The Disappeared
83,000 words
Forbidden love amidst the Troubles.
Dublin, 1972. Behind the discreet facade of a city pub, two men lock eyes: Sean, an IRA member, and Mitt, a married soldier in the British Army. Neither knows the other’s identity – only that they’ve both come looking for the same thing. What begins as a brief, anonymous encounter ignites into a clandestine love affair. As their relationship intensifies, Mitt is abducted by the IRA – and vanishes without a trace.
Decades later, Mitt’s daughter, Lori, stumbles upon a series of letters revealing her father’s secret relationship. Signed only with initials, the yearning words lead her to believe they were written by a woman. Her discovery sets her on a quest to uncover the truth about her father’s fate – forcing her to confront the very people responsible for his disappearance.
Blending history, mystery and LGBTQ+ romance, The Disappeared is an 83,000-word historical novel that explores queer love, identity and the enduring impact of conflict. At its heart is a universal journey: a daughter in search of the father she never met. The novel explores masculine and queer identity during a time of intense conflict. It also highlights the often-overlooked consequences for women and their children in relationships with men questioning their sexuality.
The Disappeared will appeal to readers of In Memoriam by Alice Winn, Trespasses by Louise Kennedy and Swimming in the Dark by Tomasz Jedrowski — novels that offer fresh and compelling twists on the historical fiction genre. Its contemporary female narrator, emotional depth and moving father-daughter quest give it broad, book club appeal.
Chapter 1
Over the course of the Troubles in Northern Ireland there were 17 people who "disappeared". Republican paramilitaries have admitted responsibility for the majority. To date, the remains of thirteen of the Disappeared have been found, eleven of whom have been recovered through the Independent Commission for the Location of Victims' Remains’ efforts.
Four victims remain to be located.
***
To my dad, whom I never met
***
Her mother had been gone three days when Lori first noticed the smell.
Not the dusty scent of old cardigans or the faint tang of photo albums – but something sweeter, almost cloying. Lavender, subtle but lingering – as if breathing through the fabric. It crept into the air as she lifted linen from the wardrobe shelves. Lori paused, one foot pressed against the open wardrobe, her arms full of her mother’s folded tops. But now, as she shifted another stack of linen onto the bed, the scent stirred again – thicker this time, rising from somewhere high and hidden.
She fetched the stepladder. The wardrobe’s top shelf had been the last place on her list – full of fabric scraps and old rags. But as she climbed, the smell grew stronger, clinging to the back of her throat.
There was a shaft of faded light pushing through the top corner of the window. It caught something pale – not cloth, but a curve of netting. She began to lift things down, tossing them onto the bed. Yellowed lace, scarves, handkerchiefs. And then she saw them.
A neat circle of purple sachets, arranged with deliberate care – their white ribbons still tied in perfect bows. The lavender inside had long dried, but the scent rose softly from them. In the middle sat a box: polished rosewood, untouched by dust.
Her movements stilled. Her fingers hovered above it.
As she lifted the sachets one by one, they gave a soft, papery crunch in her hands. She placed them gently to the side. Then she reached for the box. It was warm from the light, impossibly smooth. She turned it in her hands. It looked new.
Inside was a neat pile of letters, folded with precision. Lori unfolded the top one carefully. The paper felt too soft, like skin. The ink curved in long, delicate strokes. The date read 25th August 1972:
Dear M,
I know it’s foolish, writing words not knowing if they’ll ever find their way to you, but I have to do something or I’ll go mad.
I keep seeing you – standing there in your pants, stunned, your wee shoulders shaking. You turned when I came stumbling out, choking from the smoke, but you just stood there watching the street. I tried to hold you, but you pushed me off like I’d scalded you. Said something about having to go, and you were out the door before I could stop you.
I followed, but then I saw you with that squaddie and I froze. What did he want with you? I waited, thinking you'd turn back. But you just ran.
So here’s what I’ll do: I'll go back to that same place tonight, and every night that follows, until I can speak these words to you.
Stay safe.
S
She read it once. Then again.
She didn’t know who S was. Didn’t know what the frantic words meant.
She placed the letter back in the box and sat down on the bed, the scent of lavender still rising around her.
She picked up another, opened it, then another. All dated. August. September. October…
Six letters.
The last one: 7th January 1973.
A cold dread washed over her.
The day he disappeared.