THE DISAPPEARANCE (excerpt 1)

Introduction:

How are you supposed to know if you lost your memory? And if you lost it, just what, exactly, did you lose? Or, perhaps, what was taken? And by whom? Questions, questions, questions. That's my life right now.

This morning, I thought all was fine. I woke up, had breakfast and did all of the usual things. Or, at least, all of the things I remember doing yesterday, last week and so on. Everything was normal. That is, until the postman delivered one of my favourite monthly magazines. It was sealed as it always is, and, as I always do, I turned to the cover story. And that's when I left Normal way behind me. Across the face of the person featured in the article was a key, stuck on with tape.

Handwritten at the top of the page were the words "your favourite number." I recognised the key immediately because it was just like the one my father had when he used to collect the post from the post office. To say I was intrigued would have been an understatement!

I'll spare you the finer details on how I drove to the post office, constantly checking my mirrors for anyone following me, as if I were in a movie.
Sure enough, the key fitted a box matching the number. Inside was a slip I had to present to an excitable woman inside the post office, and in exchange, she handed me an awkwardly shaped item, wrapped in brown paper. There was an envelope attached, and, once in my car, I read some further instructions: "Favourite childhood hangout. Tree. Ten north, three west, two north-east." As you might've guessed, the awkward shape was a shovel.

Okay, so someone was playing a game. And I had time on my hands.
The tree had long since died. There was some old rope attached to it, trailing across the ground. I took the steps and dug carefully. It didn't look as if anyone had buried anything because the ground was hard and dry. But still, after a few minutes, I hit something: an old biscuit tin. And inside was a single sheet of paper with an address written on it.

It was turning out to be quite a day.

I knew the area and so had no trouble finding the house. I had barely knocked on the door when it swung open and I faced an elderly man. He smiled and looked at his watch. Pulling a pipe from his mouth, he said, "Right on time."
There was very little conversation, other than my questions of "Who are you?" and "What's this all about?" Outside, he led me to a greenhouse and asked me to pull aside a large pot. The gentleman got on his hands and knees and pushed away some loose soil. He stuck his fingers in and grunted as he lifted another biscuit tin a rather large one - from the ground. He saw me roll my eyes, and smiled. "This is for you," he said.

He urged me to leave quickly, saying something about my safety, and so half an hour later, I sat at my office desk, which is here, at home, and opened the tin. The contents were covered in thick plastic. What were the contents? Files filled with documents, photographs, drawings, newspaper articles, handwritten notes and what looked like a portable hard drive.

My computer was on in minutes. The hard drive contained, amongst other things, audio and video files, backing up all of the other things in the tin.

Now, I don't know why parts of my memory have been lost - or taken - and I plan to find out, but in the meantime, I'm going to tell you about things beyond belief; events I can't remember, but which involved, amongst other things, a tree that grew money, an ancient secret organisation, spies and me.

Learn more about this author, Ryan Anderson.
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