phone read ‘15 missed calls’. The latest showed his number. The others were all from a landline in Yorkshire. He thought for a moment, and then wrote the number down: he would call it from a public phone box, so as not to be traced. He packed his briefcase quickly, adding Muhibbah’s phone to his sheaf of papers. Then he locked the office, and hurried into the street.

  He came to a phone box; it had been vandalized, and only a stub of twisted metal remained on the wall. He walked on towards the city centre, recalling a public phone in a shopping precinct off South Parade. He could not find it, and by now his heart was racing. There had been few emergencies in Justin’s life. Yes, there was the time when his father had been lost in a storm on Cross Fell, and Justin had joined the search party, only to come across the familiar figure almost at once, peacefully striding towards them down the hill. There were a few incidents with the band in which he used to play, but they had petered out as soon as they had begun. And there was Muhibbah, who had entered his life as an emergency but who had remained wedded to her secrets, refusing to be rescued, or at least to be rescued by him. As he pressed onwards through the rush hour crowds, Justin regretted his indolent life and all the shortcuts to comfort he had taken.

  ‘Muhibbah!’ he said aloud. He had turned from South Parade into Park Row. The proud facades of the Victorian banks and offices lined the street like uniformed soldiers. Rusticated arches, glazed friezes, buttressed galleries, unblinking windows beneath their brows of carved stone – all spoke of permanence, comfort and the immovable certainty of law. The noble town hall, raising its clock tower high above the rank of giant columns, seemed in its wide sweep to clear away all lesser creations, affirming the right of this city to be forever England. It was inconceivable that in a town dedicated to prosperity, comfort and English order, a girl might simply disappear, smuggled into slavery under far distant skies. But the inconceivable would not be noticed when it finally occurred. His body filled with nausea and dread.

  He came across a pair of phone booths on the corner of Vicar Lane; one was in working order, and he typed in the number that he had found on Muhibbah’s mobile. It rang twelve times before flipping to an Ansafone. There was a message in Arabic and another, or perhaps the same one, in what he assumed to be Pashto. He hung up without speaking. He wandered in the city centre for a while, drank a double whisky in the Horse and Trumpet and then, with a strange feeling of defiance, set off to her flat, in the sudden hope that she would have given them the slip and made it to safety.

  It was dark when he arrived there, but there was a light in the flat and he rang the bell with trembling hand. If she were there she would not forgive his intrusion; if she were not there he would
believe the worst. He heard the trip of girlish steps on the stair-carpet, and backed away from the door as it opened.

  A thin pale girl stood in the doorway. Her blond hair was wrapped in a headscarf and her blue denim suit was open at the neck, revealing a silver medallion on a ribbon of string. She looked at him from calm grey eyes and smiled enquiringly.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  ‘I am a friend of Muhibbah’s,’ he said. ‘I was hoping she’d be in.’

  The girl looked at him curiously.

  ‘Muhibbah’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘She left a couple of hours ago: packed up her stuff, and skedaddled.’

  ‘What? On her own?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a guy downstairs with a car. He didn’t come up. Didn’t need to; she had only a couple of bags. But I guess I should know who you are and why you are asking?’

  ‘Can I come in for a moment?’

  ‘O.K. if you can explain why. I’m Millie, by the way.’

  She held out her hand and he grasped it.

  ‘Justin,’ he said, ‘Justin Fellowes. I work with Muhibbah. That is to say, she works for me.’

  ‘So you’re the environment guy? I guess that’s credentials enough.’

  Millie led the way to their communal room and sat him down in the window, just as Muhibbah had done. Nothing had changed since his last visit, except that the issue of Rolling Stone was a newer one, and the television was flickering silently in the corner. Millie picked up a remote from the sofa and switched it off.

  ‘I need to find Muhibbah,’ he said. ‘She left the office without explanation. I worry she’s in trouble.’

  It sounded very lame, as though he had some other and more disreputable motive for intruding.

  ‘Well that’s pretty standard for Muhibbah. Never explains anything. What kind of trouble anyway?’

  Millie looked at him candidly. It was an attractive face, regular, soft and quizzical, with pale lips under a slightly prominent nose. Just the girlfriend he would have wished for, had there been room in his heart. Nausea and dread returned, so that he almost choked on his words.

  ‘Kidnap, briefly. I was out of the office; when I returned she was gone, and there were signs of a struggle.’

  ‘Oh? There were no signs of a struggle when she came here: no gun to her head, not even crying. Just the usual Muhibbah, doing her secret things on tiptoe.’

  ‘I know she has been under threat. And she left her jacket behind with her mobile phone and other personal stuff.’

  Millie thought for a moment.

  ‘I guess you should go to the police, if you’re that worried. But Muhibbah is seriously weird. She’s probably gone back to the office to collect her things. And now the two of them are on their way to Timbuktu, to start a new life in the desert. It would suit her very well. She has paid the rent by the way, until the end of next month. I can’t say I shall miss her.’

  Justin felt the shock of Millie’s words. He buried his head in his hands and sighed himself free of their meaning.

  ‘I guess I’d better go,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right. If there’s something to worry about, I should report it to the cops.’

  Millie looked at him sceptically.

  ‘Look, Justin, I don’t know how you stand in relation to Muhibbah. But as I see it, in the culture she comes from, women often pretend they are forced to do what they secretly want to do. And I don’t mean sex only. If you lived with Muhibbah you’d know what I’m getting at. She’s a walking secret, hiding everything from everyone, including herself. To be brutally frank, she gives me the creeps. And I honestly don’t think she’ll award you any Brownie-points for interrupting whatever it is she and that guy are up to.’

  He shook his head. Such thoughts could not touch Muhibbah. She lay beneath the ebb and flow of them, like a sealed amphora on the ocean floor.

  When he left the flat, after exchanging phone numbers with Millie, it was in a state of acute anxiety. He could not accept Millie’s verdict, but she had planted a rival image of Muhibbah in his mind. Whatever was happening to Muhibbah now had been prepared over many months; perhaps she had foreseen it, and perhaps the young man who had been stalking her – Justin had no doubt it was he – had banked on her consent. In which case what conceivable role could there be for Justin?

  He followed the streets where they had walked in the first mornings of his love, when the office of protector had been his by right. He recalled her self-contained way of moving at his side, her alert interrogations, her laughter at each fact, word, or opinion that was new to her. He dwelt on her perfect shape and perfect face, and on the untouchable enigmatic self that was veiled behind her beauty. The image dawned of Muhibbah broken, violated, enslaved, calling in vain for his protection. And by the time he was climbing the stairs to his flat the tears were running uncontrollably down his cheeks, the first he had shed since childhood.

  Chapter 10

  Sharon paused on the third step and turned to him. A light from the floor above picked out her features: her face was soft and pale, the lips set in a horizontal line and the blemish to her mouth invisible. Her blue-grey eyes rested on his, and the small white hand on the satchel-strap dropped from her shoulder, exposing the flesh of her neck, like a sacrificial beast inviting slaughter. Stephen’s heart was pounding, and he walked quickly past her, saying ‘follow me’. He told himself that this encounter was none of his doing, that he was performing a duty imposed on him by his role as a teacher, and that in any case the conversation would be over in half an hour. But as he opened the door of his flat, switched on the light, saw the immaculate testimony to his isolation, and sensed her hovering just behind him, awaiting the invitation that stuck in his throat, he knew that he was on a thin ledge above the abyss.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and threw his briefcase on to the chair at his desk. She did not move, but stood in the doorway, waiting for him to turn round.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  He went towards the kitchen. Not turning round was now a policy. Soon she would understand. This is a business meeting, and looks are off the agenda. But he had reached the sink and was filling the kettle before she replied.

  ‘Yes please, sir. Milk and two sugars please, sir. It’s reelly nice this place, sir.’

  ‘It answers my needs. Why don’t you sit down?’

  He turned to her now and saw that her eyes were fixed on him, wide, bright, astonished. He pointed to one of the armchairs, and leaned against the other, his two hands resting on the wooden rim of its back. The floodlights in the car park shone through the window, smearing desk, papers, books and chairs with greasy yellow crests. He wanted to draw the curtains, but the gesture would send the wrong message. Slowly, shyly, she moved forward and fell in schoolgirl fashion onto the chair, as though thrown there. The grey woollen skirt of her uniform rode up over the tights, and she smoothed it back across her knees. The skirt was crumpled and stained, and the tights had several holes that she strove to hide from him. As she struggled to conceal her shabbiness he turned quickly round to save her embarrassment.

  ‘I’ll just make the tea.’

  For Stephen tea was important: he had his own mixture – Assam tips and Darjeeling – which he obtained from a specialist shop off the South Parade in the city centre. As he spooned the leaves into the tea-pot he wondered what the exotic taste would mean to her, for whom tea came with milk and two sugars. He sensed that he was under observation from a place beyond his horizon. Every part of his life would assume some new significance in Sharon’s telescope.

  When he returned to the living room she was on her knees in front of the bookcase, turning the pages of The Magic Mountain. She looked up at him, and sprang to her feet.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I was just looking at your books. Amazing.’

  ‘Well, if there’s anything you’d like to borrow, Sharon, don’t hesitate.’

  ‘Can I reelly, sir?’
<
br />   ‘Of course.’

  He set the tray down on the low table between the armchairs, and busied himself with the teapot. She had resumed her seat, and was looking at him.

  ‘I wondered what it’s like inside, this place. And now I know. It’s so neat and tidy, sir.’

  ‘Well yes. When you live alone you have to be tidy.’

  ‘Wish I lived alone. Just me and books. A whole bookcase full, like you, sir.’

  His hand shook a little as he poured the tea.

  ‘Listen Sharon, I won’t keep you for long. But I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Dunna worry, sir. I shouldna shown you that essay. But thanks for reading it and not being angry. You inna angry, are you, sir?’

  ‘It’s not about the essay I wanted to talk, Sharon. And of course I’m not angry. I need to ask you about something else.’

  ‘What about, sir?’

  ‘About your private life.’

  A frightened look came into her eyes.

  ‘I got nowt private life. Except what I invent for myself.’

  ‘Still, you have a place you go to after school; you have a family, neighbours, and friends. You live in a place where there has often been trouble. I just want to know whether things are OK there, and whether you get – well, the support that you need.’

  She sat watching him in silence as he drank the tea. He noticed that she was not drinking from the mug that he had placed before her, but kept her hands folded in her lap, the strap of her tattered satchel wrapped around her fingers. Suddenly she was on her feet and going towards the door.

  ‘Sharon!’

  She turned in the doorway. Her face was white and her lips were trembling.

  ‘It’s all OK, though, innit, sir? Between us, I mean.’

  ‘Not if you just go away when I try to talk to you. I am on your side, Sharon, you know that.’

  He was standing now and looking at her. The pale blond hair lay in wisps on her cheeks, as though blown by the wind. One strand touched her lips, and another half shielded her left eye. Her face had a haunted expression, and she gripped the satchel with both hands, as though ready to throw it.