Vanished (16 page)

So here he was
.

He’d met this one by chance, while walking home, and they’d continued chatting on their daily commute. Drake preferred it that way. When you met someone unexpectedly, you sidestepped the really inelegant moments, the uncomfortable ‘Do you come here often?’-style conversation, because you weren’t expecting anything to happen. And then it was easier to move to the next stage: where both of you liked the look of each other, and you gradually started to develop some kind of bond. He was nervous, but he was excited too about what the evening had in store for them
.

Getting to his feet, he padded back through to the bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He was five-eight, slight, not handsome exactly – he knew that much – but rugged and dark. He had tiny pockmarks in and around the slope of his nose, running in an arc at either cheekbone, but it was the only part of him he disliked
.

He turned and looked around at his flat
.

Thin, worn carpets, faded wallpaper, damp in the corners of the room. Off to the right, in the kitchen, he could see a watermark had stained the cream linoleum. There were no pictures anywhere. No plants. No decor of any kind apart from a bookshelf full of books, and a TV perched on top of a wheeled cabinet. He’d have liked a better flat, but he was pretty philosophical about it: the rent was cheap, and there was no one else to help pay it. Until he got a promotion at the store, or won the lottery, this would do fine.

A knock at the door.

Drake studied himself in the mirror again. ‘Come on, Jonny Boy,’ he said. ‘This could be the one. This could be the start of something good. Time to turn on the charm.’ He stood there for a moment more, brushing himself down and smiling at the fact he was giving his own reflection a pep talk, and then he headed across the flat to the door. Before opening up, he looked out through the peephole. His date looked a little different than he remembered: somehow slightly
older, but cleaner cut and better-looking. It was difficult to make out too much more: a bunch of youths had been through the hallway a couple of days before and smashed all the light bulbs for no other reason than they could.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open.

‘Leon,’ Drake said.

‘Hello,’ Leon Spane replied. ‘How are you doing, Jon?’

Drake held out his hand. ‘I’m good. You?’

‘Really good, thanks,’ Spane said, smiling.

They shook. Spane had big hands, but they were cool and clammy, and in a weird kind of way, Drake was pleased. Maybe he’s as nervous as me, he thought, and then he invited Spane in. Spane thanked him with another smile, and stepped past, into the flat.

‘I like your bag,’ Drake said.

Spane brought the satchel he was carrying around to his front, as if he’d never thought to look before. ‘Oh. Thank you. I’m a bit of an eBay addict.’ He paused, as if he’d noticed the rest of what he was wearing. ‘I might need you to give me a few fashion tips, actually. I remember you said you worked in fashion.’

‘Well, I work in a clothes store.’

‘That’s good enough.’ He smiled. ‘I’m always looking for new fashion ideas.’

Drake looked Spane up and down: smart tan leather boots, name-brand jeans, a black shirt and a black thigh-length jacket. ‘I think you look pretty good,’ he said.

Spane laughed. ‘And I didn’t even have to pay you to say that.’

Drake grabbed his jacket from a peg and slipped it on. The two of them looked at each other for a moment, and then both broke out into smiles at the same time.

‘You didn’t have any trouble getting here, did you?’ Drake asked.

‘No. No, not at all. I know Hammersmith a little bit.’

‘That’s good. Thanks for coming down here.’

Spane patted his bag. ‘The Tube was why they invented books.’

Drake nodded. A reader. That was a good start. ‘I booked us a table at a restaurant just down the road. An Italian. I hope that’s okay with you.’

‘Absolutely. That sounds great.’ Spane looked around the flat and his eyes fell on the toilet on the other side of the living room. ‘Could I be rude and ask to use your loo? It’s not usually the kind of first impression I like to make, but I came straight from work.’

Drake laughed. ‘Of course you can. It’s just over there.’

Spane thanked him, slipped off the satchel and dumped it onto the sofa, then headed to the bathroom, pushing the door closed. Drake wandered through to the kitchen.

The flat was designed so that the kitchen was offset from the living room, the whole thing partially hidden behind an old-fashioned serving hatch, and you could enter the kitchen from either side. Drake flicked the lights on and looked in the fridge. He wanted to make sure that he had some wine chilled for later on. He already had a good feeling about tonight, but some alcohol might help loosen them both up a little bit more once they got back.

He closed the fridge and moved back into the living room. Spane was still in the bathroom. Maybe he’s puking up, Drake thought, and the idea made him smile. He dropped into one of the chairs and checked his phone. A few emails from friends. If it didn’t go well tonight, at least he could keep them entertained with the gory details. Before he’d gone into relationship exile, his tales of dating disasters had always amused his mates.

Suddenly Drake had a thought, got up and headed back into the kitchen. He didn’t bother flicking on the lights this time; just opened the fridge and slid out the bottle of wine he’d been looking at a
moment before. Sauvignon Blanc. What happens if he doesn’t like white wine? He cursed himself silently. Should have got a bottle of red as well, just in case. Then, across the top of the fridge door, he noticed something.

The bathroom door was open.

He pushed the fridge door shut – an automatic reaction – and for a moment the flat was plunged into darkness. All the lights were off.

A second before, they’d all been on.

He felt his heart shift and he moved forward slowly in the dark, to the light switch in the kitchen. He flicked it on. Above him, a strip light hummed and then broke out into a stark white glow. Through the serving hatch, he could see out into the living room – but only about halfway. Around the edges of the room were thick blankets of shadow, like curtains pinned from ceiling to floor. He looked left, out to where the bathroom was, and then right, into the living room. The kitchen light made it even harder to see into the dark.

‘Leon?’ he said.

No reply.

He moved left, towards the bathroom. ‘Leon?’

This time his voice betrayed him, and a ripple passed through it. He cleared his throat, as quietly as he could, coming around the edge of the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room. He flicked a look into the empty bathroom, and then fixed his eyes back to the living room, trying to will them to see more. He knew where everything was placed in the flat – he knew the layout, he knew where the light switches were – and yet, as he moved further in, it was like being in a place he’d never been before. He was disorientated.

‘Leon?’ he said again, scanning the flat.

Nothing.

Gradually, though, his eyes were starting to adjust to the light,
and in front of him shapes were forming. Furniture. The TV. The music system. His PC on an old stand his parents had given him. Spane wasn’t there.

Which meant he was in the bedroom.

Then, something twinged in Drake’s neck.

A short, sharp pain, there and gone again. He reached up and touched the area just below the curve of his jaw and, when he brought his fingers back, in the shadow of the room he could see something even darker on them. He rubbed them together. Blood.

What the hell …?

He felt a shiver pass through him. Quick and sharp. And a split second later he knew why: Spane was behind him.

He turned.

‘Fuck!’

Drake stumbled back, tripping against one of the sofas and falling to the ground. Spane had been on his shoulder the whole time, his face contorted by shadows, his body twisted and wrapped in them. He seemed bigger in the darkness – taller, wider, more threatening – but as Drake desperately tried to get to his feet again, his legs gave way. Spane stepped forward, out of the dark, towering over Drake as he looked up from the floor. He was wearing pale latex gloves and, in his left hand, holding a syringe.

‘Whatthefuckareyoudoin …’ Drake said, but as the words came out of his mouth, they didn’t sound quite right. And then he realized something else: he was starting to feel woozy. His muscles were relaxing. His head kept rolling left to right. When his vision cleared a little Spane leaned down, pulled him up, dropped him into one of the armchairs and turned on the lights.

‘Whatsssssoingon?’ he asked again, his speech slurred.

Spane didn’t respond. He carefully placed the syringe he’d used into the satchel and then brought out a small leather pouch. Drake
tried to haul himself up, but his arms had no strength. He couldn’t support himself. Every muscle in his body had liquified. When he tried to use his legs, place them down flat to the floor and manoeuvre himself forward, nothing happened. The whole time Spane calmly unzipped the leather pouch.

‘Whatssssssssssssoingon?’ Drake asked again.

His speech was getting worse by the second.

Spane opened the leather pouch, holding it in the middle like a book. With his left hand he adjusted something, and then looked back at Drake. ‘I’m really glad we have this chance to be alone,’ he said, his voice so soft it was barely audible. He laid the leather pouch down on the sofa as carefully as if it were made from glass, and then parted Drake’s legs. Drake couldn’t do anything about it. He had no reaction. No fight.

Spane moved in closer, positioning himself level with the knees. ‘This is how it’s going to be from now on,’ Spane continued, his voice gentle, almost affectionate. And then he looked up from beneath his brow, his eyes so big and dark they were just holes in his head. A whimper passed up through Drake’s throat; a reflex, like a noise from a cornered animal.

Spane smiled, stood up and went back to his satchel. He rummaged around inside and brought out a wooden bowl about a foot in diameter. He moved back to Drake, pulled him forward so he was doubled over, his head between his legs, and placed the bowl on the floor at his feet. Drake tried to sit up, but nothing happened. He had no power. No muscle. No bone.

‘Leon,’ Drake said, his words blunted and dulled. ‘Leon, pleeeeashe.’

No response.

Then a buzz.

‘My name’s not Leon, you fucking queer.’

Suddenly, Drake felt cold metal at the nape of his neck, travelling up through the centre of his head to the crown. A second later, his hair cascaded past his ears and landed, feather-like, in the bowl.

‘Whaaaaatareyoudooooin?’ Drake slurred.

A pause.

‘I’m shaving your hair, Daddy.’

There were a series of empty warehouses three miles away that I’d once used as a place to meet sources. Since leaving the paper, I’d only been back once. That time, I’d brought the person here under cover of darkness. This time, I had two men in the boot of my car and the sun was carving down out of a clear blue sky.

The road leading in was built in a T-shape, the neck barely big enough for two cars to pass. At the end, it opened up: ten warehouses, all in a line, all facing back down the way I’d come. At one end was a disused railway bridge, arches carved into it like big, dark holes bored straight into the earth. As I swung the car around and backed it in against one of the buildings, a smell came in on the breeze. The arches were dumping grounds: metal shells, so rust-covered it was impossible to tell what they’d once been; kitchen appliances stripped to their bones; old cars and machinery reduced to debris.

I grabbed the crowbar from the front seat and then took them in one by one, Gaishe first. He was scared. Out of his depth. He didn’t weigh anything, and he didn’t fight me. I secured him inside, then came back for Wellis. Popping the boot, I stepped back, expecting him to kick out. But he didn’t. The sunlight was strong, angling right into the BMW, and as he moved a hand to his face, shielding
his eyes, I grabbed him by his arms and dragged him out, dumping him on the concrete.

He lay there on the floor, looking up.

‘Get to your feet,’ I said, pushing the boot closed.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even move. He just stared up at me, unable to find me at first. Then he pulled into focus and spotted me about two feet away.

‘Get up, you piece of shit.’

He clumsily got to his feet, saying nothing. But at the entrance, as I followed him in, he looked back over his shoulder, eyes feral and aggressive.

Inside was a space about one hundred and eighty feet long. The sun drifted in through the gaps in the windows and brickwork, glinting in the smashed glass scattered across the floor. It stank like a toilet. To my right was an old office area, looking out over the warehouse. There was still some furniture in it: a couple of heavy oak desks and four chairs, picked apart and broken, but still basically usable. Gaishe was tied to one of them with duct tape – wrists to the arms of the chair, ankles to the legs. He looked up as we approached, an odd mixture of fear and relief in his face: fear of what was coming, relief that Wellis was here with him, to share in whatever was planned.

Wellis got to one of the chairs and then looked back at me. ‘You don’t know what the fuck you just stepped into here, Ben. You know that, right?’

I threw him the duct tape. ‘Tie your ankles to the legs of the chair.’