The Disappeared by Roger Scruton

send the wrong message. Slowly, shyly, she moved forward and fell in schoolgirl fashion onto the chair, as though thrown there. The grey woollen skirt of her uniform rode up over the tights, and she smoothed it back across her knees. The skirt was crumpled and stained, and the tights had several holes that she strove to hide from him. As she struggled to conceal her shabbiness he turned quickly round to save her embarrassment.
    â€˜I’ll just make the tea.’
    For Stephen tea was important: he had his own mixture – Assam tips and Darjeeling – which he obtained from a specialist shop off the South Parade in the city centre. As he spooned the leaves into the tea-pot he wondered what the exotic taste would mean to her, for whom tea came with milk and two sugars. He sensed that he was under observation from a place beyond his horizon. Every part of his life would assume some new significance in Sharon’s telescope.
    When he returned to the living room she was on her knees in front of the bookcase, turning the pages of
The Magic Mountain.
She looked up at him, and sprang to her feet.
    â€˜Sorry, sir. I was just looking at your books. Amazing.’
    â€˜Well, if there’s anything you’d like to borrow, Sharon, don’t hesitate.’
    â€˜Can I reelly, sir?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    He set the tray down on the low table between the armchairs, and busied himself with the teapot. She had resumed her seat, and was looking at him.
    â€˜I wondered what it’s like inside, this place. And now I know. It’s so neat and tidy, sir.’
    â€˜Well yes. When you live alone you have to be tidy.’
    â€˜Wish I lived alone. Just me and books. A whole bookcase full, like you, sir.’
    His hand shook a little as he poured the tea.
    â€˜Listen Sharon, I won’t keep you for long. But I need to ask you a few questions.’
    â€˜Dunna worry, sir. I shouldna shown you that essay. But thanks for reading it and not being angry. You inna angry, are you, sir?’
    â€˜It’s not about the essay I wanted to talk, Sharon. And of course I’m not angry. I need to ask you about something else.’
    â€˜What about, sir?’
    â€˜About your private life.’
    A frightened look came into her eyes.
    â€˜I got nowt private life. Except what I invent for myself.’
    â€˜Still, you have a place you go to after school; you have a family, neighbours, and friends. You live in a place where there has often been trouble. I just want to know whether things are OK there, and whether you get – well, the support that you need.’
    She sat watching him in silence as he drank the tea. He noticed that she was not drinking from the mug that he had placed before her, but kept her hands folded in her lap, the strap of her tattered satchel wrapped around her fingers. Suddenly she was on her feet and going towards the door.
    â€˜Sharon!’
    She turned in the doorway. Her face was white and her lips were trembling.
    â€˜It’s all OK, though, innit, sir? Between us, I mean.’
    â€˜Not if you just go away when I try to talk to you. I am on your side, Sharon, you know that.’
    He was standing now and looking at her. The pale blond hair lay in wisps on her cheeks, as though blown by the wind. One strand touched her lips, and another half shielded her left eye. Her face had a haunted expression, and she gripped the satchel with both hands, as though ready to throw it.
    â€˜You dinna ought to ask me nowt, sir.’
    â€˜But I’m your teacher, Sharon. And your friend.’
    â€˜There’s school, see, sir, where you are. And there’s Hell, where they are. You inna ’lowed to talk about Hell. If you do, man, they kill you, see.’
    â€˜Maybe it is time you talked about it, Sharon.’
    She uttered a little cry.
    â€˜Then they’d kill you too. It’s simple, see.’
    She stood in the doorway. He must do nothing. She must be