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Authors: Roger Scruton

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BOOK: The Disappeared
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He came to a phone box; it had been vandalized, and only a stub of twisted metal remained on the wall. He walked on towards the city centre, recalling a public phone in a shopping precinct off South Parade. He could not find it, and by now his heart was racing. There had been few emergencies in Justin's life. Yes, there was the time when his father had been lost in a storm on Cross Fell, and Justin had joined the search party, only to come across the familiar figure almost at once, peacefully striding towards them down the hill. There were a few incidents with the band in which he used to play, but they had petered out as soon as they had begun. And there was Muhibbah, who had entered his life as an emergency but who had remained wedded to her secrets, refusing to be rescued, or at least to be rescued by him. As he pressed onwards through the rush hour crowds, Justin regretted his indolent life and all the shortcuts to comfort he had taken.

‘Muhibbah!' he said aloud. He had turned from South Parade into Park Row. The proud facades of the Victorian banks and offices lined the street like uniformed soldiers. Rusticated arches, glazed friezes, buttressed galleries, unblinking windows beneath their brows of carved stone – all spoke of permanence, comfort and the immovable certainty of law. The noble town hall, raising its clock tower high above the rank of giant columns, seemed in its wide sweep to clear away all lesser creations, affirming the right of this city to be forever England. It was inconceivable that in a town dedicated to prosperity, comfort and English order, a girl might simply disappear, smuggled into slavery under far distant skies. But the inconceivable would not be noticed when it finally occurred. His body filled with nausea and dread.

He came across a pair of phone booths on the corner of Vicar Lane; one was in working order, and he typed in the number that he had found on Muhibbah's mobile. It rang twelve times before flipping to an Ansafone. There was a message in Arabic and another, or perhaps the same one, in what he assumed to be Pashto. He hung up without speaking. He wandered in the city centre for a while, drank a double whisky in the Horse and Trumpet and then, with a strange feeling of defiance, set off to her flat, in the sudden hope that she would have given them the slip and made it to safety.

It was dark when he arrived there, but there was a light in the flat and he rang the bell with trembling hand. If she were there she would not forgive his intrusion; if she were not there he would believe the worst. He heard the trip of girlish steps on the stair-carpet, and backed away from the door as it opened.

A thin pale girl stood in the doorway. Her blond hair was wrapped in a headscarf and her blue denim suit was open at the neck, revealing a silver medallion on a ribbon of string. She looked at him from calm grey eyes and smiled enquiringly.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘Are you looking for someone?'

‘I am a friend of Muhibbah's,' he said. ‘I was hoping she'd be in.'

The girl looked at him curiously.

‘Muhibbah's gone.'

‘
Gone
?'

‘She left a couple of hours ago: packed up her stuff, and skedaddled.'

‘What? On her own?' he asked.

‘There was a guy downstairs with a car. He didn't come up. Didn't need to; she had only a couple of bags. But I guess I should know who you are and why you are asking?'

‘Can I come in for a moment?'

‘O.K. if you can explain why. I'm Millie, by the way.'

She held out her hand and he grasped it.

‘Justin,' he said, ‘Justin Fellowes. I work with Muhibbah. That is to say, she works for me.'

‘So you're the environment guy? I guess that's credentials enough.'

Millie led the way to their communal room and sat him down in the window, just as Muhibbah had done. Nothing had changed since his last visit, except that the issue of
Rolling Stone
was a newer one, and the television was flickering silently in the corner. Millie picked up a remote from the sofa and switched it off.

‘I need to find Muhibbah,' he said. ‘She left the office without explanation. I worry she's in trouble.'

It sounded very lame, as though he had some other and more disreputable motive for intruding.

‘Well that's pretty standard for Muhibbah. Never explains anything. What kind of trouble anyway?'

Millie looked at him candidly. It was an attractive face, regular, soft and quizzical, with pale lips under a slightly prominent nose. Just the girlfriend he would have wished for, had there been room in his heart. Nausea and dread returned, so that he almost choked on his words.

‘Kidnap, briefly. I was out of the office; when I returned she was gone, and there were signs of a struggle.'

‘Oh? There were no signs of a struggle when she came here: no gun to her head, not even crying. Just the usual Muhibbah, doing her secret things on tiptoe.'

‘I know she has been under threat. And she left her jacket behind with her mobile phone and other personal stuff.'

Millie thought for a moment.

‘I guess you should go to the police, if you're that worried. But Muhibbah is seriously weird. She's probably gone back to the office to collect her things. And now the two of them are on their way to Timbuktu, to start a new life in the desert. It would suit her very well. She has paid the rent by the way, until the end of next month. I can't say I shall miss her.'

Justin felt the shock of Millie's words. He buried his head in his hands and sighed himself free of their meaning.

‘I guess I'd better go,' he said. ‘You're probably right. If there's something to worry about, I should report it to the cops.'

Millie looked at him sceptically.

‘Look, Justin, I don't know how you stand in relation to Muhibbah. But as I see it, in the culture she comes from, women often pretend they are forced to do what they secretly want to do. And I don't mean sex only. If you lived with Muhibbah you'd know what I'm getting at. She's a walking secret, hiding everything from everyone, including herself. To be brutally frank, she gives me the creeps. And I honestly don't think she'll award you any Brownie-points for interrupting whatever it is she and that guy are up to.'

He shook his head. Such thoughts could not touch Muhibbah. She lay beneath the ebb and flow of them, like a sealed amphora on the ocean floor.

When he left the flat, after exchanging phone numbers with Millie, it was in a state of acute anxiety. He could not accept Millie's verdict, but she had planted a rival image of Muhibbah in his mind. Whatever was happening to Muhibbah now had been prepared over many months; perhaps she had foreseen it, and perhaps the young man who had been stalking her – Justin had no doubt it was he – had banked on her consent. In which case what conceivable role could there be for Justin?

He followed the streets where they had walked in the first mornings of his love, when the office of protector had been his by right. He recalled her self-contained way of moving at his side, her alert interrogations, her laughter at each fact, word, or opinion that was new to her. He dwelt on her perfect shape and perfect face, and on the untouchable enigmatic self that was veiled behind her beauty. The image dawned of Muhibbah broken, violated, enslaved, calling in vain for his protection. And by the time he was climbing the stairs to his flat the tears were running uncontrollably down his cheeks, the first he had shed since childhood.

Chapter 10

Sharon paused on the third step and turned to him. A light from the floor above picked out her features: her face was soft and pale, the lips set in a horizontal line and the blemish to her mouth invisible. Her blue-grey eyes rested on his, and the small white hand on the satchel-strap dropped from her shoulder, exposing the flesh of her neck, like a sacrificial beast inviting slaughter. Stephen's heart was pounding, and he walked quickly past her, saying ‘follow me'. He told himself that this encounter was none of his doing, that he was performing a duty imposed on him by his role as a teacher, and that in any case the conversation would be over in half an hour. But as he opened the door of his flat, switched on the light, saw the immaculate testimony to his isolation, and sensed her hovering just behind him, awaiting the invitation that stuck in his throat, he knew that he was on a thin ledge above the abyss.

‘Come in,' he said, and threw his briefcase on to the chair at his desk. She did not move, but stood in the doorway, waiting for him to turn round.

‘Can I make you a cup of tea?'

He went towards the kitchen. Not turning round was now a policy. Soon she would understand. This is a business meeting, and looks are off the agenda. But he had reached the sink and was filling the kettle before she replied.

‘Yes please, sir. Milk and two sugars please, sir. It's reelly nice this place, sir.'

‘It answers my needs. Why don't you sit down?'

He turned to her now and saw that her eyes were fixed on him, wide, bright, astonished. He pointed to one of the armchairs, and leaned against the other, his two hands resting on the wooden rim of its back. The floodlights in the car park shone through the window, smearing desk, papers, books and chairs with greasy yellow crests. He wanted to draw the curtains, but the gesture would send the wrong message. Slowly, shyly, she moved forward and fell in schoolgirl fashion onto the chair, as though thrown there. The grey woollen skirt of her uniform rode up over the tights, and she smoothed it back across her knees. The skirt was crumpled and stained, and the tights had several holes that she strove to hide from him. As she struggled to conceal her shabbiness he turned quickly round to save her embarrassment.

‘I'll just make the tea.'

For Stephen tea was important: he had his own mixture – Assam tips and Darjeeling – which he obtained from a specialist shop off the South Parade in the city centre. As he spooned the leaves into the tea-pot he wondered what the exotic taste would mean to her, for whom tea came with milk and two sugars. He sensed that he was under observation from a place beyond his horizon. Every part of his life would assume some new significance in Sharon's telescope.

When he returned to the living room she was on her knees in front of the bookcase, turning the pages of
The Magic Mountain.
She looked up at him, and sprang to her feet.

‘Sorry, sir. I was just looking at your books. Amazing.'

‘Well, if there's anything you'd like to borrow, Sharon, don't hesitate.'

‘Can I reelly, sir?'

‘Of course.'

He set the tray down on the low table between the armchairs, and busied himself with the teapot. She had resumed her seat, and was looking at him.

‘I wondered what it's like inside, this place. And now I know. It's so neat and tidy, sir.'

‘Well yes. When you live alone you have to be tidy.'

‘Wish I lived alone. Just me and books. A whole bookcase full, like you, sir.'

His hand shook a little as he poured the tea.

‘Listen Sharon, I won't keep you for long. But I need to ask you a few questions.'

‘Dunna worry, sir. I shouldna shown you that essay. But thanks for reading it and not being angry. You inna angry, are you, sir?'

‘It's not about the essay I wanted to talk, Sharon. And of course I'm not angry. I need to ask you about something else.'

‘What about, sir?'

‘About your private life.'

A frightened look came into her eyes.

‘I got nowt private life. Except what I invent for myself.'

‘Still, you have a place you go to after school; you have a family, neighbours, and friends. You live in a place where there has often been trouble. I just want to know whether things are OK there, and whether you get – well, the support that you need.'

She sat watching him in silence as he drank the tea. He noticed that she was not drinking from the mug that he had placed before her, but kept her hands folded in her lap, the strap of her tattered satchel wrapped around her fingers. Suddenly she was on her feet and going towards the door.

‘Sharon!'

She turned in the doorway. Her face was white and her lips were trembling.

‘It's all OK, though, innit, sir? Between us, I mean.'

‘Not if you just go away when I try to talk to you. I am on your side, Sharon, you know that.'

He was standing now and looking at her. The pale blond hair lay in wisps on her cheeks, as though blown by the wind. One strand touched her lips, and another half shielded her left eye. Her face had a haunted expression, and she gripped the satchel with both hands, as though ready to throw it.

‘You dinna ought to ask me nowt, sir.'

‘But I'm your teacher, Sharon. And your friend.'

‘There's school, see, sir, where you are. And there's Hell, where they are. You inna 'lowed to talk about Hell. If you do, man, they kill you, see.'

‘Maybe it is time you talked about it, Sharon.'

She uttered a little cry.

‘Then they'd kill you too. It's simple, see.'

She stood in the doorway. He must do nothing. She must be free to go, free to stay. He was the one who watched and comforted, who pitied, but did not desire. A hollow feeling arose within him. He remembered so many mistakes, so many wrong turnings. And now he had put his life in the hands of a child.

‘It never harms to talk, Sharon, with someone who cares about you.'

Her hands on the satchel relaxed a little, and she took a step back into the room.

‘Do you mean that, sir?'

‘Of course I mean it; if you don't talk about your fears, they destroy you.'

She was looking at him steadily.

‘I mean you caring about me, sir.'

He looked back in silence, and then he nodded. She did not move, but let her satchel drop to the floor.

‘I wunna be no trouble to you, sir.'

Her words recalled the dying Dido: ‘May my wrongs create/ No trouble, no trouble in thy breast'. Purcell's music sounded in Stephen's ear. He tried to fit Queen Dido's mature and womanly love to the waif who stood before him. How absurd! For a moment he felt able to talk down to her.

BOOK: The Disappeared
2.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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