The Disappeared by C.J. Harper Page B

to pieces because the dormitory is deserted. Everybody else is at the fight. Of course I could go down there myself, but I’ve had enough violence in the last couple of weeks to last me a lifetime. Anyway, I feel a bit slighted by Kay. Not that it matters. I flop on to my bed. I can feel myself sinking into a depression. It’s all pointless. I’m trapped in this terrible place and even if I could get back to my old life . . . well, I’m not sure that things are the same any more.
    I give myself a shake. What I need to do is take action. Do something. In fact, I have been waiting for some time alone because there’s something I really want to look for. It’s only a small thing, but having a goal for the evening is making me feel brighter already.
    There aren’t many places to look for things in the Academy. One of the most depressing things about this place is how bare it is. There are no things . I miss the clutter of studies and workrooms full of books and papers.
    There’s nowhere to look in the dormitory so I go into the bathroom. It’s big. Everything here is big. Sometimes I wish there was a closed-off room somewhere for me to hide in.
    There’s a great long sink all the way down one wall. There are lots of metal cubicles; showers down the long side and toilets across the short wall. Spaced out down the length of the sink are two types of dispenser, one with soap and one with disposable teeth-cleaning kits. Sometimes they’re full, although more often they’re empty. But the refills have to come from somewhere. I scan the room. I notice one of the metal panels behind the door I’ve just come through isn’t quite aligned with the others. It’s a cupboard. I’m sure of it.
    I feel around the edge of the panel and something clicks. The whole metal section swings open. Inside, there are stacks of cardboard boxes. I run my hand across the cardboard and start to open them systematically and carefully. It’s probably best that no one knows I’ve been in here. In the first box are rolls of loo paper. In the second there’s a plastic container with a foil seal. I tear it off. Inside are replacement sachets of soap. I get rid of them by filling up the nearest dispenser. Then I take a look at the container. It’s roundish and fairly sturdy. Just what I look for in a bowl. I feel a rush of triumph, which is ridiculous when I think about my position. That’s okay. Even small victories are good ones. I just have to keep inching my way forward through this mess until I work it out. There’s got to be some sort of solution.
    Before I click the panel back into place I fetch Wilson’s poetry book from where I’ve been hiding it under my mattress. I’m pretty sure that if an enforcer saw it they’d confiscate it. I stack two boxes together and climb on top of them. As I suspected, the lightweight tiles that form the ceiling of the cupboard can be pushed upwards out of place. I slide the book into the airspace above and drop the tile back down. I put the boxes straight and click the cupboard door closed. I’ve got a hiding place. That’s another small victory.

For two days no one but Kay even notices my bowl. Then Rex and a couple of Reds appear outside my pod at dinnertime.
    ‘What’s that?’ Rex says.
    ‘If you’re asking about the food, I’ve got no idea of its content or origins. If you’re asking about the bowl, it’s a bowl.’
    He narrows his eyes at me. ‘Why have you got a bow?’
    ‘I’ve got a bowl because I don’t like eating with my hands.’
    Rex sniggers and the other two join in. ‘You don’t eat with hands, you eat with mouth, you no-ranker.’
    I consider pointing out that technically I do have a rank, but I’m not sure where this little chat is going so I keep my mouth shut.
    ‘This Special thinks he’s big good, doesn’t he?’ Rex says.
    ‘He doesn’t like doing what Specials do,’ one of the goons says.
    I’d like to leave this conversation, but Rex has caught the