The Disappearance Boy Read Free

where he is – not to mention what time it is – he twists out a thin-lipped little grin – a grin with which you’re going to become very familiar, I hope – and mutters Sod it , to himself this time, but loud enough to make a passing housewife grimace and tut as she tries to get past him and into the shoe shop. Ignoring her stare, Reggie wraps his parcel back up again with a quick one-two rearrangement of his jacket; a darting look at the black-and-white enamelled clock on the front of the Co-op opposite confirms that it’s now gone twelve, so he lurches back off down the Broadway to deliver it at double time, pounding the pavement with that built-up boot of his as if he was angry with them both.

    When he’s up to speed, this young man can thread himself through a thickening lunchtime crowd as surely as a darning needle can pierce silk, and I have to say it’s quite an act. Every human step is a fall from which we save ourselves, they say, but in Reggie’s case that’s even more true than normal; head down, he stabs the toe of that built-up left boot of his down into the paving stones in a kind of regular, staccato demi-pointe , making it the pivot over which he then levers the rest of his top-heavy self, catching himself just in time. Only once does his technique falter, and that’s when a puddle makes him misjudge his launch off the kerb at the corner of Southey Street – the kerbstone here is part of a botched-up repair to some bomb damage, and it tilts. He stumbles, and the two-sizes-too-big tweed jacket flaps open in the cold wind, revealing another underwing flash of white shirt. With the swiftness of habit he grabs it and rewraps himself, and the threat of an undignified tumble soon passes. Once he’s steadied himself, he taps himself on the chest, twice, right where the inside breast pocket of his jacket is, and then lurches on.
    That breast pocket is where Reggie keeps his ration book – he’s always on the lookout for anything sweet, is our Reg, and confectionery is still on points in the spring of 1953. It’s also where, during the day, he keeps his knife. It’s not a big or dangerous blade, being merely a two-inch penknife with a delicate mother-of-pearl handle – a lady’s knife, really – but nonetheless, he never leaves his digs without it. He taps at his pocket like that quite often, without even realising he’s doing it, just to make sure the knife’s still there – either that, or for luck, I suppose.
    Reggie’s destination? A black-painted door with a black-and-white sign over it, hidden down an alley just off Montague Road, which is only two more corners away. His employer? One Mr Edward Brookes Esquire, known in the profession as Ted or Teddy. His job?
    Well, more of that later. It’s all about timing, this business.
    Timing, and –

2
    Under the harsh glare of a single pair of floodlights, a dark-haired man in his late thirties is stepping out onto the stage of an empty theatre. The auditorium is silent, but the man strides on exactly as if he was cutting his entrance through an anticipatory swathe of applause. His jacket is an impeccably cut and close-fitting double-breasted wool-mixture dinner jacket, satin-lapelled. He is wearing white gloves with a single pearl button, and showing a full inch of starched cuff. His hair is carefully side-parted. His feet are accented in black patent, his trousers have a black ribbon side-stripe, and he’s carrying a black top hat in his gloved right hand; in delicate contrast, the lighting is turning the thin coating of dust on the unswept boards of the stage into a soft, powdery silver. There’s a fringed ivory silk evening scarf draped casually around his neck (the two horizontal lines of fringing are perfectly level) and a snowy linen handkerchief juts in two crisp peaks from the appropriate pocket. Even his eyes are black and white. There’s something very classic and even pre-war about the whole look – a touch of the Café Royal