HOW TO DISAPPEAR

Advice

A Chap’s Guide to Disappearing

Torquil Arbuthnot outlines the various ways in which a Chap in need of anonymity may disappear off the face of the earth

The desire to disappear off the face of the earth can arise from the simplest of motives, such as a broken heart, galloping accidie or a warrant out for one’s arrest. Often, however, the necessity of hooking on the false beard and escaping is due to circumstances beyond one’s control: the failure of the favourite in the 3.40 at Kempton Park; the lack of imagination of the Serious Fraud Office when it comes to understanding one’s accounting practices; the insistence, at the point of a shotgun, of a prospective father-in-law that one marries his daughter; the unreasonable suspicion of the police at your explanation that you were using an oxy-acetylene torch in Mappin & Webb at 2 o’clock in the morning to search for a dropped cufflink. Turning one’s face to the wall and giving up is one way of dealing with life’s vicissitudes, as is retiring to the library with a glass of whiskey and a pearl-handled revolver. But beyond faking one’s death (the pile of clothes left on the beach, the empty yacht found drifting in the Channel) there are more alluring ways of evading the pettifogging inconveniences that life can hurl at us.

Running away to sea

Although the Merchant Navy fleet is sadly reduced these days, the possibilities still exist for a life on the ocean wave. The more modestly minded Chap could consider starting at the lowest rung of the ladder as a cabin boy on a tea clipper, although one’s duties would be menial and the food weevil-ridden. There is, however, the possibility of deserting the tramp steamer at the first agreeable port-of-call and disappearing into the nearest stew. For those of a more adventurous mien, there is always whaling in the South Atlantic, blackbirding in the South Seas, marooning oneself on a desert island with a parrot like Mr. Crusoe, diving for sunken Spanish galleons, or smuggling pearls in the South China Sea. Sailors’ garb is traditionally practical rather than aesthetic, although joining a pirate ship should satisfy one’s desire for more flamboyant rig. Tattoos among sailors are de rigueur, as is whiling away endless hours in opium dens.

Taking monastic orders

Being known only by one’s first name (‘Brother Gustav’, for instance) is useful, as a lack of surname will baffle the police or creditors. How one gets taken on the staff at a monastery rather depends on one’s level of religious belief. Those of a messianic bent will relish the hours spent at devotion, while those whose only prayers are to Lady Luck will find numerous longueurs in the monastic life. The boredom can be relieved by replacing the Bible or psalter (while retaining the book’s cover as camouflage) with a volume of Surtees or Wisden. The crafty Chap will either wangle being put in charge of the communion wine or, even better, if joining the Bénédictine or Carthusian orders, will selflessly volunteer to oversee the liqueur making, in particular the quality control department. The Roman Catholic Church has a somewhat lax moral attitude to whom it offers sanctuary, so don’t be surprised to be sharing the cloisters with Serbian war criminals and Sicilian Mafiosi.

Hitching a ride with the circus

The big top is a somewhat strenuous option, unless one has a natural talent for the trapeze or is possessed of a ‘freakish’ physique (being over 9 feet tall, having India-rubber bones). Being a crack shot or adept wielder of cutlery is an advantage, as circuses are always in need of trick-shooters and knife throwers. The element of disguise is a major benefit of the circus, whether one be slathered in droll make-up and outsized clothes as a clown, or sporting magnificent false moustachios and a leopardskin leotard as a lion-tamer. One can keep one step ahead of the law and bailiffs, as the circus caravans do not traditionally stay long in any one place. The presence of so many wild animals and circus strongmen will also deter one’s enemies from poking around the premises too assiduously.

Joining an expedition

Disappearing into the Amazonian jungle or up the Limpopo river are time-honoured means of disappearing. There is always a myriad of crackpot expeditions one can join, if one is a reasonable gun and doesn’t mind eating lizards. One can take one’s pick of macheteing into the Matto Grosso to seek the lost treasure of the Conquistadors, or camelling across the Sahara in search of King Solomon’s Mines. Before setting out, one will invariably be visited by a lean, scarred man from the Foreign Office who asks one to “have a shufti” at any foreign military bases one comes across in one’s travels. Good shootin’ is to be had, and plenty of adventure for those who grew up on a diet of Henty and Rider Haggard. One will either end one’s exploring days dead from a poisontipped arrow, sacrificed to a sacred crocodile, or worshipped as a god and fanned with palm-leaves all day.

Enlisting in the French Foreign Legion

The French Foreign legion was established in 1831 with the sole purpose of providing a haven, no questions asked, for any ne’er-do-well or homicidal maniac who wanted to disappear. Under a practice known as the anonymat, one is allowed to enlist under an assumed name. Mum is very much the word when it comes to former identities, so if you find out your drill sergeant used to be Lord Lucan, keep it to yourself. The Legionnaire uniform is agreeably dashing, the marching songs reassuringly rousing, the company suitably dubious, and recruits are required to read PC Wren’s Beau Geste upon enlisting. True, one will spend an inordinate amount of time fighting restless natives, but if you have romantic notions of dying for a lost cause, and like sand and sunshine, then the Legion is the place for you.

Assuming a new identity in San Francisco

Oscar Wilde noted, “It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco”. That city certainly has an agreeably louche atmosphere that will appeal. Of course, disappearing into a teeming metropolis comes with its own dangers, and the Chap who takes on a new identity in a foreign city is advised to have extensive plastic surgery. The surgery doesn’t have to be too neat a job, as poor stitchwork can always be mysteriously explained away as duelling scars or hints of torture at the hands of the Gestapo. If anyone asks where your money comes from, don’t tell them the truth (embezzled charity funds, forged wills) but intimate your moolah comes from a gold mine or breaking the bank at Monte Carlo. Ideally one wants to present an air of mystery, hearing people murmur as you walk by, “They say he killed a man…” n