The Man Who Vanishes Read online

  That was enough to distract him for a moment, long enough to hold his hand steady. The key found its niche and slid in fast, like a sword into a well-worn sheath. Frank gave it a hard twist and at once felt the Jag’s engine roar into life. Then, without looking out the window, he floored the accelerator and put the grubby street and his broken friend behind him.

  He fell up the three stone steps to the front door of his mock Tudor house, dropping his keys in his haste. Cursing, he bent down to retrieve them from the puddle and stood up too fast, feeling the blood rushing to his head, making him dizzy. The rain fell hard. He reached out to steady himself on the door. The wood felt cool and damp under his palm, a piece of solid reality. The moment passed. Frank turned the key in the lock and rushed inside, out of the rain.

  The house felt oddly empty, like a train station in the small hours.

  ‘Liz!’ he called up the stairs, his voice shrill.

  He tried again, listening for a sound in the silence.

  ‘Nathan!’

  Again, there was no sound. Everybody was out.

  The grandfather replica clock in the hall swung its quiet pendulum, slicing time into small, dreadful moments. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Frank checked his wristwatch and realised that he had completely lost track of time. His wife would still be at work, his son at college.

  Cursing under his breath, he ran into the main room, dumping his sodden gabardine on the way. He checked whether the window was locked. It was. Of course. All the windows and doors were kept locked whenever the house was empty. He knew this, but felt suddenly a pressing need to check for himself. What if Nathan, in his usual absent-mindedness, had left the window open in the sitting room where he and his nerd friends watched television and howled with laughter when they were not up in the loft pretending to hack into the Pentagon’s computer system?

  Seized by a sudden panic, Frank ran through to the sitting room and tried the window latch.

  It was locked.

  Relieved, he looked around the room, disgruntled at the general lack of order. There were glossy magazines on the tile-top coffee table. The wicker basket was full to the hilt with candy wrappers and empty energy drinks. Three leather recliners faced the lifeless television in the corner of the room, creating a strangely passive setting, almost ghostly. It felt like an empty cinema. Frank eyed the chairs disdainfully, imagining Nathan and his friends in them, gorging on snacks and watching mindless crap on TV.

  As usual, the heavy drapes were drawn shut tight, as if all three of them would explode if a shard of sunlight ever got in.

  Liz never stepped into this room. This was Nathan’s domain. Frank had agreed to this rule on the condition that the boy take full responsibility for the room’s airing and general cleaning, a task that he had doubted would ever materialise. He had also agreed to the recliners and the other creature comforts, like the wide screen television, painfully aware that Nathan was making the most out of the sensitive situation that existed between himself and Liz, Frank’s second wife. Frank had mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the one hand, it infuriated him to think that he was being in anyway manipulated by anybody; on the other, as long as Nathan had his gadgets and his friends, he was happy to stay out of Liz’s hair, which ultimately suited him best. Frank had to make do with this situation until something better came along. He had given up trying to talk Nathan into moving back with his mother. The boy could be annoying, but he was not stupid, and he knew he had a better deal here.

  Frank backtracked into the hall.

  He felt inexplicably anxious, vulnerable.

  He knew the window in his study was locked too. He saw to it personally every night. Nevertheless, he stepped inside his study and checked the window.

  It was indeed locked.

  But it did not make him feel any less neurotic.

  He ran through into the kitchen and checked the back door. Locked and bolted. That was the ground floor covered.

  No, it wasn’t.

  He had almost forgotten the kitchen window. He leaned over the sink, and tried the latch. It was - to his surprise - unlocked!

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed aloud. Liz was always thorough in everything that she did, sometimes annoyingly so. This had to be dozy Nathan. He must have smoked the kitchen out with a burnt pizza. He couldn’t think of why else the boy would open a window. He would have strong words with him when he came home.

  But this meant that any other window in the house might be open.

  Frank’s mind was racing, pressing hard against his temples. He tried to recap mentally all the places where he had already checked. Downstairs was all done, so he ran into the hall and up the stairs into the first floor.

  The lush, wine-red stair carpet muffled his heavy footsteps, but it also made the trek much harder for him, so that by the time he had finished climbing the nineteen steps he was out of breath. He spent a few moments in the landing, recovering, his heart beat painfully. He had not realised he was this unfit.

  The landing bay window was wide and deep-set in the white wall. It overlooked the disused barn Frank had converted into a modest lab when he’d first bought the property two years ago, hoping to build a happy nest for his second marriage. A three-acre span of green land spread outward from the converted barn, fenced off by the neighbouring farmer. Much to his annoyance, horses often came to this side of the green to graze, and their riders - mostly locals who rented the farm stables - were never far behind, peering over the fence curiously at his barn.

  Frank pulled back the heavy pastel drapes and reached for the metal latch. The window was locked.

  Three more rooms to check: the master bedroom, Nathan’s room and the spare room.

  His mobile rang, vibrating furiously in his pocket.

  Frank jumped, yelping in surprise. He thrust his hand into his pocket and turned it off.

  He let out the air from his lungs, slowly, loudly.

  The telephone rang.

  Frank froze. The sound was like an intruder in the silence. He wondered what he should do.

  It rang again, three, four, five times. Down in the hall, in the master bedroom and in Nathan’s room. It felt like Big Brother. He could almost feel Simmons on the other end of the line, willing him to pick up the receiver.

  Frank ran into the master bedroom and stood over the telephone, watching it, waiting for it to stop ringing. To his dismay, he found that he could not bring himself to move away from it whilst it rang. He felt like a thief in his own home.

  Finally, after what seemed like a small eternity, the ringing stopped.

  The master suite where he and Liz slept was all of fifteen square meters and lavishly furnished, with an on-suite bathroom. Liz had chosen the colours: rich peach pastel for the ceiling, a matching carpet, and a washed down lemon for the walls. A solid mahogany walk-in wardrobe dominated a corner of the room: one side was his, the other Liz’s.

  The view out of the window gave on to the side of the converted barn and caught the top of the farmhouse across the expanse. The window itself was locked.

  Still anxious, Frank closed the door behind him and tried Nathan’s bedroom door. It was locked.

  Damn!

  He wondered fleetingly if he should shoulder his way inside, but decided against it. It was unlikely that Nathan had ever drawn his drapes, let alone opened his window. Besides, breaking and entering into the boy’s bedroom would only provoke an unfavourable reaction, probably targeted at Liz.

  He looked up the wooden staircase toward the loft, which Nathan had turned into his playpen. He wondered if he should go up there, knowing that the door would be locked. However, he would not rest until he knew for certain that the house was sealed.

  Frank ventured up the narrow staircase, and found – to his surprise - the loft door unlocked.

  That’s three times I’ve been wrong today, he thought grimly, stepping inside the loft.

  The steady hum of machinery greeted him. Frank peered into the gloom at the
tiny red and green led lights in the distance. He found the light switch next to the door and flicked it on.

  Two PCs sat in a line, one of them without a cover, its guts exposed. There was a small workbench where components lay in a heap amongst grey ribbon cables, a selection of slim screwdrivers and a pair of tweezers. A small beechwood shelf housed two clear glass jars filled with tiny stub screws. On the bottom section there were a dozen well-thumbed programming manuals and some yellowing reference tomes.

  This feels like Simmons’ office, Frank thought, his nostrils flaring at the thought.

  Behind the shelves there was a makeshift desk: an old kitchen worktop supported by two chests of drawers on either side of it. Two old breakfast stools were pushed up underneath it. On the worktop sat a dusty monitor with an animated screensaver of an exotic dancer.

  Frank wondered what took place up here. For all he knew, he was harbouring a group of hackers, whose little empire he had unwittingly financed.

  He tried the skylight and found it jammed locked.

  Satisfied, he switched the light off and headed back downstairs.

  The clock in the hall chimed three o’clock. The telephone rang, startling him. Frank stood over it, holding his breath, willing it to stop. The telephone rang and rang, defiantly. Frank cursed at it, blood pounding at his temples, his heart thumping harder with every ring. Whilst it rang, he found it impossible to function, to even move. He decided that he might need therapy, and made himself smile, however thinly.

  At last, the ringing stopped and he could think again.

  As far as he knew, there was nothing left to lock. Frank was sealed up in his home like a secret.

  He went through into the main room, picking up his gabardine on the way and hanging it on the coat stand. In the main room, he drew the heavy crimson drapes shut and switched on the upright lamp in the corner.

  Everything is red with Liz. Red drapes, red carpets, red lipstick.

  He unlocked the drinks cabinet, pulling out an unopened bottle of Jim Beam and a gold-rimmed wine glass.

  He sat in his favourite chair, a high-backed Chesterfield, finding the coolness of the leather comforting, sinking into the soft material. His head rang with alarm bells. They had been ringing since the incident at Simmons’ place an hour earlier. He’d managed to keep his thoughts at bay, to focus on the now in order to preserve his sanity, to buy some time, to get himself home. But now he could ignore them no longer.

  Frank shifted uncomfortably. His hands were shaking again. He opened the bottle and poured a generous measure of whiskey into the deep glass, downing half of it in one go.

  The back of his throat stung, growing hot as he swallowed the amber liquid. Frank drained the glass and poured himself another measure. He had never thought of drinking whiskey out of a wine glass before. It would save him having to keep pouring.

  The man, screaming, disappearing.

  Frank drank some more, closing his eyes tight when the liquid bit, breathing through his open mouth after each drink, as if to cool down the furnace.

  Simmons crying at his window, pleading to be let in.

  Jesus, Frank thought, and gulped down another glass.

  The man, screaming, disappearing.

  Frank tried to steady his hands. He should have dried himself properly when he got in. Outside, the early winter evening was creeping into the late afternoon. Liz would be home soon. And so would Nathan.

  Suddenly, Frank realised he did not want either of them here, especially Liz. But what would he tell them? Nathan he could deal with, but Liz would see that he was in a state as soon as she laid eyes on him. His shaking would give him away.

  Maybe he should have brought Simmons home with him after all. No, bad idea. Simmons had already fallen apart. He was no help. He needed to think clearly about what he was going to do.

  About the man, screaming, disappearing.

  Frank rubbed at his temples, trying to ease the tension. He got up and walked back to the drinks cabinet. Opening it, he reached inside a small compartment and pulled out a leather pouch. He undid the cord and pulled out a cigar and a metal lighter with his initials inscribed upon it. It had been a wedding present from Simmons. Ironic.

  Frank had given up the vice only eight months ago, with the help – and constant nagging - of Liz. However, unbeknown to her, he had always kept this supply of cigars in the house to reinforce his resolution. It helped him when he told himself he was giving up because he wanted to, not because he had to. But perhaps he had known all along that this was really nothing more than a supply for a future time.

  A time such as this.

  Frank sank back into his chair, holding the cigar with a trembling hand, almost dropping it. He rammed it into his mouth and flicked the lighter, watching the dancing flame, as tall as his thumb, before bringing it close to his mouth. His shaking made the simple task stupidly difficult, but he managed to light the thing eventually.

  Smoke filled him, strong and scented. He savoured it, eyes closed, welcoming it like an old friend, before breathing it out slowly, wistfully. His mouth tasted foul, but he felt good. He reached for the whiskey and swigged two fingers’ worth.

  He thought of the man, screaming, disappearing.

  The shadows in the room seemed to have closed in a little on him since he’d last looked, conspiring with the grandfather clock in the hall to make the day shorter and drearier.

  Frank checked his watch: four o’clock.

  He suddenly realised that he had no ashtray. Liz had thrown them all out. He’d have to improvise and use the wine glass as an ashtray. It would do. He would drink out of the bottle, like a man.

  He drank, head back, liquid spilling down his chin and the back of his neck. The time was growing late. Liz was still not back from work, nor Nathan from college. She would be working late, maybe, and he would be with his friends, eating pizza. Well, screw them. Her for never telling him what she was up to and him for having stupid friends.

  And screw the screaming man who disappeared also.

  Maybe Liz and Nathan had disappeared too. Maybe it was a common thing these days. Who the fuck knew?

  The deep wine glass filled with smoke, like a magician’s trick. The smoke rose, thin and blue, as if caught in an upward draft, clinging on to the white ceiling where it gathered itself into a thick cloud, as if mimicking the world outside. Frank found himself desperately clinging on to the dregs of his sanity, as if it were contained in the rising trails of smoke. In his state of mind, he had forsaken the rest of his day’s appointments. He wondered suddenly if Linda, his receptionist, had been trying to contact him. Perhaps it had been her calling and not Simmons.

  The drink had steadied his nerves somewhat. However, it was not helping him make sense of what he had seen earlier today. Nor was it helping him forget.

  Outside, the darkness had fallen, chasing away the last of the day. It seeped into the living room, threatening to envelope him, kept at bay only by the dim glow of the upright lamp. Frank decided to switch on the ceiling spotlights, to drive the shadows away. He decided also that he needed another glass, as too much of the booze was spilling down the side of his mouth every time he drank from the bottle. He placed the bottle down on the glass table, carefully steadying it, and then pushed himself away from the armchair, holding his arms out to steady himself. His legs felt mostly numb, like his mind.

  He stepped across the carpet, toward the drinks cabinet. He had never noticed how soft the carpet pile actually was until now. Nor how far up the ceiling was. His senses felt heightened, picking out colours and shades in the room that he seemed to have missed up until now.

  He reached inside the drinks cabinet and pulled out another wine glass, then turned and headed back toward his armchair.

  His head seemed to have gotten heavier in the last minute, his legs working doubly hard to cope with the weight. When he reached the armchair, he let himself fall into it a little too hard and his torso scraped along the arm, making him wince.
There would be bruising, he thought, but right now he couldn’t feel anything.

  He leaned forward awkwardly, pouring whiskey into his new glass. The whiskey went in the glass and on the table, then on his chin when he drank from the glass, and back on to the table when it fell from his chin.

  He thought of the disappearing man. Everything he knew, the world, life, the whiskey and the glass… he could trust none of it. Nothing, in fact, could ever be the same. Not after what he had seen this afternoon.

  Until today, the world had always turned predictably, like a merry-go-round, governed by the laws of physics. One knew where he stood when there were rules. But today he saw a man disappear right in front of him. And that was not in the rules. He felt cheated.

  Frank poured whiskey all over the table, missing the glass completely. He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Jesus!’ he slurred, his voice thick. ‘What is happening?’

  A stray beam of light flashed behind the curtains, made shadows dance on the wall behind him.

  He froze.

  Somebody was outside his drive. He could just about make out the sound of an engine revving, coming to a stop.

  The outdoor security lights came on, flooding the drive with light.

  Frank tried to move from the chair, but his body wasn’t responding. Instead, he lay back and listened intently, his heart beating in his ears.

  A shadow cast over the window. Frank was suddenly glad that he had drawn the thick curtains, for whoever was outside was trying their best to peep in through them.

  Then came the knock.

  Hard.

  One knock.

  Another.

  Followed by the wait.

  Frank held his breath, a treacle of sweat falling like a tear from his brow.

  Knock, knock.

  Go away.

  The shadow moved away from the window.