The Disappearance

by Gillian Chan

  For my two favorite Chan boys

  —G.C.

  “So you’ve found nothing, right?”

  I was tired of the mind games they’d been playing, thought I’d liven things up a bit by changing tactics. Up until then I’d been giving them the silent treatment, keeping my lips clamped tight shut whenever they asked a question, not even breathing hard in case they thought they were getting to me.

  Because I look like such a thug and, I’ll admit it, act like one most of the time, I knew these cops would be like everyone else and think that I was dumb as a rock, but there’s not a lot I don’t understand. You’d be surprised how much people say in front of me, particularly people in charge, because they think it’ll go over my head. It suits me just fine, and I work hard not to let on how smart I actually am. If I have to say anything, I keep it short and simple. Grunts are useful, too.

  Not saying anything for nearly four hours hadn’t been a problem. It was totally pissing off the cops, so now that I had spoken it was pathetic to see the wave of relief that visibly swept over them. It was like they had a neon sign over their heads saying, “The little bastard’s finally cracked.”

  Only I hadn’t.

  I went straight back into silent mode while they pounded me with questions.

  “What should we have found, Mike?”

  “Come on, tell us where Jacob is.”

  “We know you left the group home together. Matt said you ran after you nearly killed Paddy.”

  I fought down a smile. They’d let slip two things that made me happy. First, Matt had come through for us. He said he’d give us two hours and he had. Second, Paddy was alive. I’m usually good at justifying my actions—I’ve had to learn to be—but beating the shit out of Paddy was different because of what it said about me. I had hardly dared to think about it. The fear that I had killed him, and concern over what might happen to me, surfaced every so often, filling my mind with waves of panic and making me feel as if I were being hollowed out. Now, I had just a tiny glimmer of hope. All I had to do was hold on and find a way to construct a story about what had happened to Jacob that didn’t make me seem totally crazy, one that would make sense to people who hadn’t experienced what I had. There was no real evidence of anything, and I hoped that once they realized this, I might just be allowed back to Medlar House. I needed to go back; I still had Adam to think about. He needed me, and I’d made a promise to Jacob that I’d take care of Adam, too.

  “Where did you go, Mike? You were gone for two days. We know you went to Dundas the first night and that Jacob was with you. A woman in the donut store called the tip line after we put your photograph on the news. She said you’d both been there. Said you bought some hot chocolate and donuts—supplies, eh? Planning to camp out, maybe?”

  It was the ugly one asking the bulk of the questions. She looked tough: her face was weathered and she was built like a brick shithouse. I’d bet that she was a match for most of the criminals who came her way. She was being the good cop. It was almost funny; she was trying to make like she was motherly and it was so obviously alien to her. She was making her voice sound kind, but I could see the effort this was taking, and she couldn’t always keep her frustration from showing. The other one wasn’t making any effort to disguise his feelings. He looked at me like I was a piece of wet dog crap he’d found on his shoe. He was smooth-looking, all well-cut suit and carefully styled hair. I could tell that he wanted to beat the crap out of me, not waste time trying to make nice. What he didn’t know was that if he tried, he’d only land one blow because I’d have him. Not only am I big and strong for my age, I’m fast, too.

  “Did you do something to Jacob?” Pretty Boy smiled at me. There was an insinuation in those words: the way he said “do” made it clear what he was hinting at.

  I didn’t let myself react, just smiled at him. It got right up his nose and I saw his fists clench. When he saw me notice this, he quickly pulled his hands under the tabletop. The social worker who had been called in to be my “appropriate adult” while I was being questioned shifted uneasily in his seat. I looked at him but he kept his eyes on the cop. I gave him marks for that. He was letting Pretty Boy know that he had his number.

  Ugly tried again, picking up where she left off. “The next day, early evening, you surface in Hamilton, panhandling outside the train station, but Jacob’s not with you anymore.”

  “You blew it there, didn’t you, you little punk?” Pretty Boy smirked at me. “Turned nasty when someone refused you. Not very smart, was it? Because when the police came, they recognized you.” He laughed. “Not that you’re hard to recognize, not with that face.”

  The social worker spoke up then. “Enough! There’s no need for that. Keep your insults to yourself.” He was a runty-looking guy, but he’d set his jaw and was keeping up his death stare. I was beginning to like him. He might look like someone’s kindly old uncle, but he had balls.

  Pretty Boy matched his glare and continued. “So that’s how you ended up back here with us. Now, cut the crap. Tell us what happened to Jacob.”

  I smiled again, couldn’t help it, because he was the one who wasn’t being very smart. I mean, wasn’t it obvious that I’d wanted to be picked up at that point? “Turned nasty” didn’t even begin to describe what I did. It was beautiful—loud and dramatic, a complete meltdown: spit and four-letter words flying, I’d grabbed some old geezer by the lapels, shaken him, and kept hold of him until some passersby rushed to his aid. Then I let myself be overpowered, which for someone my size is a bit of a joke.

  Jacob was long gone by then.

  They’ll never find him, not ever, no matter how hard they look.

  That’s good.

  Knowing that, I can stand whatever crap they throw at me. So maybe it’s all right to talk. Only I think I’ll keep them waiting a bit longer. Why? Because it amuses the hell out of me to piss them off, and because, more importantly, I have to get it straight in my head first. If I am honest, I’m not really sure what happened to Jacob. All I know is that he is gone and, most important of all, he is safe.

  Chapter One

  Jacob was already at Medlar House when I got there, last chance ringing in my ears.

  Only I didn’t really know what they meant by that. Last chance? Where the fuck were they going to send me if I messed up here? It was just a vague threat meant to make me toe their line, behave better. Trouble was, I didn’t want to. I’m angry and nothing can change that.

  When they took me away from Mom three years ago, I’d gone the foster-parenting route. With foster parents, there’s two types. There are the ones who are in it for the money. They couldn’t give a shit about their charges, so if you cause trouble you quickly become more trouble than you’re worth to them. There’s a cold honesty in that I kinda like, but not enough to make their lives easy. Why should I? No one does that for me. The other type is the do-gooders, the ones who are convinced that they can reach and save the disfigured, emotionally damaged kid. That might work with some. It won’t work with me. No one can bring my brother back.

  After three failed foster home attempts, they gave up and sent me to my first group home. That one was all right. In fact, it was a hell of a lot better than the foster homes. With more kids around I could float under the radar a little. My plan was to just wait it out until I was eighteen and out on my own. But there was a bit of a scandal, a huge media fuss, and the place got closed down. Without going into details, let’s just say that “grope home” might have been a better name for it. Someone even tried it on with me, and I had to get physical, which wasn’t appreciated.

  So this place, Medlar House, was a bit of an unknown qu
antity. I figured that it would be the usual dump for kids like me whose parents couldn’t handle them, or for kids with problems, or for those unlucky schmucks who just had nowhere else to go. Lucy, who had processed me, made nice with my Children’s Aid Society worker, took me down to the main lounge area so I could meet the other kids. Well, I’m sure that’s what she intended, but I had other plans. If everyone was there, I could have a look-see and try and work out which of them were going to be stupid enough to give me any trouble.

  It was late afternoon. When I’d been up in my room, unpacking, I’d heard a clatter and voices. It was obvious that the various schools the inmates attended had let out and everyone was home. The room Lucy took me down to was medium-sized, packed with scuffed-up furniture and maybe six kids. Most of them stopped what they were doing as soon as they saw me trailing in after Lucy, all of them giving me the once-over in their own way. There were a couple of gasps when I turned and gave them the full benefit of the scar. It shocks me still, and I’m used to it, so if you’ve never seen me before it can be a bit of a stomach turner.

  It starts just above and to one side of my right eye, then carries on to just above my mouth. You’re probably thinking that it’s just a red line, maybe a little bit raised. Nah, it’s not like that. I overheard one of the nurses in the hospital say that it looked like someone had sliced the whole right side of my face off, and you know what, that’s about it. Back then Danny was a bit taller than me, and when he brought the cleaver down in a swinging arc from over his head, it just sliced through everything, taking flesh and muscle, shattering my eye socket. It doesn’t hurt—not anymore. I was lucky that the doctors managed to save my eye. They did as good a job as they could—rebuilding my eye socket and cheekbone with prosthetics, covering them with a skin graft—but it’s the absence of flesh that’s the shocker. When you hear the word “cheek,” you expect a bit of meat even on the thinnest face, but what I have is a sort of declivity: I like that word, picked it up from my plastic surgeon. He promised great things: that he could, in time, and with many operations, get me looking halfway decent again. I told him no. Make me functional and leave it at that. I never looked halfway decent, so why start now? It was hard because I had to kick up an almighty stink, and the only way to convince them to leave me alone was to pretend that I was terrified of more operations. A little bit of fake hysteria goes a long way, especially from someone my size who can do a hell of a lot of damage flailing around. My ugly mutt; that’s what my mom called me when I was little, and Mutt became my nickname. It’s what Jon always called me, too, right from when he was a little kid who couldn’t say “Michael.” I liked it, only started to hate it when Danny picked up on it and started to use it because he meant it.

  Danny. Now, he’s the other reason I didn’t want the surgeon messing around trying to make me look better. I want people to remember what Danny did. Yeah, yeah, I know he’s serving time up in Kingston, but people forget, don’t they? Time heals everything and all that crap. If I keep my face like this, then there’s always going to be a reminder, one specially aimed at her—my mother, the one who brought Danny into our lives in the first place, laughing about how he would be our new dad.

  Oh shit, I’m digressing big time, aren’t I? I get into a loop sometimes thinking about what happened that December afternoon three years ago when Danny killed my brother, Jon. It’s another reason I don’t like to talk much. I’m always afraid that I will tell everyone I meet that story.

  So, where was I? Yeah, the scar, the other kids at Medlar House seeing it for the first time. Some of them looked away. I knew that they wouldn’t give me any trouble. There was one boy, though, who kept staring at me. I could see he was taking his time, his way of showing that he was tough, that I didn’t scare him.

  “It’s Frankenstein’s monster,” he said with a sneer.

  “Paddy!” Lucy sounded outraged. Some of the ones who had looked away got their courage back and sniggered. She glared at them until the laughter stopped.

  I was impressed. An insult that got it right—I was the monster, not Frankenstein. This guy was smart. I was going to have to sort him out, but later, when Lucy wasn’t around. For now, I didn’t say anything. All I did was smile, and a smile from me is a horror show. The skin around my mouth, which is mottled red, pulls up in an unnatural way, too many teeth show, and you can see the outline of all the bones.

  He looked away.

  “This is Mike McCallum.” Lucy had gone into full introduction mode. “He’s come to us from Mississauga and will be in ninth grade.” At least she didn’t add the kind of crap they normally do, like, “I know that you will all make him welcome.” Like hell. I knew that in a place like this the object was survival, and that anyone new was going to be judged according to what kind of threat they might represent or whether they could be bullied, depending on where you saw yourself in the pecking order.

  There were a few mumbled hellos, and then Lucy said, “Well, I’ll leave you to get to know everyone. I’ve got to go help Chaz get dinner together.” Judging from the disgusting smells that were starting to drift into the room, Chaz needed all the help he could get.

  Once she’d left, there was this leaden silence. I half expected the boy called Paddy to try something, get me in trouble on my first day, but he turned away and got into a conversation with a thin, rat-faced boy with a half-assed afro. I decided that I’d better make it clear how things were going to be, so I sauntered over to the stained sofa that sat in front of the TV. I grabbed the remote from a little kid and clicked through to see what crap programming they had, then waited for the protests that I knew would come when I settled on a twenty-four-hour news channel rather than the garish cartoon they had been watching.

  It was then that I saw him. The TV was on a table that had been placed in a corner of the room, creating a small, triangular space behind it. When I’d been standing up, he was invisible, but now that I was sitting and staring directly at the TV, I could see that a boy was crammed into that space. He was sitting on the floor, his back pressed up against the back of the television set. I couldn’t see his head or his face, but from the way his back curved, and the way his knees were drawn up, he probably had his head down, resting on his knees.

  “Wha..at?” I yelled. “Who the hell is that?’

  “That’s Jacob,” Paddy answered, adding maliciously, “He was the house freak, until you came.”

  I let the last part go. The boy hiding behind the TV was way too interesting. His posture screamed that he was trying to shut out everything around him, a feeling I knew only too well.

  “Why’s he there?”

  Paddy laughed. “Jacob tries to pretend that nothing here exists.” He looked slyly at me and then moved closer to the television. There was a bowl of fruit on a nearby coffee table. Fruit that had definitely seen better days, shriveled up apples and oranges whose skins looked leathery. Paddy picked up one of the apples, hefted it in his hand, then leaned over the television, raised his right hand, and dashed the apple straight down on the kid’s head. I knew he’d thrown it hard because I could see how he nearly lost his balance, the force of the throw pulling him forward. The apple had been half rotten and collapsed on impact, leaving brown mush in the kid’s hair.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  I was impressed.

  Paddy reached for another apple, but I stopped him. “Okay, I get it, but you’re blocking the TV so move your scrawny ass!”

  For a second, I thought he was going to say no, but he shifted gears fast when I lurched menacingly in his direction.

  Dinner wasn’t for about forty minutes, so I had plenty of time to watch this Jacob, and I swear he didn’t move once. I even found myself peering closely to make sure that he was breathing—he was, little shallow breaths that hardly made his sides move. He was amazing, so interesting to watch that I didn’t really pay attention to the news, but I kept it on, enjoying the
whining of the other kids about the loss of their cartoons, even swatting one or two who got too vociferous in their protests. I was half hoping that Paddy would try something. It would earn him big brownie points if he took on the ugly newcomer and set himself up as the savior of the others, but he didn’t. He watched me almost as closely as I was watching Jacob, and there was a look in his eye that I didn’t like one bit.

  The smells wafting into the room got stronger, cabbage with a tinge of charcoal, and when a gong sounded, everyone careened off out of the room. Everyone, that is, except me and Jacob and one other kid, one of the younger ones who hung back by the door. I deliberately waited, since I wanted to see what the weird kid would do.

  About five minutes passed and then this tall, burly guy came in. He had thick, graying hair tied into a ponytail at the back of his neck. Put him in leathers and a bandanna and he would have been your archetypal biker dude. He looked shocked to see me there, but apart from a nod of acknowledgment didn’t speak to me at all. He knelt down to one side of the TV. The kid by the door followed him in as if the tall guy was a magnet.

  “Jacob,” he said, his voice gentle. “Jacob, come on. It’s dinnertime.”

  There was no answer, not a sign that the kid had even heard him. He looked like a small boulder.

  “C’mon, Jake, let’s do this the easy way. Jakey?” He edged closer, pushing the table and TV slightly to one side so that he had room to reach through.

  With the TV no longer pressed against his back, there was finally some movement from the boy: a twitch, a slight easing of the rigidity of his muscles. He kept his head resting on his knees but turned it so that one eye could see the man.

  “Attaboy, Jake. It’s me, Chaz. Just me, no one else, I promise. Come on, get yourself up on your hind legs and come through to eat. I’ve got Lucy saving you a place next to me.” He reached out one meaty hand and tentatively put it on the kid’s shoulder.