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Gone Missing

Ryan Daff

    I am on the bus turning into Circadian Street when I see Marlow. Or I think I see Marlow, walking with his back to me on the opposite side of the road, carrying a briefcase, and talking animatedly on his mobile as he passes quickly through the swarms of afternoon Christmas shoppers. I get up and fight my way to the front of the crowded bus, struggling past a young mother with a pram, and an old man with a walking stick, all the while exclaiming to the driver to stop the bus and let me get off.
    “I don’t stop here,” he explains in an apathetic monotone. “You can get off in a minute.”
    By the time the bus slows to a standstill at the station and I disembark amidst a line of slow-moving passengers, I have begun to lose hope that I will catch up with Marlow at all. But then I see him again, walking out of a High Street bank across the road and boarding the ramp up into Ward Street Station. He is on the phone again, or still on the same call as before. I quicken my pace, pushing rudely through the throngs of shoppers in the direction of Ward Street. Twice, I unintentionally slide forwards on the thin ice that has formed underfoot, but regain my balance before I fall onto my backside. I reach the curb and see Marlow turn a corner inside the station and disappear out of sight, just as a bus and three black cabs drive into my line of vision, obscuring my view across the street.
    Ten or so seconds later, when the convoy has cleared, I dart across the road in the midst of more pedestrians. I reach the pavement, and push past a woman with a clipboard who wants to ask me some questions about Christianity. I then jog up the ramp, push through the crowd, and continue into the station in search of Marlow.
    Initially, I see no sign of my old friend; only scattered groups of people carrying luggage and/or carrier bags full of Christmas shopping, moving at varying speeds and in different directions. The scene is chaotic and threatens to fill me with hopeless resignation, but I continue onwards, past the shops and down the escalator.
    On a whim, and in my desperation to catch Marlow before he leaves town, I ask the lady at the Information desk where and when the next train to the city is due. She tells me platform 7A, but the train is at the platform now, and is about to depart. I take off again in the direction of 7A. Absorbed with my chase, I bump into a crouching busker tuning his guitar, who then shouts some indistinct profanities after me.
    Increasing my pace to a careless jog now, and panting, I fish my mobile out of my trouser pocket and frantically search through the M’s in my address book as I go. I dart down the steps onto the platform, and catch sight of the train—just as a muffled announcement is projected through the overhead speakers, stating that it is departing. The train begins accelerating away, and I jog alongside it as it starts to pick up speed. I push through yet another crowd, this time stationary people hovering on the platform to wave off relatives or friends. I peer into each carriage I pass, quickening my pace to match that of the train, and I receive some curious glances in reply from the seated passengers.
    Finally stopping dead in my tracks, I ring Marlow’s mobile number and hold the phone to my ear, my heart beating hard in my chest, my breath heavy. Surely this is hopeless? I’ve tried his number countless times before today. I hear an automated message stating that the person I am trying to reach is engaged with another call.
    I start walking again, with the phone still held against my ear. I am muttering something into the phone along the lines of Come on, Marlow, hang up; come on. I have reached the end of the platform in a resigned stride when I do see Marlow—sitting by a rear window of the increasingly distant train, still talking on the phone, and smiling now with a distant look in his eyes. He catches my gaze and his jaw drops, the smile now vanquished from his face. All colour drains from his previously healthy-looking complexion until he resembles a corpse. His lips stop moving, but the phone remains next to his ear. I imagine the person speaking on the other end: Hello? Hello? Are you still there?
    And then Marlow is gone again.
#
    I am sitting by the window in a trendy High Street coffee shop called the Wake Up Bar, when a bespectacled middle-aged man walks in, his shoulders hunched a little from the cold and the wet. He relaxes his posture, removes his glasses to wipe away the condensation that has formed on the lenses, places them back on, and surveys his surroundings. I recognise him from the picture in his advertisement, and I sit upright in my seat, gesturing to him with a wave of my hand. His eyes continue to dart around the room—presumably searching for a man in a red scarf, and then he sees me, as I’d described myself, surrounded now by hyperactively chatting students and solemn, suited business people reading newspapers. He gestures that he’s seen me with a brief nod of his head, orders a drink which he requests to be brought over to him, and then walks over to where I’m sitting. He extends his hand without sitting down, and I rise out of my seat to shake it.
    “Gregory, is it?” he asks with a slight smile. We shake hands, and I make a little subconscious note of his peculiarly weak grip. The handshake ends, and I notice that he wears a dreamy-eyed expression, which also strikes me as being somewhat out of place.
    “Yes,” I reply, realising that I had hesitated. “Thank you for coming. Mister P. Remsley, is it? Sorry, I’m useless with names.”
    “Yes, that’s it,” he says, smiling softly still, but I am a little taken aback that he doesn’t give me his first name.
    He sits down. “How are things?” he asks casually, which again strikes me as peculiar, considering the nature of our meeting. My first impression of P. Remsley is that he is full of surprises.
    “I’m . . . confused,” I reply, and then manage a timid smile myself to match his slight grin, which now seems to be a constant mask.
    “Well, yes. It’s a confusing business, isn’t it?” he asks rhetorically, removing his scarf and gloves without taking his eyes off me. “Give me some background information on Marlow, will you? I think that’s the best course of action to begin with.”
    I nod in agreement, take a deep breath, and then sip my black coffee just as his decaf arrives. He thanks the waitress and fixes his smiling eyes back on me.
    “Marlow and I,” I begin, “we went to the same university, and studied for the same degree. We were good friends right up until we were in a serious car accident together one Christmas. Marlow went missing from the wreckage; I had blacked out in the passenger seat, and when I woke up, he was gone from the driver’s seat.”
    “And how long ago was that now? Six years, you said?”
    “A little over six years, yes. He’s all but presumed dead now—all but declared legally dead, and last thing I heard, the case on him had been dropped.”
    “You haven’t spoken to the police about it recently?”
    “No. Not for about a year. Everyone seems to have moved on, including Marlow’s family. It’s surreal, really, considering that no body was ever found within miles of the crash.”
    I tell him a little more innocuous back story regarding my good friend Marlow and me. There is nothing remarkable to relate—nothing that has ever helped me to understand why he simply disappeared.
    The man across the table from me sips his decaf. He’s not what I had expected from a private investigator, with his lined face and his bookish demeanour—not to mention that calm, almost Zen exterior, which makes him appear lost in some distant reverie.
    He asks: “Did Marlow ever live or work here in town, back when you knew him?”
    “No. When I knew him, we both lived, studied, and occasionally worked in the city.”
    “But you’re certain it was him? Walking away from Circadian Street and boarding a train at Ward Street Station?”
    I pause, and try to gather my thoughts so that they don’t come out in a jumbled mess. “It was him,” I say. “I ended up seeing his face, and I know he saw mine too. There’s really no doubt about it being him; but there is something that struck me as rather odd.”
    “Go on,” says Remsley, blowing on his decaf to cool it down.
    I say, “The reason I wasn’t sure it was him at first, was because he had his back to me and he was on the phone. So I tried phoning his number, rather pointlessly because that number has been disconnected for a long time now, since the police stopped trying to track him down—not that I believe they ever did try that hard. My trail of thought at the time, was that when I called him, if it was him walking into the station, his number would be engaged—giving me some kind of proof it was him, see? It’s ridiculous, I know.”
    “But you did get an engaged message?” asks Remsley.
    “Yes, I did! I got an engaged message, right before I saw him in the train carriage. It wasn’t until the whole thing was over that I realised I had dialled his old number by mistake—the one he only used occasionally, socially, and which only his close friends knew about.”
    “So, despite leaving his old life behind, he still uses an old phone number?” the smiling man named Remsley enquires, attempting to clarify things, but with a pointedly sceptical tone.
    “Apparently, yes,” I say. “Although I’ve been unsuccessful in trying to reach him a second time; I suppose he’s finally had that number disconnected too.”
    “And you think that he’s in town on business?”
    “Hard to say. I only think that because he had a briefcase, and carried out some kind of transaction inside a High Street bank . . . It crossed my mind that he might have relocated to town, like me, but then of course I saw him on the city-bound train.”
    The smiling man nods.
    “That’s something I was going to ask you to look into actually,” I say. “Could you try and find out what name he was using at the bank? Maybe track down his account details—can you do that with your resources?”
    “I’ll certainly try,” he says, but somewhat dismissively, I feel. He even shrugs his shoulders a little, as if what he’s really saying is, It’s pretty hopeless, Gregory. Then, standing up, he shakes my hand and says, cryptically: “You and Marlow are in my hands now. Don’t worry.”
#
    I am in a taxi heading away from Jung Street when I see Marlow again. He is on foot, wearing a long trench coat and carrying an umbrella to shelter from the falling snow. He is on the phone again. This time he carries no briefcase, but I see him in full profile for five or so seconds, and it is unmistakably my old friend.
    “Follow that man,” I say to the taxi driver, too preoccupied to care about the terrible cliché.
    “What man?” he replies in a heavy Asian accent.
    “That man on foot, with the umbrella and the phone, just across the road . . .” I lean forward and attempt to point Marlow out, just as he enters into a melee of people, mostly rowdy students let loose to survey the local nightlife.
    “Never mind,” I say. I pay him quickly and exit the car. I chase after Marlow on foot again.
    I follow him through the whole of town, through various clusters of people who look dressed up and lively for whichever bar, club or performance they are attending. There are multiple occasions when it is just Marlow and me, walking down a side street or along a main road, beneath streetlights that illuminate my friend in a veil of falling snow; and yet I follow only from a discreet distance. I need more information. I need to compile, to research, to study the facts here. If I apprehend Marlow now, he will never simply give me those facts; I need to extract them from him against his will, without him knowing. I need to play detective myself, if I ever hope to uncover the mystery of his disappearance.
    I hear his familiar slow and steady murmur as he continues his mysterious phone call, but the distance between us, plus the sounds of the wind and our own squelching footfalls on the snowy ground, all prevent me from distinguishing any words.
#
    I continue to follow him, until he reaches a small hotel on the outskirts of town called the Sleep Easy, and walks inside. Standing outside, I see a light go on in the foyer, and assume that the scene is just my old friend and a member of the hotel staff, and if I were to follow him inside, my cover would be blown. Instead I wait five minutes, while Marlow presumably collects his key and climbs the stairs up to his room.
    I am contemplating following him inside, having allowed a sufficient break in my pursuit, when I see another light come on—on the fourth floor, on the west side of the hotel. Ten minutes later the light goes off again, and I am confident in my assumption that that is Marlow’s room, and that he has gone to bed.
    I then begin to brainstorm. Marlow’s hotel stands adjacent to another on the same side of the road, the Bedside Manor. The Bedside Manor has rooms on the east side, with fairly sizeable windows from which I might get a good view into Marlow’s room—if I also book into a room on the fourth floor. At the very least, I will be able to keep track of Marlow when he leaves the Sleep Easy in the morning.
#
    Ten minutes later, I am lying in bed in my darkened hotel room. I glance to my right, out the window, and inwardly delight at how well my plan is coming together. All I see now, by the glow of an outside streetlight, is Marlow’s own dark room. But neither of us has cared to draw our curtains shut, so, if I arise when he does, I should be able to observe his movements. I start to wonder why I ever involved P. Remsley at all.
#
    It’s daylight. I am brushing my teeth with my finger and some toothpaste, while pacing near the window of the bedroom—and so is Marlow. It’s a miracle he doesn’t see me, frankly. A little later, he is sitting on his bed reading a discarded newspaper, so I sit and pretend to read a newspaper I found too, so that he doesn’t catch me watching him. He then watches television. I also turn on my television, in the hope to find out what he’s watching. But there are only seven channels to choose from, and there’s nothing revelatory or sufficiently distracting on any of them.
    Marlow eats breakfast when I eat breakfast; I wonder if we tipped room service an equal amount.
    Where did you go when you left me, old friend?
    I make the agonised decision to phone Marlow; it’s the only way to find out what’s going on. I don’t need to give my name, after all. I don’t even need to use my own voice—I can try to disguise it a little. I’ll just phone his hotel, find out the number of his room, and—
    My hotel room phone rings. I rush to the window, my eyes wide, my heartbeat and my breath heavy. Marlow is holding his mobile to his ear, and he’s looking directly at me.
    The phone continues to ring, so I answer it. “Marlow??” I ask, anxiously.
    “Hi, Gregory. No, it’s me, Remsley.”
    “Oh,” I say, deflated. “But Marlow was making a call—” I look out of the window, but it seems that Marlow has gone. It is now impossible to see into his room—a supernaturally bright, white light fills the window frame, and I have to avert my eyes as if I were trying to stare directly at the sun.
    “Marlow is gone,” confirms Remsley.
    “How do you know? And how did you know where to find me?” I ask.
    “Don’t worry. You’re in my hands,” he says cryptically, for the second time since I’d met him. “I’m sending over the results of my investigation,” he continues. “It’s a case file—it should clear things up for you, Gregory.” He hangs up the phone.
    I’m still sitting with the phone receiver in my hands, feeling a little bewildered, when there’s a knock at the door. I place the hotel phone back on the hook and open the door—only to discover that there is no one there, just a black notebook left for me on the carpet outside.
    I briefly survey both ends of the corridor where my mystery visitor would have had to flee to (unless he’d come from one of the other rooms), and then, wondering how Remsley even found out I was here, I bring the unlabelled book back into the room. Then, without taking my eyes off the case file, I absent-mindedly kick the door shut and wander back towards the bed. I sit down and open the front cover. The first page says, more drawn than written, and in a large, sloppy idiot scrawl:
#
    START FROM THE BEGINNING AND WORK YOUR WAY TO THE END
#
    P REMSLEE
#
    Well, thanks, Mister Remslee, if that’s how you’re spelling it now. How else was I going to read this thing? Can this guy not even write, or spell?
    I turn to the next page, but there are no words, only small, indistinct smudges. I turn again; more smudges. I flick through the entire book, holding the damn thing at different angles, under different lights, at different distances from my eyes. There’s nothing here! I flick back to the first page, only to discover that the letters have inexplicably rearranged themselves into seemingly meaningless shapes:
#
    TARTS ROMF HET EGINNINGB NDA ORKW OURY AYW OT HET NDE
#
    REMSLEEP
#
    The phone rings again and I answer it, increasingly confused now: “Remslee, what’s happening?”
    Remslee laughs. “I’m sorry, Gregory. I forgot you’d have difficulty reading in a dream.”
    Pause.
    “In a . . . dream?” I ask.
    “Yes. Dreaming and reading are controlled by different brain mechanisms. Dreaming is a right-brain activity. Sometimes left-brain activities like reading or puzzle-solving are carried across into dreams—if they are sufficiently intellectual or addictive. But it’s still very rare, and even then you only perceive that you are reading. Everyone is severely dyslexic in his or her dreams—focusing on actual words, and making sense of them, becomes impossible.”
    “I’m dreaming?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid you are. I hoped you’d have worked that out. Start from the beginning of P REMSLEE and work your way to the end? That’s REMSLEEP. You know, R.E.M. sleep? Most of our more vivid dreams occur during R.E.M. sleep, after all. And all of those place names . . . come on! Ward Street? The Wake Up Bar? The Sleep Easy hotel? The Bedside Manor? And you and Marlow in adjacent rooms, with just those open curtains between you? In adjacent beds!”
    “Okay, okay, what are you saying then?” I enquire, slightly shocked, slightly scared, wholly confused and pissed off. “A hospital ward? Adjacent hospital beds?”
    “Yes,” says Remslee. “You were both in the car crash that Christmas. Marlow had been on the phone while driving, and he lost control of the car on the ice. You both wound up in deep comas. Marlow has gone now, and you’re not far behind. You’re in my hands now—both of you were, in the grip of deep sleep. I’m afraid this is the end, Gregory. I’m sorry it’s been such a jumbled mess for you, but you only have your own damaged psyche to blame, you know?”
    “And who are you?” I ask calmly. “Are you my coma?”
    Remslee laughs. “If you like, Gregory. It’s your dream, and it’s nearly over. I’ve just been here to help you make that last little connection.”
    White light fills the room.

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