The Disappeared (6 page)

The brawny
uniformed man sat at the long glass-topped table. His closely-cropped hair was
grey with age but there was no mistaking the forceful vitality in his hard
angular face. Right now, however, the tough lines of his face were creased with
great distress.

He was
reading from pages inserted into a red plastic folder. If one could see the cover
of the folder, the words TOP SECRET would have been clearly visible.
Underneath, a disclaimer warning that lack of sufficient clearance would result
in prosecution, appeared in bold type. To eradicate any further doubt regarding
the sensitive nature of the document every single page in the folder featured a
red CLASSIFIED watermark. The large man turned a page. One large meaty hand
hovering over the watermarked sheet. His frown deepened. He looked up slowly
and massaged his eyes.

Next to the
folder lay a peaked cap. His epaulettes identified him as a Lieutenant Colonel
in the South African Army. He pushed the folder away from him and looked around
the room. It was large and square. The ceiling towered three metres above him.
All the surfaces of the room – from floor to ceiling – were plated with brilliant
white silicone-based tiles. The whiteness of the room was stark and vivid as if
each tile was individually illuminated. In one corner high up against the
ceiling, a black CCTV camera was pointed at the table. A little red light
glowed next to its aperture. The starkness of the white walls was broken only
by a metal door in front of the Lieutenant Colonel and a long glass panel
behind him. He knew that behind the panel was an observation room. Whether this
room was presently occupied, he couldn’t say. But he acted as if it were. He
knew – somehow – they were always there. Watching. Observing. Making notes. And
reporting.

He stared
absently at the door through which the others would soon come.

The Lieutenant
Colonel studied his reflection in the polished glass of the tabletop. He was
disturbed by the image. An old and haggard man stared back at him; a frightened
and confused man he wished he didn’t know. He closed the red folder and pulled
it towards himself to obscure the reflection. He sighed deeply and looked at
the empty chairs arranged around the table and then at the camera high up
against the ceiling.

Soon the
others would be here.

He placed
his large hands on his knees – underneath the glass of the tabletop – obscured
from view by the red folder. He didn’t want the others to see his hands.

They were
shaking uncontrollably.

Lindiwe
grabbed the round doorknob and twisted. Unable to arrest her frenzied haste she
collided with the red door and bounced back.

The door was
locked.

Locked?

Lindi stared
in momentary incomprehension at the vividly red door. The door shouldn’t be
locked.
Gogo
always unlocks it. First thing in the morning. Always.

She lifted the
heavy black rubber mat at the foot of the door and located a key that
gogo
had placed there for her. She inserted it into the keyhole and with some
difficulty turned it twice. The lock unlatched with a loud click. Lindiwe
entered the kitchen, shouting
gogo’s
name as she stepped onto the old
linoleum. There was no reply. Lindiwe shouted again, cupping her hands around
her mouth. Still nothing.
She’s probably still upstairs
Lindiwe thought.

The kitchen
was old-fashioned but not in the retro, self-conscious manner that many modern
kitchens are. This was the real thing.
Gogo
was truly from another world.
A world that had flourished and then faded long before Lindiwe was even born.
For Lindiwe it was a world that existed only in books and period dramas on
Television – and in
gogo’s
stories of course. It was a place untainted
by political correctness; AIDS; global warming; and mad men flying passenger
planes into tall buildings. A sepia-tinted place where the conduct of men was
still governed by something as simple as respect. And where gender lines were
clearly defined and without complication. It was the world of
gogo
– Mrs
Estelle van Deventer – and it was a world that was visible everywhere in the
kitchen and the house beyond that. From the porcelain tea-bag holder with
Home
Sweet Home
emblazoned on it; to the beaded gauze that covered the sugar
bowl; to the ornate teaspoons that commemorated Queen Elizabeth’s coronation;
to the dozens of crocheted doilies that served as coasters. Everywhere the
kitchen spoke silently of this world. A world that had now come to embrace
Lindiwe too – a blessed sanctuary from the far-away madness of a former life.

Lindiwe stood
now in the old-fashioned and unpretentious kitchen and called
gogo’s
name. She walked into the adjoining room. It was a large and spacious area that
served as dining room and lounge. The dining room table was sturdy and solid; a
dark wood that Lindiwe guessed could have been Imboya. The chairs were of the
same wood – dark and solid with high backs. The living-room furniture also didn’t
resemble anything one would find in a modern lounge. Stolid and Baroque. Heavy
and elaborately carved wooden arm-rests and backs cradled large stiff square
cushions embroidered with intricate Impressionist-like scenes. Against the wall,
the old Pioneer TV was housed in a wooden cabinet with tapered legs. At night
the cabinet’s little doors were closed to minimise the visual impact of the ‘ugly
electronic thing’ on the rest of the room. Several still-life paintings hung on
the wall as well as a round mirror with an ornate oval frame made from
aluminium. At least one of the paintings was an embroidered piece. A very old
electric organ stood in one corner. On the other side of the room the dark red curtains
were heavy and velvety ... and undrawn.

This surprised
Lindiwe. It was one of the first things
gogo
did in the mornings when
she came downstairs. Now however the room was unusually dark.

Lindiwe once
again called
gogo’s
name. There was still no answer. Maybe she didn’t
hear Lindiwe. At 84 years the old lady was getting on in years. Sometimes her
hearing just didn’t work that well. Lindiwe climbed the creaky staircase to the
first floor. She walked to the old lady’s bedroom. The door was partly closed.
Lindiwe pushed it open and entered.

‘Gogo?’

Lindiwe
expected to see her tidying up the room or busy in the
en suite
bathroom.
She wanted to tell her about her strange morning. About the odd experience with
the dogs. But the room was empty. And worst of all – the bed was unmade. This
shocked Lindiwe. In all the time that she had been living here, she had never
seen an unmade bed. It just wasn’t like her
gogo
.

Lindiwe felt a
growing anxiety gnaw at her insides. Nausea washed over her.

‘Gogo!’

She could hear
the nervousness in her own voice. ‘Gogo!’ Lindiwe ran into the bathroom. There
was no-one there. She ran out the bedroom door and down the hallway. The old
wooden floorboards complained loudly. She threw open door after door and peered
into each of the upstairs rooms. The spare bedroom closest to
gogo’s
room. Then the one opposite that. Then the last of the bedrooms in the hallway
– the one she used mostly as an extra storage space. And then finally the big
spacious room right at the end of the hallway. It was her music room and
contained the ancient
Technics
hi-fi system with the antiquarian
turntable that could even play 78’s. This was where Lindiwe most expected to
find the old lady. But like all the other rooms this one was empty.

Then a thought
struck Lindiwe.

Bethlehem
.

She walked
back towards the staircase. Her knees felt weak as she moved down the stairs.

Gogo’s
best
friend was Miss Lily Smit. An old cantankerous fire-breathing octogenarian who
had once been a nurse just like
gogo.
They had been friends for almost
twice as many years as Lindiwe was old. Miss Lily was a regular guest in the
house. It was whispered that Miss Lily had poisoned her husband. But
gogo
said it was just nasty rumours from a community that couldn’t accept that Miss
Lily was twice the man her husband was. It didn’t help that Miss Lily enjoyed
her Jack
Daniel’s straight up. Or that she once took a lover twenty-five
years her junior. Her impressive command of acerbic swear words in at least
four languages didn’t help much either. At least once a month Miss Lily and
gogo
would go to Bethlehem to do their monthly shopping. Bethlehem was much bigger
than Bishop and was the nearest thing to a shopping
Mecca
in the region.
Some said Miss Lily also went there to gamble at the
Horseshoe Casino
but
gogo
would never confirm the suspicions. As Lindiwe walked across
the dining room with watery knees she hoped – prayed – that this was where
gogo
now was. She stopped in front of the old Frigidaire
with its over-sized
door handle. And felt her stomach fall away into a deep dark pit of panic. A
cold sweat sprouted from her skin like a thousand little black liquid mushrooms

There was
nothing on the fridge door.
Nothing! Gogo
would never – never! – go to Bethlehem
without leaving a message. Blind panic gripped Lindiwe. Her heart hammered a
frenzied beat against her chest.

Where in
God’s name was she?

Lindiwe looked
around the large kitchen. There was only one place left to look
.
Lindiwe
slowly walked through the darkened living room. She stood before the door that
led to the outside
stoep
. She placed her hand on the door knob.

There was only
one place left where she could be.

But Lindiwe
knew what she would find. Before she turned the knob and opened the door. She
knew she would find nothing. Because
gogo
was gone.

Lindiwe stood
on the
stoep
of number nine Marula Street as the cold fingers of dread
slithered across her skin. She stood – as immobile as stone – as a creeping
realisation bloomed in her mind. Gogo was gone.

She was
scared. She was confused.

Gogo
was gone. Forever.

She felt the old
dark longing rise up in her.

Dammit
!

Joshua stood
in front of the Shell
filling station. It was typical of a hundred
others in small towns all over the country. It seemed the smaller the town the
more run-down its garage.

The signage
was old and the petrol pumps looked like they came from the 80’s. Whereas large
filling stations in the big cities had modern smart-looking convenience stores,
this one seemed to make do with a hole-in-the-wall cubicle that advertised some
of its products on the large cracked glass pane that fronted the store. The
words BISHOP MOTORS were emblazoned across it. The letters were cracked and
some were peeling. Below the sign were posters advertising the main cellular
networks. The posters were old and faded and bore the greasy marks of Prestik
adhesive gum on the corners. Below the cellular posters was the bright yellow
logo advertising the National Lottery. A white plastic garden chair was
standing next to the entrance of the little shop. Next to the chair was a large
commercial freezer with the logos of various ice-cream manufacturers. Josh
instantly recognised old favourites from childhood: King
Kone, Rolo and
the ever-present Dairy Maid orange suckers. Stacked against the freezer was a
small square blackboard. Someone had written DORITO’S & 1 LT COKE – R12.95
on it with big slanting capital letters.

The first
thing Josh noticed was that the derelict filling station seemed strangely at
odds with the pristine little town. It was like the ugly sister with the bad
breath. Josh guessed this was Bishop’s version of downtown.

The second
thing he noticed was that the garage was completely abandoned.

Initially he
had assumed it was too early and that the owner hadn’t arrived yet. But then he
saw that the door to the shop was standing wide open.

As soon as he
arrived, he had walked up and down the oil-stained concrete. Knocked on the
door of the toilet. Had looked round the corner. And peered through the cracked
window of the shop. After a while he had even called out a few cautionary
hellos
.
But nothing.

And then an old
habit tugged at him. As he looked at the empty store the thought crossed his
mind. To enter the little shop and loot as much as he could carry. As much as
he could stuff into his duffel bag. He eyed the row of Camel
cigarettes
behind the counter. He eyed the Coca-Cola
fridge in the corner. And the
big display filled with half-a-dozen brands of crisps. These were of course
small fry compared to the grand prize – the cash till. Whatever it contained – and
in all honesty it couldn’t be much – it was more than he had at that moment.
Slam the till. Grab the bucks. And run.

Old habits die
hard. But Joshua immediately choked the thought. He realised the dumbest thing
he could do right now was attract unwanted attention to himself. Especially for
a couple of sticky, crumpled notes.

He stood
outside the empty garage. On both sides the street yawned empty and hollow. The
air was cold and motionless.

Then the
thought occurred to him. It wouldn’t do to hang around an empty shop at this
time of day. A quiet town and a stranger loitering outside a deserted filling
station. No. It just wouldn’t do. He sighed exasperation. Irritation bubbled
over.

Once again
Joshua found himself ambling along cemetery street – the empty main street of
Bishop. Except now he was heading in the opposite direction.

Damn! All he
wanted was to find a bus and get the hell outta here.

Where was
everyone?

Since he had
woken up that morning Joshua felt like he was doing nothing but running in
circles. And his mind wasn’t doing much better. There was still the same
fuzziness as before. His thought patterns felt like a ship whose anchor had
repeatedly failed to take hold on the ocean floor below.

And he hated
to admit it. He was still no closer to catching that damn bus. Booking a ride
to Johannesburg was turning out to be a problem. Josh wondered if he shouldn’t
have hitched a lift instead. Shit. He could have been miles away by now.
Although ...

He looked up
and down the street trying to rack his memory. Yes. He wasn’t mistaken. He hadn’t
seen one single car pass through here the whole morning. What the hell was
going on? Was he going mad or did he end up in a bad episode of
The Outer
Limits?
And yet, it was true. He hadn’t sighted any vehicles all morning.
The R45 wasn’t exactly a national highway – that’s exactly why Josh had chosen
it – but then again it wasn’t the ass-end of the world either. So why hadn’t he
seen a single car yet. And why the hell was this town so dead?
Maybe it’s
just too early
he thought. Trying to placate his uneasiness.
It’s barely
seven o’ clock. Right?

He walked
slowly along main street Bishop retracing his steps. This time he was extra
careful to keep an eye out for anything that would look like a bus depot. He
sighed in irritation.

Joshua walked
on. At an intersection, he stopped and considered his next move. That’s when he
saw the cop van.

Its came up a side
street further down the road. And halted at a stop street – its white nose
poking from between the row of buildings. Josh froze. He was in a very
uncomfortable situation. He was standing in the middle of Bishop’s main street.
Not a soul around. Nowhere to go. He was a big fly against a very big very
white wall. And a very big fly swat was about to head this way. Maybe they were
looking for him; maybe they weren’t. Right now Josh didn’t want to take that
chance. So he waited. With bated breath – waited as the van idled at the stop
street and idled and idled. And
fucking
idled. The cop had seen him, he
was sure. The cop had seen him and was radioing in his description. It wasn’t
too late to run. He felt coils in his legs tighten as he readied himself.

The van moved.
And turned towards the other direction.

Josh breathed
for the first time and unclenched his body. He was surprised at the tension
residue that still clung to his limbs. He hadn’t realised he was that ...
afraid? He stood a moment longer. Thinking. Breathing. He looked in both
directions.