The Disappeared (4 page)

My mouth drops open. ‘Jackson,’ I say.

Facilitator Johnson is still frowning at me.

‘I’m Jackson! I only left a couple of hours ago. You gave me a package to take to the factory block, remember? With Wilson?’

‘I’ve never seen you before in my life,’ he says calmly.

I feel like you do when you miss a step on the stairs. ‘Facilitator, are you joking?’ I say in a small voice.

He shakes his head sadly and turns to P.C. Wright. ‘This boy is obviously in a state of distress and he appears to be injured. I suggest that the most appropriate course of action would be to take him to see a doctor.’

P.C. Wright turns red. I grab Facilitator Johnson by the arm. ‘I don’t want to see a doctor. I just want to go to my room. It’s upstairs on Curie corridor. I’m
Jackson
. I’m in your Global Philosophy session . . .’

He prises my fingers from his arm. ‘Officers, I’m afraid I really am very busy.’

‘Of course, of course,’ says P.C. Wright. He nods his head hard.

This is insane. Has Facilitator Johnson lost his memory? I look round for someone else. ‘Mrs Clark! You remember me, don’t you?’

The secretary raises her head from her computer. She’s biting her lip. ‘I’m afraid not. I think perhaps you’re not very well.’

P.C. Barnes is watching her. He narrows his eyes. P.C. Wright reaches for my arm.

‘No!’ I shout. ‘I don’t know what’s happening. This is my school; I’ve lived here for eleven years!’ I’ve got to think, there must be all kinds of evidence to prove who I am. ‘The records! I’m on the school records! Check them – go on, check them.’ I’m almost crying with relief. No one can possibly dispute computer records.

Facilitator Johnson lets out a long breath. ‘Young man, if we check our records, will it persuade you that you are not a student here and you never have been?’

I nod desperately, still unable to believe he doesn’t know me. ‘Just check.’

‘Or if you’d prefer, sir, we could just remove—’

Facilitator Johnson raises his hand to interrupt P.C. Wright and walks over to Mrs Clark’s desk. No one speaks. In the distance I can hear the sound of laughter and doors opening. Overhead there’s the muffled thump of feet. It must be session changeover time.

Facilitator Johnson swings the wafer-thin screen round to face him. I move to look over his shoulder. He taps the screen and brings up a page entitled
student search
. He uses his forefinger to tick a box that says
Search all records?

‘Surname?’ he asks.

‘Jackson,’ answers P.C. Barnes before I can open my mouth.

‘Or so he claims,’ says P.C. Wright, scowling at P.C. Barnes.

Facilitator Johnson’s fingers move across the keyboard.

Relief floods through me. They’ll find me on the records and this ordeal will finally all be over.

The screen changes to three words in red:

No record found.

How is this possible?

Facilitator Johnson turns to the policemen. ‘If that will be all?’

‘No . . .’ I say, but no one is listening to me. How can I have just disappeared? This is my home.

P.C. Wright grabs hold of my elbow. P.C. Barnes takes my other arm more gently. He looks between me and Facilitator Johnson and back again.

‘I would appreciate it, officers,’ says Facilitator Johnson, ‘if in future, you were able to resolve minor issues by yourself. I’m sure that
The Leader
–’ P.C. Wright looks over his shoulder as if he imagines The Leader has appeared. ‘– expects his police force to use their initiative rather than disturbing the training of members of the future Leadership team.’

P.C. Wright grips my arm even tighter. ‘Sorry to take up your time, sir,’ he says. ‘It’s just . . . well, he talks a good talk, doesn’t he?’

‘Quite,’ says Facilitator Johnson and he walks off down the corridor.

‘What about Wilson?’ I shout after him, but he doesn’t look back or even hesitate. ‘You’ve got to listen to me. This is where I belong . . .’

P.C. Wright is already turning me towards the door. It’s like some horrible dream where no one understands what I’m saying. I’ve got to find someone who knows me. I open my mouth to plead, but I know it’s no use. I simply have to resort to violence. I twist to my side and knee P.C. Wright hard in the crotch. He immediately lets go of my arm and crumples over. I try to throw a punch at P.C. Barnes, but he steps back to avoid it and trips over a potted plant. I turn and run. There’s a blistering pain in my kidneys where the hooded men kicked me earlier, but I manage to stumble through the double doors on to the main corridor. I open the garden door and run across the quadrangle.

‘Stop!’

I look over my shoulder. P.C. Barnes is chasing me. I run through an open door on the other side of the quad and head for my work group’s study. Someone there will recognise me. P.C. Barnes is gaining on me. I open the door. The room is empty, but at this point I’m relieved just to find our study is still here. P.C. Barnes lurches through the door, but stops before he reaches me.

I stand still, breathing heavily.

‘I think it would be best if you come with me,’ he says.

‘You can’t, you can’t take me away.’

‘The facilitator is in charge here, son. Best we go.’

I clench my fists. ‘I won’t go! I live here. Look, these are my things . . .’

I twist round towards my desk.

It’s gone.

All the other desks have been moved very slightly so that there is no obvious gap. My desk, my computer, my old-fashioned fountain pen, the mug Wilson made me in Creativity session . . .

All gone.

Like I never even existed.

They take me to the police station and put me in a cell. When I sit down, all the pain that I’ve been ignoring wells up in me. My eye is so swollen that it hurts when I blink. I can feel my blood surging round my body, throbbing in time with my waves of nausea. I’m so tired I can’t hold my head up, but still I can’t sleep. I’m starting to think that everyone else is right and that I must be mad. I don’t seem to be the person I think I am.

I try to be logical. It’s possible that I’ve forgotten who I am, but I remember so much that it seems unlikely. I remember my mother and how she clicks her nails across her teeth when she’s thinking. I remember Wilson and I being interviewed on the Info when we won the Moritz Prize for outstanding research. I’ve got the trophy on my desk. The desk that’s been removed from the Willows. I remember the Willows as well. I knew exactly where to find my study.

But no one recognised me. That screen keeps flashing into my mind:
No record found
.

I sit bolt upright on the bed.

I do exist. Everything I remember is true.

Facilitator Johnson typed in my name and it came up on the screen,
John Jackson: No record found
. But the computer was wrong. I know without a doubt that Facilitator Johnson knows who I am.

Because he typed in my first name without asking me what it was.

‘P.C. Wright!’ I call. ‘I’ve worked it out.’

Both policemen appear at the flexi-glass window to my cell.

‘Remember when Facilitator Johnson entered my name?’

P.C. Wright rolls his eyes.

‘I didn’t tell him my first name! But he typed it in. See?’ I say. ‘He must remember me.’

‘Course you told him your first name,’ says P.C. Wright. He walks away, but P.C. Barnes is still watching me.

‘I didn’t, did I, P.C. Barnes?’ I say.

He screws up his mouth. ‘P.C. Wright says you did.’

‘But I—’

‘Wait a minute. P.C. Wright says you did. If we were to ask Facilitator Johnson, I’m pretty certain he’d say you did too. A police officer is an important man. A facilitator is an
extremely
important man . . .’ He raises his eyebrows at me.

My stomach contracts and something warm and acid bubbles up my throat. He’s telling me that no one is going to believe my word over theirs.

‘It’s disgusting,’ I finally say.

‘Listen, son,’ he says. ‘You don’t seem like a bad sort of a lad. I don’t know what you’re mixed up in at the block, or what the facilitator has got to do with you, but my advice is not to make trouble.’

‘Not to make trouble?’ I echo.

‘It’s easier if you do whatever it is that they want you to do.’ He nods at me. ‘Just do what they want you to do,’ he repeats, and then he walks away.

Early in the morning, while it’s still dark, P.C. Wright leads me out to the car.

‘Are we going back to the Willows?’ I say hopefully.

‘Don’t start that again,’ he says. ‘We’re taking you to the local Academy.’

The Academy! This is outrageous. Just when I think things can’t get any worse. Academies are full of backward, criminal kids who failed their Potential Test and can’t even count on their fingers.

The passenger door opens and P.C. Barnes gets in.

‘I am not going to an Academy,’ I say.

‘You haven’t got much choice, son,’ says P.C. Barnes without turning around.

I clench my fists. ‘I don’t know what is going on in your branch of the police,’ I say. ‘I don’t know who is controlling Facilitator Johnson and I don’t know why anyone would want to turn my life upside down, but I do know that I am a citizen of this country and the Leadership will not allow this sort of violation of my rights. When I get to whatever hole you are taking me to, I will go straight to the top and even if I have to go to The Leader himself, you will be punished for this.’

‘No need for all that,’ says P.C. Wright, starting the car.

The back of P.C. Barnes doesn’t move an inch.

As we’re driving I realise that I have no idea where the local Academy is. Turns out it’s on the outskirts of town, near the factory compound we were at yesterday. Right on the border with the Wilderness.

It’s still dark when we arrive and I don’t manage to see the building hidden behind the trees before we drive down a ramp and into an underground car park.

‘I’m not going in,’ I say. ‘I refuse.’

‘We could always just drop you off in the Wilderness,’ P.C. Wright says. ‘Would you prefer that?’

That shuts me up.

‘You take him in,’ P.C. Wright says to P.C. Barnes. ‘I’ve got some paperwork to do.’ He grins and opens the glove compartment, pulling out a paper bag. The smell of baked goods fills the car.

‘Come on,’ P.C. Barnes says to me, opening the car door.

We cross the car park and get into a lift. P.C. Barnes presses a button and the door closes.

‘Listen, kid,’ he says. ‘Your name is Blake now, Blake Jones.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t interrupt. I’ve seen this before. If you tell the Academy your real name, then you can be traced, they’ll find you and kill you.’

‘Who—?’

‘You’ve got an opportunity here to slip through the net. This is probably the safest place for you. Change your name, keep your head down.’

The doors open.

‘Understand?’ he says. His eyes are burning into me.

‘No,’ I say, my mind reeling with the idea someone would want to kill me, but he’s already striding towards a reception area.

It’s very different to the reception at the Willows. Here there’s just a desk sat on the kind of carpet that is so flat that it feels hard underfoot. A woman with wiry brown hair and pursed lips sits behind the desk.

‘Is this him?’ she asks P.C. Barnes.

I raise my chin.

‘Yes, this is Blake Jones.’

I wonder if I should deny it. But I don’t. I don’t understand what is happening here, but I think P.C. Barnes does.

The woman gives him a quick nod and turns her back on him to pick up a pile of clothes from the desk. It looks like some kind of uniform.

‘As I explained to the enforcer, the boy has no record on the Register so you’ll need to set that up. He’s a bit vague about his parents,’ P.C. Barnes says. He emphasises the last words to give me a hint. I get it.

‘Be good, Blake,’ he says and turns away.

I want to grab his arm. I need him to explain. Who wants to kill me? Why would they want to kill me? I can’t believe he’s leaving me here. In an Academy.

‘P.C. Barnes?’ I call.

The lift doors open.

He half raises his hand in an almost-wave, then the doors close and he’s gone.