The Man Who Vanishes: a gripping horror thriller spanning 3 timelines: One Man. Everywhere. (The Vanishers Book 1)

by J M Gonzalez Riley

  The smell of coffee and toast awakened her hunger. Feeling the daze lifting from her, she picked up the remaining mug. Simmons watched her, smiling warmly.

  Clara caught his eye.

  ‘What are you thinking of, Mr Misty eyes?’

  Simmons shrugged and stooped to pick up his trousers, pulling them on with one hand. Clara laughed at him, and he laughed with her, enjoying the moment.

  After breakfast, he dragged her out of the house and into the car. He moved as if he had springs on his heels, and Clara found herself running to keep up with him.

  ‘You need to shave,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Yes. Later.’

  ‘Why the rush?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s no time to waste,’ he told her, opening the door for her. ‘We need to take a good look at the office and assess what we’re going to do.’

  He clambered into the driving seat and mused at the words he had just spoken, words that had scared the living daylights out of him for the past six months. But now, having spoken them, it was as if he had broken a lingering spell. The uncertain future no longer scared him. Not if he had Clara by his side. Last night he had realised that all this time he had been more worried about how she would cope with the bad news than about himself. Had she not been in his employ, he would have closed shop long ago. But today was a new day and he was full of fire. He felt certain that he could turn the business around, make it work, but he wanted to look at everything from scratch, with Clara by his side.

  When they arrived at the office, they found the front door open and the lock broken.

  ‘Shit!’ Simmons cursed, pushing Clara back on to the pavement protectively. ‘We’ve been broken into.’

  Clara looked at the forced lock, her eyes wide.

  ‘We should call the police,’ she said, reaching in her handbag for her cell phone, but Simmons put his hand on hers, gently, pushing the cell phone back into her bag.

  ‘Let me go inside first,’ he whispered.

  Clara gaped at him.

  ‘Are you crazy? There could be somebody still in there!’

  Simmons doubted it. Any self-respecting thief would have cleared off well before dawn.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, wondering at his own behaviour. But the world felt good today, and he felt like a hero.

  Clara let him go, reluctantly. But then - to his dismay – she stepped inside after him, grabbing his hand tightly. She looked at him determinedly. Wherever he was going, she was going with him. Reluctant, but seeing that he had no choice in the matter, Simmons stepped inside with her. He reached for the wall and slapped the light switch on. Yellow light washed unflatteringly over the small reception area.

  There was no sign of anybody inside.

  Simmons pushed on, rounding the old desk and heading toward the office. He stood for a moment, hesitating, until he felt Clara’s small hand tightening around his. It took him a moment to realise that she was pulling on his hand to get his attention. When he looked, he saw that she was pointing at the power socket on the wall. It was black, as if it had shorted and caught fire, charring the whole socket. Simmons looked back at her and shrugged. He had noticed this yesterday, when he and Frank had come to meet the MOD man, but forgotten about it almost immediately.

  He pushed on, toward the office.

  They stood before the door, holding their breaths. Clara seemed to have caught his anxiety just by touching him. It seems my life is full of doors, Simmons thought grimly, his hand numb.

  A loud bang startled them, made them jump like fleas. But it had come from outside, out in the street, a car misfiring.

  They looked at each other, silently, nerves on edge. Clara tugged at his hand gently, meaning that they should retreat and call the police, be done with it. But Simmons shook his head, determined now that he had come this far.

  He turned to face the nightmarish door. He felt warm sweat on his brow. Fear.

  There was a sound, the tiniest of breaths, exhaled, beyond the door.

  Before he could change his mind, Simmons pushed the door open, quickly, and felt Clara start next to him.

  The office had not changed from yesterday. It remained a mess of broken furniture, splintered wood and disarray. But today, amidst all the chaos lay a man, crumpled into a tight foetal ball, his rhythmic breathing calm, evenly spaced out.

  It was Kayn.

  Clara heard Simmons gasp next to her, felt him tense, squeezing her hand painfully tight. Shaking uncontrollably, he pulled the door shut as quietly as he could and dug deep in his pocket, pulling out a copper key: the key to the office door.

  His hand shook as he tried repeatedly to insert the key into the lock, but finally he succeeded and turned it slowly, wincing when the latch clicked into place. And then he hastened through the reception, Clara in tow, back out into the street.

  Once out the door, they were like swimmers coming up for breath, gulping air.

  They looked at each other, confused.

  Clara was shaking.

  ‘We need to call the police,’ she said, looking at him.

  Simmons shook his head. ‘This is bigger than the police. Quick, follow me.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’ she asked, running after him.

  He opened the car door for her, slammed it shut as soon as she was inside, then ran back to his side. His cell phone was on charge, inside the foot well. He picked it up and dialled Frank’s number.

  ‘I need to tell Frank. Let him call the MOD man.’

  Before Clara could protest, Simmons started speaking into the phone.

  ‘Frank! He’s back.’

  Clara watched him, speaking eagerly, almost desperately, as if seeking approval from Frank, recognition.

  She heard Frank speak after a pause, his voice coming through, surprised, spilling into the stillness of the car.

  Simmons looked pleased, switched the cell phone off and placed it back in the foot well.

  ‘Frank wants me over at his place,’ he said, almost gleaming. ‘He won’t speak on the phone, in case somebody is listening.’

  ‘Who?’ Clara pressed him.

  He looked at her, switching the engine on.

  ‘I don’t know. If his theory is correct, then the government might be monitoring him. Maybe even me.’

  Clara looked aghast.

  ‘It’s just a theory,’ he said, throwing the car in gear.

  ‘I don’t like Frank much,’ she said, almost as an afterthought.

  Simmons looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Oh, he’s okay really,’ he laughed. ‘He can seem arrogant at first, until you get to know him. It’s just his way, you know.’

  He let his words trail as he drove away from the office.

  ‘He was no help to you when you needed him,’ Clara said, her voice growing a little thick with emotion. She was talking about the time when Simmons’ marriage had been in trouble, when he had been forced to sell up the old practice. Simmons had to admit, if only to himself, that Frank had made a quick run for it then. But that was Frank: he did not like to get involved in other people’s troubles.

  ‘He’s still a friend,’ he said, almost defensively.

  Clara made a face.

  ‘Friendship often makes people too tolerant.’

  He drove on in silence, surprised to find that Clara could harbour ill feelings toward anybody. He dropped her off, promising to return later, and drive off, much faster than he usually drove, elated that Frank now needed him, wanted him over at his place, to speak as equals.

  12

  Present Day

  When Simmons arrived at Frank’s house, he found the gates open and Frank on his pebbled drive, waiting for him with a wide grin on his face. As he drove up to Frank’s Jag, he noticed the black van parked at an angle at the far end of the driveway. He could not place the model, and wondered suddenly if it belonged to the MOD.

  Frank looked excited, almost childish, clearly bursting with a secret. He hopped from foot to foot as he
motioned Simmons to get out, spinning his arm to hasten him. Simmons felt oddly robbed of the occasion. This was supposed to be his moment, not Frank’s.

  Simmons stepped out of his car, wondering if the source of Frank’s excitement was linked to the black van in some way. Perhaps the MOD had confirmed Frank’s theory. That had to be it. Frank’s theory had been proved right and he wanted to bask in the glory of his wisdom. After all, Simmons could only think of two reasons why the MOD should be here: either for questioning, or to work together. And right now Frank did not look like a man under interrogation.

  ‘Pete! I thought you’d changed your mind!’

  ‘I don’t drive like you, Frank,’ Simmons reminded him.

  ‘I know how he does it,’ Frank said, his eyes wide, his hands in front of him. Close up, Simmons saw that he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes hung from him, creased and stained, his hair flat and shiny with grease. His breath stank of stale cigars and strong coffee. He was clearly running on nothing but adrenalin.

  Curious, Simmons let Frank lead him round the back of the house, breaking into a brisk run to catch up with him.

  ‘What are you talking about, Frank?’

  They rounded the house, stepping onto the neatly mowed lawn, still damp from the rain. Frank stopped and about-turned to face him, breathing harshly from the short run. Simmons himself was wheezing like an old man and made a quick mental note to fix this, for Clara.

  ‘Switch your cell phone off,’ Frank said between breaths, motioning toward Simmons’ jacket pocket. Puzzled, Simmons drew the device out obediently and switched it off.

  ‘Mind telling me why?’ he asked.

  ‘Beyond this point, I have imposed an electricity-free zone. That includes any electronic device.’

  Simmons shook his head again.

  ‘Mind telling me why?’ he repeated.

  ‘Electricity,’ Frank said. ‘That’s how he does it, Pete! He used the power point in your office to disappear. And the live rail in the tube station.’

  Simmons gasped.

  ‘Shit!

  Frank nodded, grinning big cigar-stained teeth.

  ‘Clara told me about the news, the tube station.’

  Frank grinned wider.

  ‘I saw the footage from the station’s CCTV,’ he boasted, enjoying Simmons’ look of disbelief.

  ‘And there’s more,’ he said, putting his hand up as if the other had attempted to speak.

  ‘Adain is a lying bastard. He’s not working for the MOD at all! He’s one of them!’

  Simmons stared at him for a long moment, trying to take all this on board.

  ‘Them?’

  ‘One of whatever Kayn is, Pete. An agent. He is the same. He jumped onto the live rail, after Kayn.’

  Simmons was stunned into silence.

  ‘Kayn was spotted later on that evening,’ Frank continued, ‘close to the city outskirts.’

  ‘Spotted by whom?’ Simmons asked, feeling himself growing angry. He was finding Frank irritating. He had stolen the limelight again, had pieced things together whilst he had been busy canoodling with Clara.

  ‘I called in some help, Pete. There is not much more we could have done by ourselves.’

  Simmons felt his insides grow tight. That explained the black van.

  ‘Woah,’ he said, putting his hands up. ‘Hang on a minute. What do you mean you called for help? And who exactly did you call, Frank?’

  He heard the name in his head even before Frank spoke it.

  ‘Feynmann.’

  ‘Shit, Frank! Shit! You know how I feel about him!’

  Frank watched Simmons as if he were a child.

  Simmons kicked the ground.

  ‘Fuck, Frank! Fuck!’

  ‘Have you finished?’ Frank asked flatly.

  ‘You had no right to choose who or what should be involved. At least not without consulting me first. I called you in on this, remember?’

  Frank raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Kayn is not your private property, Pete. On the other hand, he might be a threat to our country and its people. Think about that before you succumb to your little selfish tantrums.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Simmons bellowed. ‘Since when have you given a shit about the country? And as for its people… you are the most egocentric individual I know, Frank! You always have been. So don’t come over all patriotic and caring on me now.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Pete! Here is a man that can fucking disappear at will! Teleport! Vanish! Are you listening? This is the biggest thing since Jesus! It is also, potentially, the most dangerous weapon of all time. Teleport into the White House and bang. That easy. And all you can think of is yourself and your damn pride.’

  Frank threw his hands up in the air and set off down the garden, toward the converted barn.

  ‘Swallow your pride, Pete,’ he shouted back, ‘and join us. Either that, or get out of the way.’

  The barn door opened and Simmons saw Feynmann there, tall and fat, his pink bald dome glistening in the cold daylight. He had changed dramatically since he had last seen him, some ten years ago, but he was still unmistakably Feynmann.

  The man waved a fat hand at him from the door, and Simmons could make out his piggish features, grinning at him. He had opened the door just in time to receive Frank, it seemed. And so Simmons suddenly had no doubt that the whole thing had been orchestrated, with Feynmann looking out of the window in anticipation of the expected result. They had planned to get rid of him.

  Simmons watched Frank dwindling away, when it suddenly occurred to him that he still held the key: he had Kayn. And without Kayn there was no game to play.

  Back at Clara’s house, Simmons told her what had transpired at Frank’s and how he felt betrayed by him. He also told her about Feynmann, and of his hatred for the bully. Clara sat still throughout his story, absorbing it all in. She hadn’t realised until now just how much he craved Frank’s approval, how much he yearned to be respected by him.

  ‘So what can Feynmann do?’ she asked him.

  ‘A lot. He works for the government. He’s involved in military research. He specialises in behavioural studies. That’s posh for mind-control, by the way.’

  Clara could almost taste Simmons’ dislike of Feynmann.

  ‘Isn’t a scientist with all those resources useful in this case?’ she asked.

  Simmons stared at her, and then looked away. Clara felt guilty for exposing him.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said bleakly.

  ‘I never did like Frank much,’ she said, veering off the subject.

  Simmons nodded.

  ‘I Know,’ he said. ‘I should be blaming him.’

  Clara went to him and knelt beside him.

  ‘You still have Kayn.’

  Simmons exhaled, exasperated.

  ‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what the hell to do!’

  He gazed into her eyes.

  ‘I need them,’ he admitted.

  ‘Can’t you contact the MOD yourself?’ she asked him.

  Simmons shook his head.

  ‘I’m a nobody. They would come and take Kayn and that would be the end of it. We’d never hear anything about it again.’

  ‘What about the media?’ Clara asked.

  Simmons looked at her. She was referring to Miriam, of course, and suddenly he felt stupid, unsure of how to react, hearing Clara talking about his ex-wife.

  ‘I had thought about it, briefly,’ he admitted, looking at the floor.

  Clara shrugged.

  ‘Well,‘ she said. ‘It’s where people turn to when there’s nowhere left to go. And that way you’d get recognition,’ she added. ‘You could sell the story to the highest bidder and save the business, maybe even attract new clients on the back of the publicity.’

  Simmons shook his head.

  ‘Clara, it could backfire on us. This could turn into a national scandal. Or worse, an international incident. I’m way above my head here.�
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  Simmons’ cell phone started bleeping, breaking the silence, vibrating inside his pocket. He realised he still had his coat on.

  ‘It’s Frank,’ he said, holding the phone out for her to see the caller ID. They watched each other, the cell phone between them, buzzing urgently. Clara could see that, despite his anger and his bitter words, he wanted to answer the phone, to hear from Frank, to be involved. This was bigger than all of them and he didn’t want to be left out. And yet, he seemed to be hanging on her word, as if fearing to ridicule himself by going back on all he had just said about the man.

  Clara nodded at him, go on, and Simmons – almost relieved – answered it.

  ‘We’ve found Kayn,’ Frank said.

  ‘Shit! He’s bluffing!’ Simmons had shouted on the way back to the office. ‘Or went to the office and took him!’

  Clara held on tight as Simmons drove, gripping the steering wheel furiously, inching along the afternoon traffic. When they finally arrived at the office, the front door was wide open. Simmons cursed and ran inside. Clara followed.

  ‘He’s gone!’ he shouted, as if he had expected to find him there. Clara grabbed his arm gently, drawing him away. But Simmons was breathing hard; he was furious.

  ‘How dare he waltz in here, into my office, and take my property?’ he shouted, unhooking her arm from his and walking into the ruined office. She waited outside the door, silently. When he re-emerged, he was scowling.

  ‘The door was forced from the inside,’ he said, looking at Clara, all his anger gone.

  She could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Kayn broke out himself,’ he said. ‘Or vanished. Maybe Frank found him nearby.’

  ‘Pete,’ Clara said. ‘Go and see Frank. And put up with Feynmann if you have to, but go. You know you need to be there and see this through.’

  He looked at her for a long moment, then leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  Clara smiled happily, her eyes growing misty. She returned his kiss.

  ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘Now go.’

  Simmons ran to the car like a child whose grounding had been lifted, almost skipping. He stopped when he reached the door, suddenly remembering Clara.