Free The Disappeared by Roger Scruton Page B

their meaning.
    â€˜I guess I’d better go,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right. If there’s something to worry about, I should report it to the cops.’
    Millie looked at him sceptically.
    â€˜Look, Justin, I don’t know how you stand in relation to Muhibbah. But as I see it, in the culture she comes from, women often pretend they are forced to do what they secretly want to do. And I don’t mean sex only. If you lived with Muhibbah you’d know what I’m getting at. She’s a walking secret, hiding everything from everyone, including herself. To be brutally frank, she gives me the creeps. And I honestly don’t think she’ll award you any Brownie-points for interrupting whatever it is she and that guy are up to.’
    He shook his head. Such thoughts could not touch Muhibbah. She lay beneath the ebb and flow of them, like a sealed amphora on the ocean floor.
    When he left the flat, after exchanging phone numbers with Millie, it was in a state of acute anxiety. He could not accept Millie’s verdict, but she had planted a rival image of Muhibbah in his mind. Whatever was happening to Muhibbah now had been prepared over many months; perhaps she had foreseen it, and perhaps the young man who had been stalking her – Justin had no doubt it was he – had banked on her consent. In which case what conceivable role could there be for Justin?
    He followed the streets where they had walked in the first mornings of his love, when the office of protector had been his by right. He recalled her self-contained way of moving at his side, her alert interrogations, her laughter at each fact, word, or opinion that was new to her. He dwelt on her perfect shape and perfect face, and on the untouchable enigmatic self that was veiled behind her beauty. The image dawned of Muhibbah broken, violated, enslaved, calling in vain for his protection. And by the time he was climbing the stairs to his flat the tears were running uncontrollably down his cheeks, the first he had shed since childhood.

Chapter 10
    Sharon paused on the third step and turned to him. A light from the floor above picked out her features: her face was soft and pale, the lips set in a horizontal line and the blemish to her mouth invisible. Her blue-grey eyes rested on his, and the small white hand on the satchel-strap dropped from her shoulder, exposing the flesh of her neck, like a sacrificial beast inviting slaughter. Stephen’s heart was pounding, and he walked quickly past her, saying ‘follow me’. He told himself that this encounter was none of his doing, that he was performing a duty imposed on him by his role as a teacher, and that in any case the conversation would be over in half an hour. But as he opened the door of his flat, switched on the light, saw the immaculate testimony to his isolation, and sensed her hovering just behind him, awaiting the invitation that stuck in his throat, he knew that he was on a thin ledge above the abyss.
    â€˜Come in,’ he said, and threw his briefcase on to the chair at his desk. She did not move, but stood in the doorway, waiting for him to turn round.
    â€˜Can I make you a cup of tea?’
    He went towards the kitchen. Not turning round was now a policy. Soon she would understand. This is a business meeting, and looks are off the agenda. But he had reached the sink and was filling the kettle before she replied.
    â€˜Yes please, sir. Milk and two sugars please, sir. It’s reelly nice this place, sir.’
    â€˜It answers my needs. Why don’t you sit down?’
    He turned to her now and saw that her eyes were fixed on him, wide, bright, astonished. He pointed to one of the armchairs, and leaned against the other, his two hands resting on the wooden rim of its back. The floodlights in the car park shone through the window, smearing desk, papers, books and chairs with greasy yellow crests. He wanted to draw the curtains, but the gesture would