How to Disappear

by Gillian McAllister

  Lauren and Aidan sit on the sofa at exactly the same moment.

  ‘You have made the decision not to join your wife in protection,’ he says to Aidan. His tone is that of a police officer cautioning a suspect.

  ‘Yes,’ Aidan says, though she hears the subtext loud and clear: I didn’t decide anything. It has happened to us.

  She reaches for his hand, warm and leathery in hers.

  ‘Needless to say, there is to be no contact with your wife once she leaves. You will not be told her new address, her new name, or Zara’s new name.’

  ‘No,’ Aidan says softly. He rubs his other hand over his beard, which bristles like sandpaper.

  ‘We therefore have to ask if you’re sure?’ Jon says. He looks down at the leaflet, giving Aidan space to think.

  Lauren is cradling yet another mug of coffee. How many coffees has she drunk with professionals since this whole thing began? It must be hundreds, maybe thousands. She stares at the sleet outside. She wants a bath.

  She wasn’t a bath convert until she had Zara. Everything had become so functional since having a baby – meals eaten quickly, make-up applied in a hurry while jiggling a bouncy chair with one foot – so when Zara was finally asleep, Lauren wanted a treat, but something that was still necessary. Well, I’ve got to wash, she’d think as she guiltily ran the taps, as though she wasn’t supposed to be doing anything nice for herself. Those mad baby years. As Zara grew older and more settled, the baths became more decadent. A candle, a single almond-shaped flame lit up at the end of the bath. Face masks. In the hot water, naked, alone, Lauren was completely herself.

  ‘Yes,’ Aidan says now. The word is firm but the tone behind it is weak and reedy.

  Lauren has an arrow right in the centre of her chest. The life is spiralling out of her, right here in the living room as the sleet rushes down outside. The protection service think they will never contact each other again. Lauren can’t comprehend the word. Never. She’s just found him.

  She told Aidan she loved him after their third date. She had been overcome by it, a sort of effervescent madness.

  Afterwards – she did it by text – she paced around her flat in Shepherd’s Bush. In the end, she put her phone on a high shelf in the bathroom and had a bath, paying her dues to the gods of text messages by not checking it for an hour.

  When she checked again, he had replied four times, only one minute into her bath.

  First text: Wow!

  Second text: Me, too.

  Third: I feel the same.

  Fourth: x.

  And here they are, a decade on, and they still feel the same.

  Lauren looks sideways at Aidan. Two years, she thinks, and he seems to understand.

  ‘So, in terms of you, Aidan, remaining here, in London. We ask that you be vigilant against any threats, both to you and … your child.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And report anything suspicious to the police.’

  ‘Okay.’ Aidan pauses. ‘On, like … a designated number or anything?’

  ‘Dial 999. Or log it with 101, if non-urgent.’

  ‘Right,’ Aidan says, and Lauren can hear that his words are laced with his displeasure. If he’s not coming with them, he’s on his own. Not even the mobile phone number of a helpful police officer to call.

  ‘How many people know the identity of Girl A?’ Jon says to both of them.

  Lauren counts on her fingers, looking at Aidan. ‘Well, us, Poppy, Natalie, a few trusted officials at the school where she saw the crime?’

  ‘Yes,’ Aidan says. ‘Lauren’s sister and her husband. My mum. The lawyers. And the group. Of course.’

  ‘Right, okay. Anyone else? That you know personally?’

  ‘No,’ Lauren says, though it has pained her to keep it private this past year. Colleagues pushed away, concerned friends ignored. She has offloaded everything on to Hannah and Aidan, instead. And soon she will be without them. She turns her head to the window and stares outside. Wood smoke puffs out from a nearby chimney. The sleet is turning to snow. It looks like a Christmas scene, little cotton-fluff snowflakes being hurried along the roads by the winds.

  ‘Right.’ Jon looks at Aidan. ‘You will explain to anyone who knows about Girl A, when they inevitably ask, that Lauren and Zara have been removed for their safety. They will put it together anyway.’ He consults a notebook tucked into a zipped pocket inside his briefcase. ‘You have an injunction in place so that, even though her name has been leaked online, the press can never report that Zara was the Girl A who gave evidence, is that right?’

  Lauren nods. An application made by Harry under the Youth Justice and Criminal Evidence Act 1999. An application that cost the State £30,000. ‘You could get a really great guide dog for that,’ Aidan had said dryly to Lauren in the meeting.

  She stares at a flake that has landed on the window. It is crystalline and fluffy. She watches it quickly melt, the heat from their house making it disappear to nothing.

  ‘So when anyone else asks, our advice is to say they moved away for a time. Make up any credible reason you like. Schools. An ill distant relative. Divorce. Affairs. Decide on one together, tonight, then stick to it, okay?’

  Lauren thinks of these people Aidan will have to tell. The mums from the school gates. Her colleagues. The Chinese takeaway delivery guy, Ed, who always brings a bottle of Coke. Their neighbours. Her cousins. Friends. Aidan’s colleagues. People with big and small roles in their life who, together, like the stars above them, form a galaxy, mini constellations.

  ‘Okay,’ Aidan says, moving his head in a nod that turns into a drop, staring at his feet.

  ‘Let us know what you agree. People will press you, but stick to the same story, then say you don’t want to discuss it. Eventually, people will get the message. If they believe you, they’re less likely to dig or report her missing, so be convincing,’ Jon says.

  ‘Lauren would never leave me, though,’ Aidan says plaintively. He covers her bare foot with his. Warm and heavy and comforting.

  Jon says nothing, but makes a funny kind of gesture.

  Lauren understands it immediately. It says: but she is.

  Aidan has had to go out for Lauren’s private briefing.

  When he’s gone, Jon continues seamlessly. ‘Before I give you the background, please be assured that everything is in hand. The identities were organized yesterday afternoon,’ he says. He pulls out two plastic wallets, fastened with a popper. A third remains in his briefcase. Aidan’s identity, cast away. They’ll never know him.

  ‘So, I mean … you just give me somebody’s identity?’ Lauren says.

  Jon blinks – a flutter of apricot-coloured lashes – then fixes his gaze on her. His eyes are a mid-blue, unremarkable, his lashline pink.

  ‘It is a fictitious identity,’ Jon says.

  Lauren crosses and uncrosses her legs, then sits forward. She can’t deal with this formality. This man is orchestrating the destruction of her life. She has to understand this. And him.

  ‘From where, though?’ she says. She sees there is a passport in the plastic wallet. God, already.

  ‘No laws are broken in the procuring of identities.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I’m here to brief you on your protection,’ he says, a slight tinge of irritation in his voice, as though he has lost control of the meeting. He finds a pen in his jacket pocket. ‘And I will be your point of contact through your first year.’

  ‘Okay. What’s your background?’

  ‘I’ve worked for the protection service for five years.’

  ‘So you do this … what, how often do you set up new people?’ She tries to catch his gaze, but he avoids it.

  He puffs air into his cheeks. ‘I understand you’ve had the Osman warning?’ he says, as though she hasn’t asked her question.

  ‘How bad is that?’ she says. She wants a connection. She wants Jon to grab her shoulders and say: I know! Isn’t it horrendous?

  ‘Well,’ Jon
says, ‘it means the police believe there is a serious threat to your lives.’

  ‘Right,’ Lauren says, swallowing.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, clicking the pen on and off and looking at her thoughtfully. ‘This is for the best,’ he says. ‘Given the situation.’

  ‘I know,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Then let’s get going.’ He bites his bottom lip. ‘Let’s start from the beginning, now that the business with Aidan is sorted. I work for the department of person protection services. We look after a … a wide range of those in need of protection. Not just witnesses. Released offenders. Victims. I assure you, I am experienced enough,’ he says, misinterpreting Lauren’s earlier nosiness.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We are happy to offer lifelong protection, but we expect that you assist us in keeping yours and Zara’s new identities private. That is to say, as I have explained to Aidan, you are not permitted to tell anybody who you really are.’ He produces an information sheet. Typical public sector fare. Made using WordArt.

  ‘Witness protection is a pact made between the service and you – your family. You agree to adhere to these rules.’ He shows her the information sheet. A Quick Guide to Protection. Lauren scans it quickly.

  SILENCE – you must not make contact with anyone with whom you were previously affiliated.

  SECRECY – you must not inform anyone you meet of your past identity.

  STORY – you must strictly adhere to the background information provided to you regarding your new identity.

  STRAIGHT AND NARROW – you must not engage in any criminal activity.

  Breaches of any of the above rules can lead to immediate cessation of the protected person scheme.

  Lauren wishes there was somebody else here. Somebody to take notes and pay proper attention. Somebody like Aidan. Her mind is spinning. He’ll just be outside, walking aimlessly in the snow …

  ‘Historically, the service has found it helpful if service users think of it like a line that cannot be crossed. The before,’ he gestures expansively to her living room, ‘and the after,’ to the folders and passports.

  The words. Service users. The body language. It’s like a corporate presentation. And, in a way, she supposes it is.

  ‘It can never be crossed,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ Lauren says.

  ‘And it can never be undone.’

  Lauren stares down at the floor.

  ‘Nobody from your past can know where you are. Nobody you know now will be permitted to contact you, nor you them. We do understand,’ Jon says, bringing the leaflet to his chest, ‘how hard this is. How it is not what you would choose to happen.’

  ‘No, I know you do,’ she says, though she doesn’t know why. People pleasing, she guesses. There is no evidence that Jon really does understand.

  ‘You’ll be relocated and given rented accommodation for six months while you set up your life. We’ll give you matching, but invented, school and university results. A fictional job history that resembles your own.’

  ‘Right,’ Lauren says, thinking of the fabric of her identity, ripped apart. No longer a student from Mary Magdalene’s School For Girls. Five GCSEs. Fell into being a nursery key worker. Fell in love. Would the substance of that remain, behind the lies?

  She won’t be a stepmother. She won’t be a wife. Will she still be a sister? An orphan? A woman whose mother was difficult? A woman who finds solace in the bath? A woman who can’t resist the bakery section of the supermarket? Who is she, if not Lauren? What will remain?

  Her eyes are wet. She can’t say this to him. She’ll sound mad. She shakes her head from side to side. It is overwhelming.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to take in,’ Jon says. ‘I tell you, I don’t think I would be very good at it.’

  And that’s all it takes, that window into him, the real him. Who is Jon? Who is anyone?

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Definitely,’ he says.

  Fuck it. It won’t be the first or last time she over-shares. Besides, soon, she won’t have anybody left to confide in – except him, it seems.

  ‘But …’ she says, venturing in.

  Jon’s eyes flick to hers, like a dog chasing a ball.

  ‘I feel like I can’t leave everybody,’ she says plaintively. Something about real, tangible Jon here in front of her – talking logistics and passports and names – has made it seem concrete in a way it wasn’t before.

  ‘I know,’ he says, in the careful manner of a professional who has seen this reaction countless times.

  ‘Who would you have to leave?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s relevant.’

  ‘I just mean … I’m a person, you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So how the fuck am I supposed to actually do it? You know? In this day and age, when you can just text at any time …’

  Jon says nothing for a few seconds, evidently thinking. ‘Your lives are at stake,’ he says simply. ‘You can’t afford to do that.’

  ‘Right,’ Lauren whispers. ‘Okay. Got it.’

  ‘So, the next steps are to issue your new identity. There are some things to sign, here … then I will be able to get you bank cards and your provisional driving licence.’

  ‘I don’t need to drive.’

  ‘You’ll want to learn where we’re going.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says quietly. She reaches to sign the form where he’s put a messy X. The name says Lindsey Smith.

  ‘That’s … I’m Lindsey?’

  ‘Yes. Same initials. Results in fewer breaches, if you keep your initials, we find. I’ll give you your entire identity when we’re in the new location.’

  ‘I … I see,’ she says. She scrawls her new name thoughtlessly.

  ‘And for Zara. You can sign for her,’ he says. ‘As her parent.’ He holds out the paperwork and she sees Sienna.

  ‘Not a Z?’ she says.

  ‘No. It was too identifying, we thought. Not too many Z names. We went with an S.’

  Lauren considers it. Lindsey and Sienna Smith. How strange it is to be named by the department for protection. Christened by them. Not lovingly, with baby books, as she did for Zara.

  ‘The bills and rent will go in Lindsey’s name. Don’t tell anybody this name before you leave, even Zara. We need it to be watertight. If I didn’t need you to sign, I wouldn’t have told you. Okay?’ he says, holding her gaze.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, packing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No mobile phone, obviously. We’ll get you a new one. You’ll give us your old one. We’ll wipe it. No laptop. No photographs.’

  ‘Photographs.’ The room feels suddenly airless. Aidan. Bill Gates. Poppy. Hannah. Her parents. Her wedding photographs. Her iPhone photographs. All gone. How will she remember what they all look like?

  ‘No particularly identifying items of clothing – if you have a bright pink coat, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘No personal items with your name on.’

  She can take the mirror that Aidan bought her, with LS engraved on the back. Same initials. She’ll treasure it.

  ‘Will I need to disguise myself?’

  ‘No,’ Jon says, his smile more a flex in the muscle of his cheek. ‘Everyone thinks that. But, no, you don’t need to dye your hair for ever and get glasses.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And, anyway, you’d be surprised how easy it is to hide in plain sight. Nobody will suspect you’re in witness protection.’

  ‘Really?’

  He pauses, looking at her. ‘Well, have you ever suspected anybody is?’

  ‘No,’ Lauren says with a nervous laugh.

  He rises to his feet.

  She stands by the door while he fumbles with his coat. So that’s it. That’s how you change your identity. He reaches for the door handle. He smells of cut grass, an expensive aftershave. She wishes she hadn’t asked him who he would have to leave behind, hadn’t tried to force h
im to confide in her. The feeling isn’t alien to Lauren: she thinks it on the way home from most parties. ‘Maybe don’t do it next time, then?’ Aidan sometimes says kindly, but she always does. The effect of a distant mother, she supposes, is a daughter who shares too much. Perhaps Zara will end up somewhere in the middle.

  ‘Two suitcases. Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Aidan should be out,’ he says, sending her another apologetic smile.

  ‘We’re not leaving at night?’

  ‘No, long drive,’ he says. ‘It’s good that it’s dark, but we don’t want to arrive too late and attract attention. Two suitcases. Zara’s allowed the same.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Is there, you know … is there a time limit on all of this? Say if the threat disappears tomorrow …’

  ‘What?’ Jon says, looking shocked for the first time, his eyebrows raised, mouth open. ‘No, Lauren. This is for life. All the stuff we said earlier … you can’t go back. Were you not … were you not listening?’

  ‘I know. I was. But, I just wondered.’

  ‘It’s a last resort. You understand that, right?’

  ‘Right. Okay. Forget I asked,’ she says.

  He holds her gaze for a moment too long.

  She watches the paperwork go into a folder and the folder go into a box file, and the box file into a briefcase she didn’t realize was standing up next to her sofa, and all the while, she is thinking: Lauren is dead. She is no longer Lauren. She will be wiped. Disappear from Islington, from the electoral roll, from her GP’s surgery patient list, from the dinner table at Hannah’s house, from Facebook. From all the places people leave a digital or analogue footprint.

  She watches the identities get packed away like Russian dolls and thinks: she is no longer Lauren, and she is not yet Lindsey, either. So who is she? She is identity-less. Nobody.

  16

  Aidan

  Islington, London

  Tomorrow, Aidan’s wife is leaving him.

  Witness protection. Something he was aware of from TV shows. Something that might happen to a tiny fraction of the population. Something like homelessness, house fires, asylum seeking. He can hardly believe it.