The Disappeared by Roger Scruton Page A

free to go, free to stay. He was the one who watched and comforted, who pitied, but did not desire. A hollow feeling arose within him. He remembered so many mistakes, so many wrong turnings. And now he had put his life in the hands of a child.
    â€˜It never harms to talk, Sharon, with someone who cares about you.’
    Her hands on the satchel relaxed a little, and she took a step back into the room.
    â€˜Do you mean that, sir?’
    â€˜Of course I mean it; if you don’t talk about your fears, they destroy you.’
    She was looking at him steadily.
    â€˜I mean you caring about me, sir.’
    He looked back in silence, and then he nodded. She did not move, but let her satchel drop to the floor.
    â€˜I wunna be no trouble to you, sir.’
    Her words recalled the dying Dido: ‘May my wrongs create/ No trouble, no trouble in thy breast’. Purcell’s music sounded in Stephen’s ear. He tried to fit Queen Dido’s mature and womanly love to the waif who stood before him. How absurd! For a moment he felt able to talk down to her.
    â€˜Troubles come, Sharon. But let’s try to avoid any new ones, yes?’
    He at once regretted the words, which sounded weak and disrespectful. And how strange it was, that this girl who stood as though pencilled on the air before him should demand respect. In her pale face and trembling lips, in her featureless clothes and uncared-for looks, he saw something proud, as though she were protecting what was best in her, refusing to allow it to be destroyed. He pointed to the chair.
    â€˜Sit down a moment, Sharon, and drink your tea. No need to talk about things if you’d rather not.’
    She came forward, again falling into the chair as though thrown there. She lifted the mug to her lips and then held it away with an expression of distaste.
    â€˜You don’t like it?’
    â€˜Tastes weird, dunnit, sir?’
    She put down the mug and then sat without moving, like a patient in a doctor’s surgery. There was a stillness in the room. From the car park came the sudden noise of car doors slamming and engines starting, as a nearby office disgorged its staff at the end of their day. Stephen released the back of the chair and went across to the girl. He brushed her hair with one hand. She seized the hand, kissed it, and then let it drop. With an effort he moved away. People passed his door on the stairwell, men speaking gruffly in some Slavic tongue. He noticed she had left the door ajar, and went across to shut it. He turned to address her.
    â€˜Now that you know I care about you, Sharon, won’t it be easier to talk?’
    She was looking at him with wide uncertain eyes. Again she had reached for the satchel and was clutching it convulsively.
    â€˜Dunna you spoil things, sir.’
    â€˜How can it spoil things if we share our troubles?’
    â€˜I better go, sir. Thanks reelly for inviting me in.’
    â€˜Won’t you at least tell me whether I should be worrying about you?’
    They were face to face, and their eyebeams locked. How pale and serious and vulnerable she looked. He pressed his hands to his sides, so as not to reach out to her.
    â€˜There’s two of me, sir. You dunna have to worry about the one what’s yours. And the one what’s yours canna talk about the other one, see. And… and if they come asking you, you just tell them you dunna know nowt, right?’
    With an abrupt movement she skipped to one side of him and seized the handle of the door.
    â€˜Thanks anyway, sir,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘It was great being here.’
    And before he could reply she had run to the bottom of the stairwell and out into the street.
    During the sleepless nights that followed Stephen resolved to go as soon as possible to the Council’s department of social work. This resolve was strengthened a week later when, suddenly appearing in front of him as he walked from the lecture hall to the