by Betsy Tobin
Lili takes a deep breath. “I am his sister.”
The woman looks at her intently for a moment, then steps back, opening the door wider. “You’d better come in.”
They follow her inside. An empty bottle of whisky lies on the floor by the sofa, with another half-drunk bottle on the coffee table. Next to it is an array of glasses and a plate of half-eaten, day-old pasta.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says.
Lili and Jin watch as she moves quickly around the room, hastily gathering up dishes and bottles. She carries them into the kitchen, piling them into the sink with a clatter. Then she fills the kettle with water, before coming back to them.
“Wen never told me he had a sister,” she says. “Do you know where he is?”
Lili and Jin exchange a glance. Jin’s eyebrows shoot up.
“We hope that you know,” says Lili.
The woman shakes her head. “He told me he had business in London. That was four days ago.”
Lili and Jin both hesitate.
“Is he gone?” asks the woman a little defiantly.
“Not gone,” says Jin.
“What then?”
“The snakeheads have him,” says Jin.
The woman looks from one to the other, swallowing.
“I think you’d better start from the beginning.”
•
Later, when there is nothing more to say, Angie drives them to the train station. As Lili gets out of the car, Angie stops her with a hand upon her arm.
“Please. Let me know. Whatever you hear.”
Lili nods, a lump rising in her throat. The two women stare at each other for a moment. She is terrified, thinks Lili.
The train home is more crowded. They sit by side rather than across a table. Jin says little, staring out the window.
“What did you make of her?” asks Lili.
“She’s a drunk,” says Jin flatly.
“She’s frightened.”
“So are we.”
“Yes, but…”
Lili’s voice trails off. Jin turns to look at her.
“But what?”
“It’s not the same. For her.”
Jin stares at Lili, her chest rising and falling with anger. Finally she turns away.
“Maybe not,” she says.
For the remainder of the journey, Lili cannot banish thoughts of Angie from her mind. She’d expected to be repelled, but instead she’d been drawn to her. The woman was not like other English people she had met. There was something unsettling about her, as if she did not fit so easily within her skin. Clearly she drank too much. But she was more complex than that: brittle and hard, yet still easily torn, like the shell of a chestnut. It was this curious mix of strength and vulnerability that had impressed her. Like a woman who has once been broken, but has mended herself, and will do so again if necessary.
November 2004
The second beating is worse than the first. This time they use their feet instead of their fists. Wen remains on the floor, one arm handcuffed to the radiator, while Little Dog’s henchman kicks him repeatedly, pausing for an agonising moment in between each blow. It is the anticipation of what will come that makes it unbearable, he thinks through a dirty haze of pain. This is the last thought he has before the toe of the boot clips him squarely on the back of the head, and he loses consciousness.
When he wakes again, the room is dark and deadly still. He is lying on his stomach, and with considerable effort, manages to roll over onto his back. For several minutes he lies staring up at the ceiling. Over time, the light in the room shifts almost imperceptibly as the first glimmer of dawn comes through the blinds. He tries to take stock of his injuries, though the pain he now feels is so great that it radiates through his entire body. His front tooth is chipped; he can feel the sharp edge of it with his tongue. A pity, he thinks, as he has always had good teeth. His right eye is swollen nearly shut. And though he needs to urinate, he senses that to do so might be agony, for there is a throbbing in his back near his kidney.
With his free arm, he pulls himself up to a sitting position, sending a lightning flash of pain down his right side. Something is wrong there too, he thinks. No doubt he has broken some ribs, though he hopes this is the extent of it. Black spots dance in front of his good eye, and he breathes in and out several times, hoping to disperse them. He has not eaten in two days, and can’t remember when he last drank anything. He manages to pull himself up so he can peer through the slats of the blind. He can see a narrow side street, and a row of small, stucco houses opposite. He sits back down again, contemplating his options; they appear to be few.
He thinks again of Angie. Has she come to hate him yet? If so, then it is no less than he deserves. For by now he would have been in Canada, walking the streets of an unfamiliar Chinatown. He has been a coward and a fool. If he dies here, chained to this radiator, it will be a fitting punishment for all those he has abandoned in this life: Angie, Lili, Jin, Miriam. And perhaps most of all, Lin.
He hears a stirring outside the room and braces himself. After a minute, a mobile phone rings, followed by Little Dog’s voice in the hallway. Little Dog speaks in low urgent tones at first, but after a minute, he raises his voice, swearing into the phone. Wen hears footsteps, then Little Dog shouting at the others, rousing them urgently. After a brief interval, one of them opens the door, checks to make certain he is there, then pulls it shut again with a slam. He hears the men descend the stairs and leave the house, and he pulls himself up to watch as all three climb into the car and speed off. Only when he can no longer see the car does he ease himself back down to a sitting position, breathing more easily. For now at least, Little Dog has bigger prey than him.
He looks at the handcuff on his wrist. His hands are small for a man, but not small enough. The radiator is the old-fashioned type, made of heavy cast iron. They have chained him to the base of it, the thin pipe that runs up from the floorboards. He knows nothing about plumbing, but realises that without proper tools there is no way he can unscrew the pipe from the radiator. He pokes his index finger into the hole where the pipe comes out of the floor. The hole has been sloppily made, cut wider than necessary, and the floorboard itself is old and slightly warped. Perhaps if he can get some leverage he could loosen it and see where the pipe leads. He looks around the room. They have been careful to leave nothing within his reach. The only object within his grasp are the blinds, made of flimsy grey plastic slats. But then his eyes alight on the cord: it is made of stout nylon, and at its base is a hard rubber bulb. He grabs hold of it and gives a sharp yank. Unexpectedly, the entire blind comes down on top of him with a clatter and a shower of plaster dust.
He takes the hard rubber bulb and tries to force it through the hole in the floorboard, but the bulb is just slightly bigger than the hole. He lies down and with his foot puts as much pressure as he can on the pipe from the side, moving it fractionally towards the wall until the bulb slips through the hole. He sits back up and pulls on the cord: as he’d hoped, the bulb has lodged on the other side of the board. Now he slips the cord around the far top corner of the radiator for leverage, then wraps it around his free hand several times, positioning himself as best he can. He leans back, pulling as hard as he can on the cord, watching his hand turn purple with the pressure. The nylon cord bites into his flesh, but as it does he hears the floorboard creak under the strain. He redoubles his effort, giving several rapid jerks on the cord, until suddenly the board gives way with a sharp crack, and the bulb flies up at his face.
He slips his hand into the crevice and pulls at one side. The board splinters and breaks, and in a second he is looking down into the floor cavity. The pipe is joined to another that runs along the side of a joist. He grabs hold of this new pipe and gives a sharp tug upwards, putting pressure on the adjoining boards. In this way, he manages to loosen and remove the next three boards. At length, after pulling on the pipe and surrounding boards for half an hour, he manages to break the far end of it. He bends it upwards to
where it joins the other pipe just under the radiator and twists it round and round until it comes free. For a moment, he cannot believe he has succeeded. He sits staring at the jagged end of old lead pipe. Then he hears a passing car and quickly slides the handcuff downwards over the broken joint.
He jumps to his feet, forgetting his injuries, and nearly faints. He sways, leaning hard against the window sill, breathing in and out, trying to subdue the pain. After a minute he straightens, then walks out of the room and down the stairs. He pauses in the kitchen to drink some water, then crosses to the front door, peering out of a window. The street outside is empty. He tries the front door; to his surprise it is unlocked. Little Dog and his men were in too great a hurry when they left. He pushes the handcuff as far as it will go up his arm, grateful for the long-sleeved shirt he is wearing, and slips out of the house and down the street, heading instinctively in the opposite direction. He does not know where he is but he can smell the sea. He should be hungry but he isn’t. It’s as if his body cannot take too much at once. It is enough to be outside, unshackled, in the cool autumn air.
He reaches a main road and turns right, following the smell of the sea. After a few minutes, he passes a large hospital complex. It is early morning and the street is full of medical staff hurrying to work. He realises he must look dreadful, though in the rush no one seems to notice. For an instant, he fantasises about the hospital: the idea of a clean white bed with crisp sheets is tantalising. And he could use a painkiller or two. But he knows this is not an option, so he continues past the hospital down a long street of shops, and across more residential roads. He carries on walking for an hour – perhaps more – trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and Little Dog, all the while looking around him constantly for fear he will be spotted. They have taken his papers, his money and his phone: he should have searched the house before he left, but the time to do so might have cost him his life, so perhaps it is better that he didn’t. At length, he crosses several busy roads and reaches a series of vast warehouses. Beyond them he can see docks and a grey line of water. For the first time he recognises the area: he is back in Liverpool, just as he suspected. He turns south and follows the shoreline for perhaps another hour. By now the docklands are behind him and he has entered a more prosperous residential neighbourhood. He walks down a long winding road that hugs the river.
Finally he reaches a park with gardens and benches. It is an attractive place, the sort that he and Angie might visit on the weekend, but at mid-week in late autumn, few people are about. He pauses at a wooden bench in an out-of-the-way spot, the tiredness overwhelming him. Fortunately the day is sunny and relatively warm for this time of year. He reckons he has walked for most of the morning. Perhaps he has come eight or nine miles, though it is difficult to gauge the distance. He is still terrified that Little Dog and his men will appear from nowhere. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to consider his situation. Little Dog would be unlikely to find him here: he would expect him to flee towards the city centre, to a bus or train station, not to a park on the outskirts of town.
He looks around again nervously, and without warning, a wave of longing washes over him. He misses Angie. The feeling takes him by surprise, for he had not expected it. He feels strangely hollow, as if someone had scooped out his insides and thrown them on the ground.
In the last hour, the pain in his side has begun to worsen, and coupled with the longing, he feels very low indeed. He needs rest and sleep for his body to recover; he does not know what will help his soul.
And then an idea comes to him. He will walk to Angie. He will walk to Morecambe Bay, just as soon as he gets his strength. He closes his eyes briefly. The sun is warm upon his face and the temptation to sleep is overwhelming. He stretches out on the bench, shielding his battered face with his unshackled arm, and sleep takes him almost instantly. He dreams that he is back in Morecambe Bay, cycling along the coastal path. It is low tide: the sands reach as far as he can see. He climbs off his bike and begins to walk across the marshy beach, but soon he feels a hand upon his leg, pulling at him from beneath the sands. He looks down and sees a hand clutch at him desperately. Though he cannot see the face, he knows with certainty that the hand belongs to Lin. He tries to pull free but cannot: the grip of the hand is too strong. He wakes suddenly, the winter air freezing, and realises that someone is shaking his leg repeatedly.
“Sir? Sir? Time to wake up.”
Wen stirs, lifts his arm and squints into the sunlight. Two dark shapes stand over him. He sits up, wincing with the effort, and tries at once to stand. But the blood rushes to his feet and he topples sideways.
“Steady on, mate,” says one of the men, grabbing his arm and easing him back down into a sitting position on the bench.
“Thank you,” says Wen.
He looks up at them. They wear dark uniforms and their jackets are laden with badges and equipment. Police. A year ago he would have run from them, but now he can only stare. With his free hand he eases the handcuff further up his sleeve, wondering whether they will notice its bulk.
“Do you speak English?” one of them asks.
“Yes.”
“There’s no sleeping here. This is a public park.”
“Sorry.”
The two men exchange a glance. They are both white, English and dark-haired, though one is stouter than the other. Wen reckons they are a few years younger than he is. The smaller man purses his lips.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough night. Have you been drinking?”
“Drinking?”
“Alcohol.”
“No. No drinking.”
“What happened to your eye?”
“It… no problem.”
“Walked into a lamp-post, eh?”
“Sorry?”
“Were you in a fight?”
“No. No fight. Just…”
Wen’s voice trails off. Just what, he thinks? Drowning? Kidnap? Torture? How could he possibly explain what has happened to him? And where would the story begin? In Morecambe Bay? Or back home, in China?
“Are you injured, sir? Do you need a doctor?”
“No. No doctor. Please. I am fine.”
The smaller policeman is frowning at him now; he seems genuinely concerned. For the first time, it strikes Wen that these men might not be his adversaries. They may even be prepared to help him.
“You don’t look fine,” says the heavy-set policeman. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
Both men stare at him now, awaiting his response.
“Yes. I have friend.” Wen pauses, trying to organise the sequence of English words in his head. “My friend has house,” he says then.
“Does your friend live nearby?”
“No. Not near I think.”
The two men exchange another glance, and the heavy-set one sighs, running a hand through his hair. The thinner one rummages in his pocket and pulls out a mobile phone.
“Here,” he says, handing Wen the phone. “Call your friend.”
Wen takes the phone and dials Angie’s number without hesitating. He imagines her moving towards the phone, and when he finally hears her voice he feels a small surge of joy.
“Angie?”
“Wen! Is that you?” Her voice is urgent, shot through with fear.
“Yes. Is me.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Bastard! Where are you?”
Wen cannot help but smile in response. Bastard. A term of endearment among the English. Where would he be without this word?
“Wen?” she says again.
Wen turns to the two policemen, who stand politely to one side.
“Excuse me. Where is here?”
The heavy-set policeman rolls his eyes.
“You’re in Merseyside, mate. Riverside Drive. Near Promenade Gardens.”
“Angie?” says Wen.
“Did they say Merseyside?” Her voice is incredulous.
“Yes. I
am in park. By river. Near… garden.”
“I heard. Stay there. I’m on my way.”
He hands the phone back to the smaller of the two men.
“She is come,” he says with a smile.
They look at him sceptically.
“Okay,” says the heavy-set policeman. “You’re going to wait for her? Right?”
“Yes,” says Wen nodding. “Thank you,” he adds.
The small policeman nods back. “Stay out of trouble,” he says pointedly.
“Yes,” says Wen, nodding. I will try, he thinks.
November 2004
Lili stares at the white plastic stick trembling in her fingers. The stick has two tiny windows, one round, one square. After a minute, a blue line appears in the left window, and in another few seconds a pale apparition appears on the right. Lili watches, her stomach tightening, as the two lines darken until their colour nearly bleeds into the white surround. She picks up the instructions on the floor. She has read them a dozen times, struggling to decipher the words she doesn’t recognise: urinate, immerse, hormone. But whatever else she doesn’t understand, one thing is clear: two lines means she is pregnant. She shoves the stick deep into the bottom of her handbag and slumps down onto the seat of the loo. How could this happen?
Her mind works back and forth, combing through the recent past. Her period must be three weeks late. She had been too distracted by Wen’s disappearance to notice, but with a dizzy, sickening sense of the inevitable, she knows that Johnny is the father. They had used no protection that night. She had been utterly unprepared, had not anticipated the course of events, and he had volunteered nothing at the time. Doubtless, she would have been far too embarrassed to bring up the subject of contraception – a subject she knows nothing about. And so here she is with two blue lines. What would Wen say? The thought makes her feel almost breathless with humiliation.
Someone knocks on the door. She is in the toilet at work. Unable to stand the nausea any longer, she had run to the high street on her break and bought the test. It had taken her several minutes to find it in the chemist, and the price had made her balk, but she’d had little alternative.