Scruton - The Disappeared

Roger Scruton

Roger Scruton is a writer and philosopher, author of over forty books including several works of fiction. He has taught in London and Boston universities, and been visiting professor elsewhere in Britain and America, but now lives as a free-lance writer in Malmesbury, Wiltshire. His recent books include Notes from Underground (a novel) and The Soul of the World. Roger Scruton is a Fellow of the British Academy and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.

Discover books by Roger Scruton published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/RogerScruton

Francesca
Gentle Regrets
Modern Philosophy: An Introduction and Survey
Sexual Desire
Xanthippic Dialogues

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This electronic edition published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Bloomsbury Reader

Copyright 2015 Roger Scruton

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eISBN: 9781448214990

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You pause on the landing, and shake your head free of men. The key to the flat is in your pocket, pressed against the thumbed paperback copy of The Wind in the Willows. You didnt intend to break your rules on the first night in Whinmoore. You drank that glass of wine out of politeness, and also because Justin Fellowes wanted you to stay and talk. He told you that tomorrow will be a heavy days work. All the files have to be brought out for examination, and an office has been cleared for you to work on them. He said that hes hoping for an early start, maybe eight oclock. Still, it was good to linger. Justin is the kind of man you like soft-spoken, idealistic, handsome in his way, with clear blue eyes and a nice smile, but with a hint of sadness. He must be in his early thirties, and naturally you wonder whether he is married. Not that it is relevant. Since Mick did that unforgiveable thing you are not going to let a man into your life, not without unbreakable guarantees. It has been six months now since Mick left, smashing up the flat while you were working late at the office, and throwing your papers into the downstairs bin, including the file for the Ponthurst case, which was your personal assignment. Someone had poured kitchen waste on top of it, and all the pages were stained with tea. That was Micks present for your twenty-sixth birthday, the final proof of his transformation from the poetic student who sang beneath your college window to the angry layabout who drove you at last into that disastrous affair with Finn.

It was a decision of the CEO, Justin had said, to hire a flat. It might be necessary to bring confidential papers home, and hotels arent secure. Besides, the job could last into the summer, depending on what discrepancies you find. The CEO, he said, had asked for you especially. He had looked up Milbank and Co.s junior partners on the web, and picked out Laura Markham: first in history from Cambridge, ACCA qualifications in three years, and the Law society a year later all this together with a reputation for taking complete responsibility for every case you deal with. You knew from the way he talked, with just that little edge of excitement in his voice, that it was Justin himself who had looked you up, who had seen the picture on the website and thought how after all he wouldnt mind being shut up in an office for a month if he could be shut up with you. All that knowledge and looking so young, he said; not a day over eighteen. But you werent going to think about it, or to wonder what he meant by asking Will you be OK? as he dropped you at the door of the block. You smiled and said of course, getting out quickly on to the pavement.

You wonder whether Justin has noticed that your briefcase is fatter than when you arrived in this Yorkshire city from the London train. The Ponthurst case is always in your mind: it was your triumph and no doubt the reason for the contract. It taught you that the crucial file might not be in the archive, that it could be lying out somewhere, as though current, as though it had no connection to the time when the discrepancies arose. You dont know whether it was Justins desk on which you found it; probably not, for it was in an obscure corner of the office, which looked as if no one had worked there for many months. There was no computer, no telephone, no in-tray, only a textbook of accountancy that someone must have left there before moving on, and which you lifted up out of curiosity. Underneath you found a file of correspondence from last summer. Its absence wont be noticed. Justin locked the office for the night, and you will be back there first thing.

You hold the key ready in your hand as you climb the communal stairs. It is good to have a flat of your own, but annoying that it is in this unfriendly modern block, with its uncarpeted stairwell of concrete, and its views from metal-framed windows across car-parks and warehouses. The flat is warm and tidy, and the agent made a special point of opening all the cupboards to show you how clean it is and well provided. But there had been something insinuating in his manner, and you were glad when he left, peering back around the door before shutting it. He had greasy hair with dark pouchy eyes under an overhanging brow, and he spoke with an accent. You assumed he was Polish since he called himself Janusz. You shrug off the thought of him. Now, after a meal in town, a run-through of the job, and a pleasant drink with Justin, you dont care so much about the surroundings either. Its just great to have a place of your own.

You open the door into the foyer. It is dark, you reach for the switch beside the door, and nothing happens. Then you remember. That switch governs the stair-light. The foyer is lit from the passageway. It seems a strange arrangement now, obliging you to grope your way in through a pool of darkness. You reach the passageway and find the switch in the wall. A dim light smears an unframed acrylic of rose-petals between two plain white doors: one to the bedroom, and one to the lounge. You choose the bedroom, which is lit through the window by a yellow glow from the car park. You stand for a moment in the doorway, assessing the layout: double bed facing the window; wardrobe against the inside wall; chest of drawers opposite; and to each side of the bed a door: the door where you stand, and the door to the bathroom. There are two bedside tables with reading lights, and a heavy bedcover of some green silky material topped by a pile of cushions. You go back to the passageway, still carrying the briefcase. Opposite you is the door to the kitchen. You have seen tea bags, sugar and UHT milk in the cupboard there, and for a moment you wonder whether to make a cup of tea. But no: long-lasting milk tastes of loneliness. Tomorrow you must do some shopping, make the place a home. Tonight you will look at the file, read a bit of