Frank nodded.
‘Did I get any more mail from the MOD?’ he asked him.
Nathan shook his head.
‘Are you in trouble?’
Frank was startled by the question.
‘No! Of course not!’
He had expected to be the one asking that question.
The screen behind Nathan was beginning to irritate him, the looped animation flickering behind his son’s head like a halo, catching his eye and distracting him.
‘Did anybody call for me?’ he asked.
Nathan shook his head. He was looking down at his keyboard, pensive.
Frank wondered what he was typing.
‘What’re you working on?’ he asked, looking at the screen, curious.
‘I was just posting a comment on a chat board,’ he explained. ‘These guys,’ he said, pointing behind him at the monitor with the annoying animation, ‘they committed suicide.’
Frank followed Nathan’s finger and took a closer look at the animation. Squinting, he could make out the pixelated image of a man, familiar, speckled red, stumbling, a crowd parting, the man moving clumsily, falling into what looked like a trench. No, a rail track! And sparks, eating at the man, swallowing him up with a burst of colour!
‘Shit!’ Frank stood up fast and knocked his head on the wooden beams above him.
‘Ouch! Shit!’
He fell back down onto the stool.
Nathan looked alarmed.
‘I was going to get rid of it. I swear!’
Frank looked at him, confused, holding his head.
‘What are you talking about?’ he spat. ‘And where did you get that?’ He pointed at the video clip.
‘It’s all over the net. Some guy works at the tube station, got this from the CCTV this afternoon and posted it on some major forums.’
Frank went cold. He watched the image unfolding through its paces, an endless execution.
It’s Kayn!
‘Where did this happen, Nathan?’
‘In the city,’ he said solemnly.
‘You said they committed suicide. Who are they?’
Nathan clicked his mouse and dragged a new file across his screen. He clicked it once and waited for the video player to queue the file.
‘This is the full video,’ he explained.
Frank watched the incident played out on the monitor. Kayn, stumbling and falling. And then he saw the MOD man, bending over the edge of the platform, toward Kayn as he lay back on the rails. Sparks. Confusion. People milling. A fight breaking out. The police and the yellow jackets, swarming the platform, pushing and pulling.
Frank watched the MOD man breaking away from the throng, running toward the camera at the end of the platform, coming closer. He was looking along the track as if he had lost something. Then he was looking back at the crowd. And then, in a split second, he leaped toward the rail, where he flashed and was gone in a burst of light.
Frank gasped and stood bolt upright, his head narrowly missing the beam above it. But he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at the screen, mouth agape.
‘Get your things, Nathan.’
Nathan looked puzzled.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean get your things’ he shouted. ‘You’re going to stay at your mothers until I say so.’
‘Aw!’ the boy threw his arms up in the air.
‘Get your stuff!’ Frank barked. ‘Now!’
Nathan obeyed him without saying another word.
When Liz arrived home, she was in no mood for what Frank had in store for her.
‘I want you to go to your mother’s,’ he said flatly.
It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Frank’s face was grim, set in stone. He was standing in the hall, wedged between the coat hanger and the grandfather clock, blocking her way into the house.
‘What?’
‘I want you to leave the house for a few days. I’ll call you.’
Liz shook her head in disbelief. She thought at first that he had somehow found out about her and Adain. Perhaps he’d had her followed last night.
She couldn’t think of anything to say.
Then Nathan emerged, sullen-looking, from the sitting room, bending under the weight of a huge sports bag, fit to burst.
‘Nathan’s going home to his mother’s for a while too,’ Frank explained, as if that somehow made things easier.
‘What exactly do you mean by this, Frank?’ she yelled at him.
He was unmoved by her tone.
‘I want you to leave the house for a few days. Like I said.’
‘Fuck you!’ she screamed, taken aback by her own vehemence.
Frank did not so much as flinch.
Liz heard a car pulling up outside the house and was glad for the interruption. Nathan pushed past her and out the door, and she saw that one of his friends had come to pick him up.
When she turned back, Frank was still standing there.
‘I’m not going anywhere, Frank,’ she told him stubbornly.
But the unsettling determination in his eyes unnerved her.
‘I’ve packed your stuff for you,’ he said coldly. ‘Please be quick.’
‘You’ve done what?’ she cried. She realised she was only stalling now.
’I need you out of the house, Liz!’ he shouted. ‘What can’t you understand? O-U-T.’
‘Why?’ she asked defiantly.
Frank exhaled deeply.
‘I think you might be in danger if you stay,’ he said as calmly as he could manage.
Liz made her mind up there and then to leave. She pushed past him into the main room and saw her bags waiting there, crammed with clothes. She stomped past the bags, up the stairs and into the main bedroom, emerging minutes later with a packed case. But when she reached the hall, Frank was no longer there.
‘Don’t expect me to come back!’ she yelled. When no reply was forthcoming, she kicked the front door wide open and stomped down the steps toward the Shogun.
Frank waited in the sitting room, listening to Liz storming around and swearing. He couldn’t face her right now. It had taken a lot to kick her out like this, but he couldn’t have his family around for the next stage of his plan. If Liz meant what she had said about not coming back, then so be it. This was bigger than his marriage. It was bigger than anything he could imagine and he was prepared to sacrifice everything for a piece of it.
Frank heard her kicking the front door, then, moments later, he heard the Shogun’s engine start and the tyres throw up pebbles across the front driveway.
Finally, he was alone. He knew what he had to do. He closed the front door and went into his study. He opened the filing cabinet, rolling his eyes over the spines of a few well-thumbed files until he picked out the one that he needed. He opened it and searched through the entries with his forefinger, stopping at the letter F. He ought to feel nervous, he thought, but felt instead an eerie calm descend upon him, making him operate with fluidity. It was the calm of the thief, he mused, or of the murderer, as they went about their crime. It was the calm that comes from accepting an inevitable course of action.
On second thoughts, Frank returned to his desk and opened up a drawer. From it he pulled out a small leather box. He found a tiny key in a second drawer and unlocked the box, retrieving a pistol. He inspected the weapon, rolled the barrel, letting his hand grow accustomed to the weight and the shape. After a moment, he pocketed the gun and pulled out a small box of bullets, which he pocketed also.
Frank picked up the telephone and dialled the number on the file. A crackly voice spoke on the other end, and Frank licked his dry lips.
‘Hello, Feynmann. Remember me?’
9
Present Day
Simmons faced the door. He felt nervous, hesitant. His insides felt knotted together, making it almost impossible to swallow, to breathe, to stand still. He clenched his hand into a fist and knocked. Three times. Hard. He held his breath, waiting for the door
to open, looking up and down the street nervously.
The starless night seemed to have sealed everybody up in their homes, forcing a calm, eerie silence to prevail. Feeling nervous, he scanned the rows of lifeless cars parked up the street. He had never been in this part of town and he felt himself tense at the unwelcome prospect of encountering some street gang feeling protective of their turf, or after some quick money.
Nobody was answering his knock.
He stepped back and looked up at the first floor window. Fine net curtains hung down, tied aside in neat bows. A dim light spilled into the room, perhaps from a hallway. Simmons peered up into the window but discerned no movement beyond. He thought about peeping inside the downstairs window instead, but wasn’t comfortable with the idea. Perhaps, he thought, somebody would see him and mistake his purpose. He was certain there were eyes trained on him even now, hiding behind dark windows across the quiet street, watching his every move.
Get back to the car, he thought. Come back tomorrow, when its light.
He wondered whether he should leave a note under the door, uncertain of the reaction that might provoke in the curious watchers, when the door suddenly opened inward, startling him.
A young woman held the door ajar, peering shyly at him. It took a moment for Simmons to register it was his secretary, Clara. He almost didn’t recogniser her out of her conservative, unflattering work clothes. She wore a baggy pink jumper and a pair of worn-looking, lose-fit jeans. Her nut-brown hair was tied up in a loose ponytail instead of the tight bun he was so used to seeing. It was as though she had two different bodies, Simmons thought, one for work, and one for home. Simmons decided right then that he preferred the home body.
It took him another moment to register the fact that Clara was speaking to him.
He shook his head apologetically.
‘Sorry?’
Clara tilted her head quizzically, smiling.
‘I said, come in!’
‘Oh!’ Simmons stepped in clumsily, moving as if he were on strings.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I’ve had a long day and my head is a little hazy.’
Clara led the way along a narrow, dimly lit hall. Simmons thought of the Orient Express. There were various hangings on the walls: a gallery of unknown painters. The faint scent of potpourri drifted through the hall.
Despite having worked with her for two years, Simons knew very little of Clara’s life, but already this brief glimpse of her home - the images and smells she chose to surround herself with - was enriching his concept of this woman. By the time they reached the end of the short corridor and spilled into the bright living room, Simmons had noted that Clara’s walk - in her flat shoes, at least - was a relaxed, sure-footed gait, completely the opposite from the rather tense, high heeled little-steps that she took in work. He noticed also the way in which she carried her frame, bobbed her head, held her hands.
She is a different person altogether, he thought. I wish I knew her.
Clara turned to face him and motioned toward a seat.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
Simmons looked at her. He had heard her say those words every day for two years, but now they sounded odd, here amid this setting.
‘Please, yes,’ he said. ‘Erm, no sugar.’
Clara looked at him.
‘I know!’ she exclaimed.
‘Sorry, yes, same as always,’ Simmons blubbered.
Get a grip of yourself, for God’s sake!
She went through into the kitchen and Simmons tried to relax. He felt like a schoolboy on a first date. He hadn’t been alone with a woman outside of work since before his doomed marriage, he suddenly realised, and he seemed to have lost the ability to act normal. Perhaps the fact that it was Clara, whom he had never thought of beyond her secretarial role, contributed to how silly he felt now. As well as the fact that he had never noticed just how pretty she actually was.
He sat back on the chair, trying to appear relaxed, and looked about the room to fathom a little more about her.
The décor was inexpensive, high-street DIY, but the room had been put together well and with meticulous care: white ceiling and skirting boards, pale blue walls, an ambience lamp in the corner, topped by a thin, colourful shade. There were two-tone cover throw-overs on the suite, probably hiding its age, and matching curtains along with an oblong rug, hiding the worn carpet beneath, in front of the metal fireplace.
Seeing how Clara made the most out of what she had, Simmons thought of his own flat, his life of squalor. He felt a pang of guilt, felt suddenly responsible for the ageing furniture in Clara’s home, for the worn carpet, for everything.
Christ, he thought. I should never have come here.
When she returned, she was carrying a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate with a selection of assorted biscuits. The biscuits were cheap, and so were the mugs. Simmons found he could no longer look her in the eye.
Clara placed the tray on the small glass table and sat opposite him. Simmons thanked her and took the mug from her when she pushed it into his hands. Despite his hunger, he found he could not accept any of her biscuits. It would feel like stealing her food.
His stomach rumbled loudly, betraying him. He looked away, embarrassed.
Clara was looking at him.
‘When did you last eat?’
Simmons shrugged.
‘Oh. Before.’
His stomach rumbled again, louder than last time.
Stop it, you bastard.
Clara picked up the plate and came round to his side, taking a seat next to him.
Simmons’ heart was racing.
‘Eat,’ she instructed.
He opened his mouth to complain, but could think of nothing to say. His senses were heightened by her close presence, by her sweet fragrance.
She shook the plate at him and he felt himself smile a little. He took a biscuit coated in chocolate, to make her happy, and pushed it in his mouth in one go.
He had scarcely eaten since his first encounter with Kayn, two days ago, and the taste of sweet food brought forward a rush of digestive acids, making his stomach belch and churn. Clara leapt to her feet when she saw the urgency with which he ate. He seemed to have forgotten where he was for a moment.
‘My God! You must be perished! Let me cook you something up.’
He looked up at her, biscuit crumbs sticking to the two-day stubble on his chin.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he mumbled, spitting crumbs. ‘I’m OK, really. Sit down, please.’
Clara sat down, slowly, concerned.
He wiped his mouth, flustered. He did not want to tell her what to do in her own home, and felt worse when she obeyed.
I’m too sensitive to be a boss, he thought.
‘At least let me get you more biscuits,’ she said, getting up from her seat and disappearing into the kitchen. Simmons did not try to stop her, but quickly shoved another biscuit into his mouth whilst she was gone, chewing hard and fast to be rid of it before she returned, almost moaning in bliss when the sugar rush kicked in.
When she returned, Clara brought thick slices of cake and a sandwich. Simmons thanked her sheepishly, secretly pleased. He was forced to admit that he did have a little bit of an appetite but turned down the offer of a meal a second time.
They talked lightly whilst Simmons ate, soon after loosing whatever inhibitions had stopped him from chomping the biscuits earlier on. When he finished, he pushed the plate away and wiped his mouth. Clara went back into the kitchen for fresh coffee.
‘I owe you an explanation,’ he told her when she returned, sitting opposite him across the table. He was feeling much better now that he had some food inside him.
He cleared his throat.
Where to begin?
‘Clara, what I have to say will sound ridiculous and incredible to you. I can only tell you that I am not crazy, because Frank saw it too.’
He was looking down at the empty plate as he spoke, feeling her watching him
silently.
‘A couple of days ago, in the office, I was visited in the afternoon by a… man. He seemed absolutely crazy. He was screaming, holding on to me, begging me for help. And then…’ Simmons hesitated.
He wanted to scratch at his head, where he imagined Clara was staring. He stared hard at the plate. It seemed to shift in and out of focus.
‘He disappeared,’ he said briskly.
There. Done. I’ve said it.
There was a moment of silence. When he dared look up at her, he found her staring at her hands, as if too embarrassed to face him because of what he might see in her eyes: the thought that he had lost his mind.
‘Clara, I swear he vanished right in front of me. And Frank saw the same thing. It happened again the next day. This time the crazy wrecked the office, made the mess you saw yesterday morning.’
He stopped talking. He realised he was speaking in a torrent of words.
When she looked at him, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. He reached out instinctively, but Clara pulled her face back.
‘Do you believe me?’ he asked her, holding his breath.
Clara nodded, her tears falling freely now, her cheeks glowing.
‘Why are you crying?’ he said, getting up, walking round to her side.
‘I’m scared for you,’ she said. ‘And for me.’
Simmons sat next to her and felt his inhibitions rushing back to him, paralysing him. He wanted to put his arms around her, to comfort her, but only his mouth worked.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘The office,’ she said sullenly.
Simmons braced himself. He had wondered if this moment would ever come. He had been waiting for it for the past six months, had even rehearsed a short, sorry apology for his decision to shut shop, to count his losses, for putting his only employee out of a job. But he had hoped the moment would not come to pass, and certainly not like this.
‘Clara,’ he said, gripping the back of his legs to stop his hands from shaking. ‘Things have not been going well for a while,’ he said, his voice shaking. She would not look at him, but stared instead at the floor, motionless.
‘Oh, shit!’ he said. ‘I’m not good at speeches, Clara.’ He stood up, throwing his hands in the air. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. But if we fail to make the targets this month – and God knows they’re low – I’m going to really have to consider selling up what’s left.’
The Man Who Vanishes_a gripping horror thriller spanning 3 timelines_One Man. Everywhere. Page 6
