Disengaged

by Mischa Hiller

  ‘You’re a friend of hers?’

  ‘Friend of a friend.’

  ‘A friend of a friend. So, did Naomi tell you how much you would be paid?’ he asked.

  Was he trying to catch her out, or was this his idea of flirting?

  ‘No, she said you would sort it out.’

  He finished buttoning his shirt but the little gold cross was swinging free as he leant over her.

  ‘Of course I’ll sort it out. Come into my office and I’ll sort it out right away. No need to be shy. Come.’ He walked off and she picked up a pad and pen, just for something to hold so her hands wouldn’t shake. Inside his office he closed the door behind her and went to his desk.

  ‘Do I have to pay you more than Naomi because you are pretty?’ he asked, with that stupid grin. She felt herself redden and fixed a smile. She hated it when men made compliments about her. She sat in the chair next to his desk, hunching into herself. She was desperate to leave but needed the logger from his computer.

  ‘You are shy.’ His phone rang and he lifted a finger as if to put her on pause. He took his call at the desk, gesticulating as he talked about some bid process. She glanced into the open-plan office, then, as she watched him looking out of the window, felt for the keyboard cable at the back of the desk and followed it with her fingers until she reached the key-logger at the computer. He turned and reached down for his keyboard. She hesitated. He tapped something in, the phone wedged between his head and shoulder. He read out a number from the screen. She pulled the key-logger out of the computer then removed it from the keyboard cable. The cable dropped behind the desk, making a clunking noise as it hit the desk leg. He turned as she pocketed the logger. She’d have to leave his keyboard unplugged. She stood up, seeing his quizzical look, him asking for a minute with his finger again. She shook her head and left the office, picking up her bag without stopping and heading for the exit. In the lift down to the lobby she took deep breaths and wondered how long it would be before he worked out why his keyboard wasn’t working.

  When the lift opened in the lobby she was face to face with a blonde woman in a short red summer dress that showed her contours and exposed the deep valley between her breasts. She was close enough that Mojgan could smell the woman’s sickly perfume. Why was this woman going around displaying herself like this? Was she trying to attract a husband? The morality police in Tehran would throw a blanket over this one and whisk her down to the police station as fast their minivan would allow. At least she knew how to colour her hair properly, unlike Julian’s wife. Mojgan, who could see two mini versions of herself in the woman’s large sunglasses, pushed by her and departed Hadfish forever.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Russian had tried to leave the light on in the small bathroom. It hadn’t worked, but even if she’d owned a watch it would have been impossible to tell the time since her hands were bound behind her with tape. He’d been gone for at least a couple of hours, although her judgement of the passage of time was impaired by the lack of light. It was pitch black at first, then some light had started to filter through an extractor fan in one corner near the ceiling. But it had faded.

  Her arms stiff, her eye throbbing and desperate for a pee, she managed to get herself from the floor on to her knees, then, gradually, she pulled up her skirt at the back, now grateful that she was wearing Cassie’s short skirt since it would otherwise have been impossible. Pulling down her tights and underwear proved a more awkward challenge, and progress was painfully slow, every movement a torture to her bursting bladder. Eventually, with the relevant bit exposed, she shifted herself on to the toilet, relieving herself with a satisfied groan. Afterwards she sat there, exhausted at her efforts, breathing through her nose because of the tape around her mouth. Hearing Boris come in the front door, she started to inwardly laugh at her own predicament and the embarrassment of him seeing her like this. The irony of worrying about him seeing her on the toilet when, for all she knew, he planned to rape and kill her was not lost on her. If she came out of this Jules would have ‘I told you so’ tattooed on his bloody forehead. She stood and tried to pull up her underwear and tights, but this proved more difficult than pulling them down. She managed at least to pull the skirt down over the bunched mess of it all, to flush and to put the toilet cover down, which she then used as a seat. He didn’t seem like a rapist, but then rapists came in all shapes and sizes. She tried to reassure herself that most rapists were people you knew; they didn’t usually go to all this effort except in lurid TV crime dramas. But if not a rapist, what was he?

  She listened to see whether she could hear him. The doors in the house were solid, but the downstairs floor had bare floorboards and there were echoes coming up the staircase, as if he was pulling something in from outside. She tried to contain her imagination. Her left eye was half closed. She could hear him lumbering up the stairs, dragging something behind him, then he went back down again. About ten minutes later he came back up, and she heard him breathing heavily from the climb. The key turned in the lock. She tried again to pull the skirt down as best she could and look dignified; the last thing she wanted to do was give the impression she was helpless or scared. The door opened and she squinted as light from a camping lantern flooded the room. He placed it on the floor.

  ‘The electricity has been cut off,’ he said. Yes, that would happen about now, she realized, between residents. He reached outside the room and to her surprise produced a bottle of wine, two plastic cups and a paper plate of supermarket-bought sandwiches. He put these on the floor too before bringing in his rucksack and locking the door behind them. She tried not be intimidated by his physical presence in the small space. At least he smelled fresher than he had earlier in the day. He took a smartphone that looked like hers from his pocket, fiddled with it, his eyebrows furrowed, then pointed it at her face for several seconds before switching it off and pocketing it. This suggested to her that some purpose existed to all this. But maybe he was just going to send it to his friends, and now he was just waiting for them to arrive. She shouted stop in her head, forcing herself to focus on the facts, to read his expression. He reached out and yanked the tape from her mouth; like a brutal version of the waxing she sometimes subjected herself to at the beauty salon, but she tried not to show the pain.

  ‘I’m going to untie you. Please don’t try any stupidity again.’ She looked at him with no emotion. He took a penknife from his pocket and held it up expectantly. She half turned and offered her hands. He cut through the tape and she pulled it from her wrists, showing him the results. He ignored them, pouring wine and holding out a cup.

  ‘Water,’ she managed, hoarsely.

  ‘Of course.’ He put the wine down and produced her bottle of water from his rucksack. She drank greedily.

  ‘I didn’t want to do that, but I had no choice. I apologise.’

  She could smell the wine but ignored the once-again proffered cup, tentatively feeling her face instead.

  ‘Have a drink, please, and I will explain what is going on, within limits.’

  She was still thirsty but knew the wine would calm her down and help her think. It wasn’t the time to practice abstinence.

  She took it then halted, worried that it was drugged. Noticing her hesitation, he rolled his eyes and took the cup from her, swigging from it and and passing it back.

  ‘It’s a Chilean Shiraz,’ he said. She took it, drinking deeply, not caring if she looked desperate. He nodded in approval and lowered himself into a sitting position on the floor, his back against the door, pouring himself a cup. She watched him carefully. He looked like he was going to make a toast then decided against it, instead taking a drink and wiping his moustache with his free hand. His fingers were big; she could still feel his grip on her elbow.

  ‘So what’s going on? What’s all this about?’ The wine had given her a bit of Dutch courage, and she was somewhat re-assured by his laid-back attitude.

  ‘Are you starting a charity?’

  ‘What
?’ He must have gone through her bag.

  ‘Is it for animals? The English love animals, more than people, and who can blame them.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘OK, don’t tell me. Let me guess.’ He studied her like a stage psychic trying to discern the name of a pet from an audience volunteer. She touched the bruise over her eye. She wanted to get up and look at herself in the mirror. He pulled a small first-aid kit from his rucksack. ‘Here, you can clean it up later but it’s just a small cut and a large bruise.’ He put his palm to his chest. ‘I’m really sorry it happened. I hate to see a woman’s face bruised. It’s not right.’

  ‘But tying a woman up is OK?’

  ‘Tying you up was necessary, in order to make the world a safer place. Eat something. I hope you are not one of these silly vegetarian women. It’s chicken.’

  She took a sandwich just to keep him talking.

  ‘Aha! Is it something to do with the environment, your charity?’

  ‘No. What do you mean, to make the world a safer place?’

  ‘I mean I need Julian to do something for me that will make the world a safer place.’

  ‘The drone software,’ she said, enjoying the surprise on his face.

  ‘Ah, so he’s talked to you about it.’

  ‘No, not really. He was reluctant to do the work.’

  ‘Yes, he was, and I,’ he said proudly, as if showing off his powers of persuasion, ‘convinced him otherwise. But most recently he seems to have lost all interest. You are here, let us say, to focus his mind.’

  She took a bite of her sandwich, finding it tasteless but dis-covering how hungry she was. She chewed and thought about what to say.

  ‘If he didn’t tell you about the work, who did?’ he asked her.

  ‘Nobody. I just put two and two together.’

  ‘Perhaps from his partner, the Lebanese?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then from his girlfriend, perhaps. He is, what do you call it, loose-mouthed.’

  ‘Loose-tongued.’

  ‘Yes, loose-tongued. The opposite of Julian, he has always been secretive,’ Boris said.

  She looked at him with renewed interest. ‘Always? How long have you known Julian?’

  He smiled. ‘From before you both met,’ he said. ‘I knew of you from the start.’

  She tried to process this. ‘From university, then?’

  He nodded, seemingly distracted with thought. ‘Your father was a diplomat, wasn’t he? He spent a few months in Moscow?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I had you checked out, you see.’ He was smiling mischievously.

  ‘Checked out?’

  ‘Yes. I couldn’t have my Julian hooking up with any woman. You were perfect, though, just the right sort.’

  ‘The right sort? The right sort for what?’

  ‘My dear, you must refrain from repeating everything I say. I know this comes as a surprise to you, and on one level I admire Julian for not spilling the beans all these years. I’m not sure I could have kept it from you for that long. I would like to tell you all about it.’ Sheila caught herself leaning forward, engrossed by what this man was saying. She reached for the bottle but he got there first. ‘Allow me.’ He poured wine and moved the bottle beside him. He must have thought she wanted to use it as a weapon, but nothing had been further from her mind. He looked at his watch and got up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He laughed, a deep and natural sound. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little chat, too, but I need to make some phone calls. I promise to be back in a few hours.’

  ‘But you haven’t told me anything. What did Julian keep from me? Did Julian work for you at British Aerospace?’

  He shook his head. ‘Later, my dear. Now, if I leave you untied will you behave?’

  She nodded.

  ‘No shouting or banging?’ Banging, she hadn’t thought of banging. She nodded, but he caught her glancing at the pipes and sighed.

  ‘Banging is pointless,’ he said, ‘because this room is in the middle of the house. But it will annoy me and that is not a good idea, as you have seen’ – he pointed to her eye – ‘and if you want to know about Julian, then you’ll keep quiet tonight. If you make a noise, I’ll have to restrain you again, and I’ll tell you nothing.’

  He unlocked the door while facing her, then opened it, dragging in a rolled-up camping mattress. He also threw in her washbag, which he must have taken from her overnight case. He topped up her cup with wine then took the bottle. ‘Remember to drink water,’ he said, pointing at the sink. He backed out of the room, began to close the door then stopped. ‘Is it for children?’

  ‘Is what for children?’

  ‘The charity you are setting up. Is it for children with cancer? People love to help children with cancer.’

  ‘Yes, it’s for children. Afghani children injured by cluster bombs. They need artificial limbs, and people who can fit them.’ He looked surprised and studied her for a moment.

  ‘Why? I mean, why Afghanistan?’

  She wondered why the hell she was having this conversation with this person, but part of her had a need to explain it.

  ‘I don’t know really. It was just coincidence that it was Afghan children, they could have been Iraqi, Syrian, whatever. But I needed to … engage somehow, with the wider world. It’s my way of dealing with the mess that we created in the first place. It’s our mess. Does that make sense?’

  He nodded, as if what she’d said wasn’t stupid. ‘It makes perfect sense. Unfortunately, charity is not the answer, it’s just like giving aspirin for something like, I don’t know, malaria; it doesn’t deal with the mosquitos that spread the disease. If Julian cares about you, which I’m sure he does, we’ll hopefully get a chance to talk again in the morning, before you go. I will leave the light.’

  She had to restrain herself from saying goodnight to her kidnapper and heard the key turn in the lock. As she listened to his heavy footfall on the stairs she rummaged in her washbag to find he’d removed the nail scissors and file. She sat back, her brain buzzing with what he’d said about Julian. Maybe, just maybe, she’d had him all wrong.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Julian’s triangle of fears was gradually taking shape. At first he’d thought it would be too easy to fill out but then he’d struggled after putting dying at the top of the triangle and flying at the bottom, with ill health somewhere in the middle. Then he worried that placing dying at the top would only show how self-absorbed and lacking in imagination he was; after all, didn’t everyone having a fear of dying? With Sheila gone he’d become acutely aware that being alone ought to go on the list, but then he was quite happy being on his own for periods so he crossed that out and put being unattached, then moved it under dying. But maybe his fear of dying was not a fear of death but actually a fear of dying without having achieved anything in his life, or even, he thought, belonging to anything. It was the real reason he had attended those Socialist Workers Party meetings all those years ago, to belong to something that seemed worthwhile, but then Boris had come along (he’d never really understood what Boris was doing at Trotskyist party meetings), claiming to offer something better to belong to, something that he said would actually make a difference rather than be a talking shop. But all he’d ended up belonging to was Boris – and only Boris – and he’d become even more isolated. He didn’t even have a circle of friends he could claim to belong to. Who were his real friends? Who could he go to with his current problem? The group he and Sheila had considered their friends had gradually shrunk as they had kids and made new friends with other people with kids. Maybe he and Sheila should have had children, but he’d been reluctant, and he couldn’t even remember, in his freshly inebriated state, why he hadn’t wanted them. Maybe he’d felt he was just incapable of that sort of nurture or responsibility. She’d mentioned children on and off for a while then suddenly stopped mentioning them, which was somehow worse, and now it was too late. They were both
too old.

  And what about Rami? He could have come clean to him yesterday about the whole mess. He’d known him for years, but what really bound them together was the business, not much else, and the business necessarily took precedence over any real friendship. Rami had annoyed him yesterday with what he’d said about Sheila. But maybe Rami, in his cack-handed way, was right about Julian not appreciating her and even about them not having that much in common, after all. But then having things in common was not, in itself, enough of a bond. Why, for instance, had Sheila gone to Cassie, with whom she had nothing in common, and not one of the other people they called friends? Probably, he guessed, for that very reason, because the idea of telling her ‘friends’ that he was cheating on her would be too difficult. Although the very word ‘cheating’ was so lacking in meaning and loaded with a conditioned implication of ‘ultimate betrayal’ that he couldn’t really take it seriously. His feelings for Sheila hadn’t changed, but maybe his expression of them had.

  He put his head in his hands, mentally exhausted. Don’t overthink it, the analyst had said. He emitted a laugh that sounded like a cough and thought about refreshing his drink. He checked his phone. Nothing. He could try ringing her again but her phone was dead; she probably hadn’t taken her charger or had switched it off. He could try Rami, to see if Cassie had spoken to her, but he would have rung if he’d heard anything. Sheila would surely realize, given time to think, that he wouldn’t lie to her about something as serious as this, especially after being confronted with so-called evidence. But then he had lied to her, even if it was a lie of omission. Lied to her for years because he was afraid she’d leave if he told the truth.

  He topped up his whisky and made his way carefully back to the sofa where he slumped into the hollow he’d created. He jumped when his phone beeped with a message. He snatched at it, hoping, praying, checking the screen and feeling relief wash through him when he saw it was from Sheila. But no text message, just an attachment, which he had to click on to see and which took an age to load. When it did appear it was as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. A video. A close-up of her face, one eye defiant and wary, the other bruised, half-closed with a cut above it, her mouth taped with what looked like duct tape, her cheeks streaked with mascara. Then the phone pulled away from her face to reveal that she was on a toilet seat, her arms behind her, dressed in a short skirt he’d never seen her in before and her tights crumpled at her thighs. He felt sick. From what he could see of the fittings and the black and white tiled wall behind her, it was not a bathroom he recognized. The video was all of ten seconds long.