by Adam Croft
GONE
by Adam Croft
Copyright © 2016, Adam Croft
1
The walk home always seems longer in the pissing rain. There always seems to be more cars pulling out of Sharpstone Road, making me wait ten times longer than if it were bright and sunny. When I wouldn’t mind waiting. The damp spells tend to seem to last longer.
I can see the drivers looking at me, can tell what they’re thinking. Watching me. Look at that idiot walking home in the rain. Judging me. Probably can’t even afford a car. There’s a man in a four-year-old BMW with a big grin on his face. I know it’s because of me. I’d like to kill the bastard.
I don’t like how it gets dark so early at this time of year, either. Go to work in the dark, come home in the dark. I don’t consider it a whole lot of fun.
The cars that come to a halt at the end of Sharpstone Road form an orderly but moving queue, the mini-roundabout providing a steady stream of traffic until one kindly driver will find it within his affection to stop and let me cross. For now, I’ll have to make do with the harsh red glow of the brake lights bouncing off the puddles, giving me a pre-Christmas light show. Well, the shops start in October, so why can’t I?
My hangover’s still raging and I don’t feel it abating any time soon. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since we all met up at Bar Colombo for Jen’s leaving do, but it feels like it’s been an eighth of that. How I got through the day, I don't know. Maybe it’s just a case of routine, of having done the same old shit, day in, day out for the past six years. After a while you don’t even notice one day becoming the next.
Jen has been a good friend to me over the years. Not many people have, so it’s easy for me to consider her a close friend. Well, I say close friend. I don’t really do friends.
Some of my colleagues say hello, some don’t even bother to do that. I guess that’s one of the characteristics of working for the country’s biggest supermarket chain. Shelf-stacking isn’t exactly a job for life. I’ll be honest, though: it does me alright. I’ve never really fancied doing much more.
I say that, but of course I have. We’ve all dreamed of being rock stars, taxidermists or captaining England to win the World Cup, but at the same time we all know that just isn’t attainable. So we have to set our own, realistic goals based on our own lives and our own expectations. And I’ll admit it: my expectations and ambitions have always been comparatively low. Until I met Anya, that is.
My whole life changed that day. I’d expected everything to be the same as it always is: turning up, clocking in, heading out to the groceries section. It’s a joke, that word. Groceries. What does a supermarket stock if not groceries? It’s the name they give to everything that doesn’t fit into wines and spirits, baked goods, clothing, domestic products, floristry or fruit and veg. Basically, I stuff shelves with crisps, cereals and any other shit that doesn’t fit into the aforementioned categories.
But that day was different. That day, I was on baked goods.
I remember what happened beforehand only vaguely in some ways, but remarkably clearly in others. I’d been trying to get to grips with where everything was meant to go, and I was struggling. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to where everything was stocked on the shelves. It wasn’t alphabetically, it wasn’t by type, and it wasn’t by price. The randomness was irritating me. Why can’t these places just employ some sort of logic?
Finally, I worked out where the Hovis Thick-Sliced Granary was meant to go: between the Tesco own-brand wholemeal and the Warburton’s white cardboard shit. Makes sense, I suppose, if you’re management. Anything’ll make sense to them if they read it in some bullshit training manual.
With the Hovis Thick-Sliced Granary nestled beautifully in its rightful home, I grabbed hold of the handles on the stock trolley and was about to push it back in the direction of the storeroom when I spotted her.
I still can’t describe how she looked that day. Almost indescribable is the only way I can think of putting it into words. Even that doesn’t cover it, though.
Everything changed in that instant. I felt immediately different, as though this was a major turning point in my life. As if everything was going to be Before Anya and After Anya.
I didn’t know she was called Anya at that point, of course, but it wouldn’t be long before I did.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
She just smiled at me, a smile that said a thousand words without a single word needing to be said.
She spoke — of course she spoke — but only after what seemed like an age, like a whole lifetime of silence but full of intense meaning had passed between us. Words didn’t need be to exchanged at that point. When she finally spoke, she assured me that everything was alright, then introduced herself.
My first thought was that my name wasn’t half as romantic as hers. The names just didn’t seem to work together. Anya and Carlos. Anya and Timothy. They’re names that work; not Anya and Steve.
I introduced myself anyway — as Stephen — and things went from there. Within a few weeks — it might have been less — she’d moved in with me and we were as happy as we could be.
It surprised me how quickly it all happened. Even though she’d moved in, we didn’t do any of the other usual stuff that couples do when things get serious. I didn’t take her to see my parents — not that I see them much myself these days — and we didn’t introduce each other to our friends. I guess that’s quite natural, though: Anya was fairly new to the country after moving over from Poland and my only real friends were people I knew from work. Even then, I probably wouldn’t go so far as to call them friends. Acquaintances, perhaps. Colleagues. Not the sort of people you’d immediately introduce to your new girlfriend. And anyway, why should I? She’s my girlfriend, not theirs.
It didn’t feel new, though. It very quickly felt familiar, in the right sort of way. As though we’d been together forever. As though she’d always been a part of me. Even when it was raining, she made me feel as though the sun was shining.
The sun isn’t shining now, though. It’s pissing it down and I’m wet and cold. It’s not often I say this, but I’m looking forward to getting home and enjoying a microwave meal. Sometimes, it’s the way things have to be. I might sit and watch TV with Anya, or if she doesn’t fancy it I’ll go out to the garage and work on my model aeroplanes. I’m on my twentieth scale model, now. A Mk.IV Douglas Dakota. General Eisenhower described it as one of the four weapons that helped the Allies win the Second World War. Not many people realise it’s the same plane as the Douglas DC3, which was its name when used for civilian service. When used for military purposes it was called the C-47 Skytrain, or the Dakota when in RAF service.
It’s going to be beautiful. All planes are beautiful, as far as I’m concerned, but this one is going to be extra special. They take me a while because I’m very exacting about them. Everything has to be perfect. If it wouldn’t fly when scaled up, it’s not a scale model as far as I’m concerned.
I make my way up the high street and take a left into Oliver Way, feeling the rain get heavier and heavier, soaking me not only through to the skin, but further. Down through my flesh, drenching my bones. It might sound dark, but it’s how I feel.
Not as dark as I feel a few minutes later, though.
2
When I get home, I find things exactly as I expect them to be, but completely different at the same time.
The front door’s closed, but not locked. I’m not sure if I remember locking it this morning. I remember thinking about locking it — remember the thought crossing my mind — but anything more than that is missing from my memory. Of course, it should always be locked. There is no other way.
As I step through to the living room, I expect to see all the signs of An
ya’s presence — all the things that mean she’s here — but I don’t see any of them. They aren’t even things someone can put their finger on — it’s just a feeling of presence — but it’s gone. She’s not here, and I know it in an instant.
I run up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and burst into our bedroom. There’s no sign of her. None of her things, no sign that she’s around. Although deep down I already knew it, this confirms it in my mind. She’s gone.
I do the first thing any self-respecting person would do if they came home and found out their girlfriend was missing: I call her.
My hands are clammy with sweat as I try desperately to key the passcode into my mobile, and eventually I tap Anya’s name in my Favourites list. Well, I say list. It only has Anya on it.
My head’s pounding. It feels like someone’s splitting my temples open with scalpels.
I see blood. Pools of it. Dripping down the walls. I blink hard, twice. My mind playing tricks on me. Maybe I’m getting a migraine.
After a couple of seconds that seem like hours, I hear a faint click and then three beeps. A voice speaks to me.
‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check and try again.’
I swallow. I wasn’t expecting that.
I pace for a few moments, then decide there’s only one thing I can do: I need to call the police.
There must be people going missing across the city all the time, but this is different. This is Anya. Anya doesn’t go missing. She’s always around, always there with me, ever present. Just the way she should be.
I stop for a moment, thinking who I need to call. There are two numbers for the police now: the emergency number and the non-emergency one. Surely this is an emergency?
I pick up the phone and dial 999.
The man on the other end of the phone doesn’t seem to be as concerned as I expected him to be. I try to explain the situation as calmly as I can, but it’s not the sort of situation anyone would remain calm in. I can hear my voice speeding up as I struggle to get the words out, trying to hold everything together and let him know exactly what’s happened.
He says he’ll transfer me to a local officer. I feel my teeth grinding as I’m passed from pillar to post as if I’m a customer calling up to pay my phone bill.
Finally, I get through and an officer introduces herself.
‘How long has she been missing?’ the officer asks me.
I stutter and stumble. ‘I— I don’t know. She was here this morning, but now she’s gone,’ I say.
‘What time this morning?’ she asks.
‘I left just before eight,’ I explain.
I can almost visualise her taking down notes as she speaks, trying to work everything out in her mind, determine whether this was something that needed prioritising or not.
‘You have to help me,’ I say, before she has a chance to reply.
‘I’ll do all I can,’ she says. ‘Am I right in thinking the last time you saw your girlfriend was around ten and a half hours ago?’
I quickly try to do the maths in my head. ‘Probably, yes. That sounds about right.’
She tries to sound as sympathetic as she can, but it doesn’t work. ‘That’s not very long for someone to be missing. Is she vulnerable at all?’
‘How do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, is she on any medication? Is she disabled? Has she received any threats at all? Do you think she might be in any danger?’
My head’s spinning. ‘Uh, I dunno. She’s not disabled or on any medication, no. And I don’t know about any danger.’
‘Is there anywhere she might have gone? To a friend’s, perhaps? An event she might have forgotten to tell you about?’
I tell her that’s not possible. Anya doesn’t keep things from me. I know everything there is to know about her. I know her better than she knows herself. Besides which, she doesn’t have any friends. Just me. Just the way I like it.
‘What about work? What does Anya do for a living?’
‘Nothing,’ I tell her. ‘Not at the moment, anyway. We’ve been talking about getting her sorted out with something, but there’s no rush. We’re just enjoying ourselves.’
The officer makes an agreeable noise. ‘What about family?’
I shake my head. ‘They’re all over in Poland. That’s where she’s from, you see. Originally. She came over here to study and decided she wanted to stay.’
‘And she has no family over here?’
‘No. None. She has her parents and a sister back in Poland.’ My voice catches in my throat as I choke slightly, thinking about how a family would be affected if they found out their daughter or sister had gone missing. ‘What if… What if I’ve lost her?’ I say.
‘Lost her? You mean you think she might have left you?’
I can sense the tone of the officer’s voice dropping slightly, as if she has just mentally downgraded this from a potentially suspicious disappearance to a run-of-the-mill relationship breakup.
‘No. Definitely not. She wouldn’t have done that. Never,’ I say. ‘She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be capable.’
The officer makes a noise which makes me think she’s forcing a smile. I can almost visualise her, see her leaning forward on her desk as she speaks. I recognise the body language as I visualise it: she’s trying to make herself seem friendly, trustworthy. She wants me to take what she’s about to say in the calmest possible way. ‘I’m afraid when it comes to absent people, we need to gauge whether there’s a risk to herself or to others. I do think you need to consider the possibility that she might have left of her own accord. You’d be surprised. Sometimes people keep everything bottled up. Even their nearest and dearest have no idea what they’ve been thinking, or the worries and pains they’ve been carrying for God knows how long. Adults have a right to disappear, I’m afraid, as cold as that might sound.’
I shake my head, harder this time. ‘No. It’s not possible. I know everything she was thinking. She told me everything. We didn’t do secrets.’
‘What about her mobile phone or laptop? Has she taken those with her or are they still in the house?’
‘They aren’t here,’ I say. ‘I mean, she’d keep her laptop here on the coffee table and it’s not there. And she always has her phone on loud. She always answers. If she’d left it here I would have heard it ringing.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll take down Anya’s description and I’ll put everything on file.’ She gives me her name and a crime reference number. ‘Call us on 101 if there are any developments over the next few hours. If you can think of anything else, or if there’s any reason as to why she or others may be at risk, get in touch. At that point we can send an officer out to take some details. In the meantime, try not to panic but see if you can jot down some notes, perhaps some places where she might be. Places she feels safe. Any friends, colleagues, relatives, associates from college. Anything like that. Even a café or a pub she likes going to.’
I nod, even though I know it’s futile. Anya has nothing like that. We live the same life, together, as one. And that’s why her sudden disappearance has rocked me to my very core.
3
My alarm goes off at 6.30am, the same as it always does, and for a split second everything in the world is as it should be. The jovial salsa tune ends when I swipe my finger across the screen of my phone to silence the alarm. It’s only when I see the photo of me and Anya saved as the wallpaper on the home screen of my phone that I’m shaken from my reverie, thrown back into the real world with a jolt of adrenaline.
I turn over onto my left side, but there’s nothing there. No Anya. Not even the slightest disturbance in the bedsheets. I swallow and turn back over, looking at my phone again. After a few seconds, the screen fades to black as the screen automatically locks itself, the picture of me and Anya disappearing into darkness.
I get out of bed and stand at the top of the stairs, peering down at the hall, seeing the light from the street lamp searing in through
the glass in the front door.
‘Anya?’ I call, not expecting a reply.
As expected, there is none.
I call my manager and leave a message to let him know I won’t be in today. I walk downstairs, the carpet soft under my toes, the mobile phone rock solid in my hand. At the bottom, I switch on the hall light and make my way into the kitchen. I need to stick to routine, I tell myself. I need to stop myself from panicking.
I spoon a heap of coffee granules into my mug and flick the kettle on, the orange light glowing as the water begins to bubble gently inside.
The officer on the phone said I should call her if there were any developments. But then again, it’s not yet been twenty-four hours. It’s not been far off, but that’s still what they’ll tell me. That’s the rule, isn’t it? Twenty-four hours? I don’t recall if I heard her saying that, or if it’s something I got from somewhere else.
But who do I call? The same officers on the 101 non-emergency number who’ve done next to nothing so far? I wonder for a moment whether I could get away with classing this as an emergency, but I know deep down that wouldn’t help. That’d only annoy the police and make them less likely to do anything. No. I tell myself I’ll hold on a while longer, at least until twenty-four hours has passed since I last saw her, then I’ll call. I need to keep a calm, level head.
I put my phone down on the kitchen work surface and look around it. The house feels different somehow. It sounds odd to say it, what with a house just being an inanimate object with no soul or life of its own, but it’s almost as if the absence of Anya has changed it irrevocably. As though the house misses her, too.
Everything is silent. I suppose it always is at this time of the morning, but it’s not something I ever remember noticing. The only way I can think of wording it is that Anya’s presence brought noise into the world. A good type of noise, but noise all the same. Like the joyful laughter of children splashing around in a paddling pool, or the gentle, distant sound of a brass band playing carols in the town square at Christmas. Not something you ever really notice, but a sound which forms part of the fabric of existence at that moment in time. Like the ticking grandfather clock in your house that you only hear when you want to. If the clock stops, though, you know straight away.
