Disappeared

by Colin Falconer

  Angeli removed the gag.

  Turturro answered in a babble of Spanish and Italian, his voice no more than a squeak. “Please, colonel, it was a bluff, there was no lawyer, please, please, believe me, there is no one, please don't hurt me, you have everything, I didn't give anything to-'

  Angeli replaced the gag. He sat very still for a moment, considering. Then he removed two of the toes on Turturro's left foot. It was a disgusting business and he was glad when it was done. Meanwhile Turturro had fainted.

  Angeli sat down, waited patiently in the chair listening to the drip of blood on the floor. Having the time of your life. He switched off the record player. He grew impatient and woke him up, digging his fingernails into Turturro's earlobe.

  Turturro's eyes were rolling around in his head, the muscles in his bloated white body quivering under the disgusting matt of hair. Angeli removed the gag.

  “No lawyer,” Turturro mumbled, '... believe ... no lawyer ... please.”

  Angeli replaced the gag once more. “I don't believe you. I am going to castrate you now.” Turturro bucked and rocked on the bed. Angeli waited until he had utterly exhausted himself. Then he leaned forward, squeezed Turturro's tesicles in his fist. He removed the gag one last time. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  Turturro let loose a babble of words: no, please, believe me, there are no copies, please don't, please, please, please, please ...

  Angeli made one small incision with his knife and Turturro fainted again.

  He was satisfied. If there was a lawyer somewhere, with photocopies, Turturro would have broken. No man was that brave to risk it. He was convinced there was nothing now to connect him to the past.

  He replaced the gag and turned off the cassette player. He roused Turturro who immediately started moaning and crying. “It's all right, they're still there,” Angeli told him.

  He snapped off the gloves and removed the apron. Then he picked up the files. “Now I want you to eat these,” he said. He leaned forward and stuffed the first sheet of paper into Turturro's mouth.

  ***

  It took the best part of three hours. He had to go downstairs several times and fill an old wine bottle with water from a rusted tap to help Turturro swallow them all down. He kept his own file, with its pasted photograph, for the final act.

  When it was done he replaced the gag for the final time. Then he stood up, snapped shut the briefcase and picked up the cassette player. “Turturro, you are a fool. I gave you a few lire because I felt sorry for you. I threw money at you like I would throw coins at a beggar. You do not think I feared you for even one moment? You wanted to play with me, very well; now we have played and I have won. I hope you understand.”

  It stank in here. Faeces and blood. He wondered how he had endured the smell all those years at Ezeiza. Back then he had been paid to do a job, to shield decent people from such things. He supposed, in a way, it was a higher calling, like the priesthood.

  “I will say goodbye to you now,” Angeli said. “We will not be talking to each other again. I shall give you some time to reflect on your treachery.”

  Chapter 85

  Near Gatwick Airport, England

  IT WAS THE PHONE call he had always dreaded. His secretary patched it through to his mobile from his office. He was on his way to Kent on the M-25 but when he heard the man's name and recognised the accent he pulled his Range Rover onto the hard shoulder and stopped the engine.

  The car shook as a heavy lorry roared past. “Who did you say you were?”

  “My name is Altman, Reuben Altman. We were neighbours in Buenos Aires in 1975.”

  His mouth went dry. “Where are you calling from?”

  “I am here in London, señor. I came here from Argentine to see you.”

  His mind raced. Stall him somehow. “To see me?”

  “Don't you remember me?”

  “Should I? It was a very long time ago.”

  “I would like very much to see you. I believe it is important.”

  “What did you want to see me about?” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Mister Altman?”

  “It is about my daughter. I think you know what I mean. Please, señor Barrington. I don't want to do anyone any harm. I just need to talk to you.”

  The car shook as another lorry roared past. He sat there, staring at the brown fields, rutted with frost. The downland on this side of the road had been fenced with post and wire, a NO TRESPASSING sign nailed to a nearby oak. No trespassing. You could fence off a field, you couldn't fence off a life, no matter how hard you tried.

  “Señor Barrington?”

  “Have you got a pen? I'd better give you the address.”

  ***

  Stephen cancelled the rest of that day's appointments and drove back to Market Dene. It was just after midday. He found Mercedes in the kitchen, a book in one hand while she stirred the soup on the stove with the other.

  A Joanna Trollope novel. She was still in her dressing gown.

  She looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “Good Lord. Whatever's wrong? You're white as a ghost.”

  He set his briefcase on the table. “Is there any tea?”

  “The pot's still warm. Stephen, what are you doing home at this time of the day?”

  There were times when this fragile bird of a woman could be so tranquil. He had once imagined telling her that World War Three had started. “Oh dear,” he had pictured her saying, 'whatever do you think they were thinking - to do such a thing?” and then returning her attention to the book on her lap.

  She had created a distance between herself and the rest of the world; she had disconnected with her afternoon naps, her voracious reading, her migraines. She still had not grieved for Luke, had not even wept at the funeral.

  “I have some news.” He went to the kitchen bench, poured some tea into a cup with milk and three sugars. Then he changed his mind, went to the cupboard instead, and took down a bottle of single malt. He splashed some into a glass.

  Mercedes watched him down the length of her nose. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “I had a phone call today.” He downed the whiskey. Her eyebrows went up.

  “Well are you going to tell me, or do I just stand here and die of curiosity?”

  “It was a man. Spoke good English. Heavy accent. Claimed to be Gabriella's father.”

  The spoon disappeared into the soup. Mercedes closed her book and laid it on the counter top beside the range. Her face went white and for a moment he thought she was about to faint. For a long time neither of them spoke.

  “What did you tell him?”

  A shrug of the shoulders. “What could I tell him?”

  She put a hand on her hip, a combative stance familiar to him through many of their fights, the signal for him to retreat. But this time he could not withdraw, his boats were already burned. “Stephen. You didn't.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  She took off her glasses. “You silly bastard.”

  There had been many fights over the years. No more, no less, than any other marriage, he supposed; fights over money, over the children, over sex. Especially over sex. But she had never sworn at him, and had never resorted to name-calling. He found it juvenile and shocking. “I couldn't lie to him. She's almost twenty years old now, for God's sake. What are you afraid of?”

  The fight went out of her, suddenly. Her arms fell to her sides, the other gripped the bench top. “Oh, damn you, Stephen. Damn you. You don't understand, do you?”

  “He's coming down here tomorrow morning. I gave him our address.”

  She shook her head, bestowed on him the same look she had given Luke or Gabriella when they were children and they had spilled the milk over the tablecloth or dropped the sugar jar on the floor. “Why can’t you learn to lie?”

  He swirled the whisky in the glass. “Why should I do that?”

  She picked up her glasses and her book and turned to leave the room. She stoppe
d in the doorway. “If we lose our little girl, I'll never forgive you. You do know that?”

  And she walked out.

  Chapter 86

  REUBEN PARKED IN a lay-by and consulted his map before taking the A34 to Oxford. The morning sky was overcast, the air bitingly cold. There was mud-stained slush and ice beside the road. He wiped at the condensation on the windscreen of the rented Range Rover. How did people live in such a climate? He saw a sign: Market Dene, 2. He changed down the gears to negotiate a steep incline and as he reached the crest of the hill he saw a brass plate attached to a pair of imposing red brick gateposts: “The Gables.”

  There was the yellow glow of a lamp through a latticed window, a thin skein of smoke rising from the red brick chimney. The Range Rover's tyres crunched on frozen, rutted mud. He parked by the stables and got out, his breath rising in white clouds. The surrounding fields were dusted with frost and he was afforded a glimpse of the snow-dusted downs beyond the house before the mist rolled in again.

  He braced himself. Barrington had not made it clear if Gabriella would be here to meet him. He had rehearsed what he was going to say so many times but now his mind was blank. He fought the urge to get back in the car and drive away.

  Domingo was right all those years ago. What did he hope to achieve?

  ***

  He did not recognise them. He supposed there was no reason why he should. It was all so long ago.

  Stephen Barrington was a tall, distinguished-looking man with trimmed, grey hair. He was dressed in a dark suit over a polo-necked jumper. His wife stood beside him, close but not touching, neat and compact in a dark blue tailored suit with a white silk blouse. They looked as if they were mourners at a funeral. They welcomed him at the door with excruciating formality and led the way inside.

  They showed him into what they called the drawing room. It was dominated by a huge mantelpiece lined with framed photographs and an expensive ormolu clock. The log fire crackling in the grate barely took the chill from the room. Winged armchairs were ranged around the hearth and Persian rugs scattered around the floor. There were framed watercolours on the cream and gold-striped walls.

  “How was your journey?”

  The English! Reuben thought. Always so polite. These people would like to toss me bodily into a ditch, but they make small talk so easily.

  “I was very careful. Because of the ice.”

  “We thought you might get lost,” the woman said.

  “I asked for your house in the Post Office. They knew you straight away. Their directions were very clear.”

  “The house has been in my family for a long time,” Stephen said. “The name's well known in the village. Would you like some tea?”

  A table had been set by the window. There were pastries on doilies, a silver teapot, a lace cloth edged with pink flowers. Reuben sat by the window. As Mercedes poured from a teapot he stared at the photographs on the mantelpiece; one of the Barringtons, taken outside the house, apparently quite recently; beside it another much older photograph, monochrome in a heavy silver frame. He recognised the Plaza de Mayo in the background.

  There were others, portraits and holiday snaps of varying age. A young woman featured in several of them. That’s her, he thought. It had to be. The resemblance to Gabriella was uncanny; she had the same mane of dark hair, the same brown eyes and heart-shaped mouth. He tore his gaze away and when he turned back to his hosts he realized they were both staring at him. He felt ashamed, as if they had caught him pocketing their silverware.

  Reuben accepted one of the proffered pastries; Stephen leaned forward, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Gabriella,” he said.

  “Our daughters were named Eva and Simone.” He looked from one to the other. “You know she is my daughter?”

  Mercedes put her face in her hands. Stephen sighed as if great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He had feared that they would lie to him, somehow deny the past. But with these two simple gestures he knew the truth had at last been acknowledged.

  “Is she well?” That sounded ridiculous. He could not believe he had said it.

  “She's at university.” Stephen hesitated. “Cambridge. She's an extremely intelligent young girl. We're very proud of her.” He stopped himself, almost as if that was the wrong thing to say. “We haven't told her yet. About you, I mean.”

  He took a deep breath. “There's one thing I have to know. They were twins. My other daughter ...”

  Their faces told him what he wanted to know. So, one of them was gone forever.

  A long silence.

  “How did you find us?” Stephen asked.

  “It's a long story. My brother-in-law Domingo told me about you.”

  Stephen nodded. “Yes, we remember him.”

  “Why now?” Mercedes asked.

  “I have been in exile. I did not see him for many years.” It was part of the truth. Enough of it, anyway.

  Mercedes' cup rattled in its saucer as she set it down. “We've always treated her well. We never meant to keep her, not at first. We always thought that someone would come and when they didn't ...”

  He raised his hand. “Please, I did not come here to accuse. On the contrary, I owe you a great debt.”

  “She's a wonderful girl. Wonderful. Stephen is right. We're so proud of her.”

  Stephen told him about the events of that night, how they had found Gabriella in her cot and taken her in. His voice trailed off. His wife finished the story for him. “We love her,” she said.

  “I just want to see her again,” Reuben said.

  Stephen cleared his throat. “It's just that we don't know if that's such a good idea.”

  “I am her father. I have a right to see her.”

  “But what will you say to her?”

  “I don't know.”

  “It’s just that she knows she is adopted but we have never told her the exact circumstances. We thought ... well, we didn't see what good it would do.”

  “You lied to her?”

  “We felt it was for the best.”

  Stephen leaned towards him. “She thinks her parents are dead.”

  “I have to see her,” Reuben repeated.

  “What is it you want?” Mercedes asked. “Absolution?”

  There was a shocked silence. Stephen looked away.

  “Perhaps. I need to be sure that my failure was not so great. And also I think every child has a right to know their own history. Don't you?”

  “Why did you have to come?” Mercedes whispered. “You'll only hurt her.”

  “That is not my intention.”

  Stephen shook his head. “We've come to think of her as our own now. We were not able to have more children of our own after Luke. We wanted her to think of us as her real parents. We still do.”

  “But she isn't.”

  Stephen bowed his head in resignation. “I suppose I always knew it would come to this one day. When I came home yesterday and told my wife about your phone call she told me I should have tried to put you off, lie to you. But I suppose in the end I agree with you. Every child has a right to their own history.” He reached for the teapot. “Well. I suppose it's decided. Would you like some more tea?”

  Chapter 87

  STEPHEN FETCHED the photograph albums. As he paraded Diana’s achievements for their guest Mercedes thawed a little. She could tell that Reuben was not a well man. His skin looked waxy shone in the light of the table lamp, the skin stretched tight across the bones. His wrists were painfully thin.

  She watched his face as Stephen leafed through the pages of the photograph album; here a picture of Diana as a toddler, her face sticky with ice cream; another of her on her pony when she was five years old; here in her school uniform, lying on the lawn with her arm around her border collie; a school portrait of her with her classmates in her last year of primary school. All the fragments of a life he had given but never shared.

  She supposed she could not even begin to imagine his pain.

&
nbsp; He wanted to know everything; what she was good at in school, how old she was when she learned to walk, who her heroes were, if she made friends easily, what sports she played. He told him about her scholarship to Cambridge, her love of chemistry and biology, the resolve it had taken to succeed in subjects traditionally dominated by boys.

  “May I have this one?” he asked, pointing to a recent photograph of Diana outside the house with Stephen and Mercedes.

  “Yes, of course. Why not? I can always have a copy made.”

  “And this one. This is your son?”

  Stephen nodded.

  “A fine young man.”

  “Was. I'm afraid ... we lost him.”

  There was an embarrassed silence as he absorbed the news. Diana then, was their only surviving child. “I'm sorry,” he said.

  Stephen poured more tea. Mercedes stared at the photograph of her son. Reuben stared out of the window at the downs.

  “Then we have both lost a child,” he said.

  “You said she was a twin,” Stephen said, after a while. “I don’t remember now. We heard you, of course, in the apartment. I thought it was just one child who cried a lot.”

  “It was. Simone never cried. Eva was born sick. We put Simone in the crib with her and from that moment she started to get better. It was a miracle. A miracle.” His eyes fixed on scenes of that long-ago drama. “Your Diana. I don't even know which one she is.”

  Mercedes thought about what Luke had told them. She shot a warning glance at her husband.

  “Has she ever hinted to you that she - knew?”

  “Knew?”

  “Sometimes twins have some sense that they have been separated. Do you think she felt that?”

  “No. No, I don't think so.”

  A log fell in the grate and a flurry of icy rain spattered against the window. Stephen felt a cold draught against his legs.

  Reuben's hands clenched into fists. “If I could find just one of the men who ... but what is the point of thinking about that?” He turned away from the window. “When can I see ... Diana?”