To his credit the doctor talks directly to Isaac, too, asking him if he has any pains, if anything is worrying him. Isaac shakes his head each time.
‘What about school?’
‘Sit quietly on the carpet,’ Isaac says, ‘or Miss gets cross.’
‘Do you get cross?’
‘Sometimes,’ Isaac says.
‘Why?’
‘If Finn is naughty or Sebastian hits me.’
‘Does Sebastian hit you a lot?’ Dr Munir says.
A toss of the shoulders. ‘Not really.’
Dr Munir asks Isaac to stick his tongue out and say aaah, which he does, grinning at the cheek of it. He examines Isaac’s ears and feels under his neck. ‘Slight swelling of the glands here but nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes an infection presents with vomiting and that would account for the swelling too. Any toilet problems – constipation, diarrhoea?’
‘No,’ I say. Isaac screws up his mouth.
Dr Munir listens to Isaac’s chest, asks about allergies in the family (none), about Isaac’s appetite (picky) and if he’s making progress at school (some).
‘Would you like a listen?’ he says to Isaac.
Isaac does. There’s a look of consternation on his face as the doctor puts the earphones in Isaac’s ears and places the disc on his breastbone.
Isaac yanks his T-shirt back on. I pull his sweatshirt sleeves the right way out and give it to him.
‘There’s no obvious cause I can find to explain the sickness,’ Dr Munir says. ‘It may be that Isaac is simply picking up viruses at school. There has not been any fitting with the fever?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Any big changes at home?’
‘No.’
Isaac doesn’t know yet: we’re still waiting for the green light, as Mr Chadwick from the Foreign Office put it. Yesterday I had a call from him to tell me that one of the consular staff in Chongqing, the nearest consulate to Chengdu, was now liaising with the local authorities on the welfare check. Hospitals were being contacted, the visa departments and immigration authorities. If Lori had left China, it would be documented. Mr Chadwick would let us know the results of those searches as soon as he heard.
I like to think of Lori on some far-flung island having a go at scuba-diving or para-sailing. Or trekking in Nepal, sharing campfire meals under skies dusted with stars, crossing glaciers and sleeping in bags smelling of woodsmoke and moisturizing cream. On top of the world. Alive with excitement.
‘I suggest you monitor the situation,’ Dr Munir says, ‘perhaps keep a chart of any illness. If the situation persists, do come back. We could refer you to a paediatrician or for allergy testing in case there is a dietary trigger. Isaac’s not had any respiratory problems?’
‘No.’
‘Of course, if there is any worsening of symptoms, fits, for example, or a fever that lasts more than two days, please get emergency help.’
* * *
‘He was nice,’ I say to Isaac, as we walk back to school.
‘Yes.’
‘And he let you use his stethoscope to listen to your heart.’
His hand finds mine. ‘I didn’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of the noise it makes.’
‘The heartbeat?’
‘Like I was scared,’ Isaac says, ‘boom-boom, boom-boom.’
I try to lighten the mood. ‘Babies’ hearts beat even faster. They sound like a horse running.’ I make a fast clopping sound with my tongue. And I think about hearing Lori’s heartbeat for the first time with the midwife’s stethoscope. And, like Isaac, hearing fear in the pace of it. ‘So fast?’ I’d said.
‘Completely normal,’ the midwife said. ‘That’s around a hundred and fifty beats per minute. During childhood it will gradually slow until it’s like ours.’
The picture when we went for the scan, and all those drawings in the maternity books of the foetus, looking so peaceful, thumb in mouth, eyes closed. But the heart going like the clappers.
There is a missed call on my phone, Jeremy Chadwick. As soon as I’ve left Isaac in class, I go to the staffroom, which is deserted, and try the number.
‘Mr Chadwick, this is Mrs Maddox.’
‘Hello, I’ve just spoken to Mr Myers to let you know we’ve now had word from Peter Dunne at the consulate in Chongqing. There is no report of Lorelei being seen at any of the hospitals and there is no record of her using her passport to leave the country since the trip to Hong Kong in February. That would be when she collected her work visa?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Chinese PSB, that’s the police, have agreed to undertake further enquiries and a visit was made today to her address in Chengdu. The apartment was empty.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve emailed DI Dooley with this information and Peter Dunne will let us know as soon as there are any developments.’
‘Thank you. So we can go ahead with the appeal, now?’
‘Yes. That’s fine.’
We end the call. My arms and the base of my neck are tingling. I sit down and try to clear my head. ‘Ring Tom,’ I say out loud, ‘and Missing Overseas.’
Before I can dial, my phone rings. Nick.
‘I’ve just heard,’ I say to him. ‘If I ring Tom, can you call Missing Overseas and get them to put it up on the site? Talk to them about the press release and . . .’ there was something else we had to do for them but it escapes me ‘. . . whatever else.’
‘I will. You OK?’
When I don’t answer, I hear him draw in a breath. ‘See you soon, love.’
It takes me seconds to decide.
Grace is in her office, adding her head-teacher comments to the children’s reports.
‘Jo?’
‘I need to go home. Lori – it’s official. The Chinese police are looking for her . . . I need . . .’
‘Yes, of course, go. Go.’ She looks at me, compassion clear in her eyes, her lips parted, as though to say something, but what? What is there to say?
‘Finn and Isaac – can you keep them in after-school club? I didn’t book?’
‘Of course. And anything we can do,’ she adds, ‘just say.’
I nod, biting my tongue.
And leave.
I speak to Tom as I’m walking home. He is at one of his properties, dealing with a contractor, but will join us as soon as he’s done.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nick has made a list from his conversation with Edward at Missing Overseas. We divide up the tasks. I begin calling round friends and family so people hear directly from us before it’s made public. I find it easier to keep the calls brisk as I tell her friends, Erin, then Amy, that Lori is officially missing, and ask them to spread the word. Jake’s voicemail is on so I leave him a message.
There’s no one really on my side of the family to notify: I’m an only child, parents both dead now. My mum’s brother Norman lives in Oxfordshire but he was too frail to make her funeral. His daughter, my cousin Adrienne, and her brother, Curtis, are still around somewhere but I only have Norman’s details. He is very deaf so I won’t ring. Instead I type a letter and address it to Adrienne, c/o Norman.
Edward has sent us a template for a press release and Nick is cutting and pasting text into it.
I ask Nick if he’ll speak to his parents in Nottingham. They are in sheltered accommodation, still independent but increasingly prone to falling over and the diseases of old age – glaucoma, arthritis, osteoporosis. Nick checks the time. They won’t answer the phone before six because of the expense, even though we’d be paying. It doesn’t matter whether we’ve a price plan that includes free or cheap calls to their number, the habit is ingrained. Betty washes and reuses baking foil and darns Ron’s socks. One teabag does for two cups.
Nick’s brother, Philip, lives near to them and has tea there every Sunday. Philip is a bit of a recluse, never married; he worked on the railways as an engineer for twenty years before going long-term sick
with cirrhosis. He has a drink problem. Some insurance policy from his trade union means he can just about manage without having to go on benefits.
I wonder now, as Nick is deliberating over whether to call him first, if Philip is depressed, if that’s behind the drinking. Which came first? Then I feel awkward, knowing how much Nick would hate any comparison between himself and Philip, or any pop psychology about genetics and depression.
And this isn’t depression, I think, not really. Depression is not being able to get out of bed, literally. It’s trudging through one dead grey hour after another; it’s complete self-obsession, self-loathing and pain. Isolation. It is grief as deep as the earth. I know these things from stories I’ve read and documentaries I’ve seen but also because Tom’s mother has been clinically depressed for much of her life. And most of his. Hospitalized for years on end. She couldn’t come to our wedding. We took Lori there once, when Daphne was at home. I’d nagged Tom about visiting, letting her meet her grandchild, until he relented. I had seen photographs of her, tall and blonde, like Tom, but very pale-skinned. She did some modelling in the sixties. There are shots of her wrapped in white fur with bare feet and smouldering eyes. When she married Francis, she found herself installed in a crumbling Georgian house, in a Sussex village, expected to take care of the interior design and socializing and, once Tom came along, the childrearing, while Francis spent his weeks in London at his insurance company, living in the flat he kept there.
When Daphne was ‘away’, Tom was cared for by a nanny until, at the age of seven, he was parcelled off to boarding school. He detested it. When the time came to transfer from prep school to the linked public school, he refused. Clamoured to try for the local grammar instead. Francis wouldn’t hear of it. Tom ran away repeatedly until the school recommended he leave. He moved to the grammar school and scraped into university, choosing philosophy because he quite liked the sound of it but, more importantly, because he knew it would annoy his father. Their encounters were always conducted with an icy politeness that would, on occasion, erupt into vicious mud-slinging. When Tom left for Manchester, Francis told him not to bother coming home until he’d graduated and could stand on his own two feet.
The doorbell rings and I let Tom in. He’s on his phone, ‘Maidstone Avenue house is an inventory check and boiler inspection, and we’ve a viewing at four for Leybourne Close.’ He listens intently, says, ‘Five-fifty a month, all inclusive.’ Listens again. ‘Yeah, well, it’s a bit of a shit-hole but demand’s high. OK, Moira, catch you later.’ He closes his phone. ‘So?’
‘We’ve filled in the press release,’ I say. ‘Missing Overseas said to notify people. I’ve covered Erin and Jake and Amy. Nick’s doing his family . . .’ Tom can fill in the rest.
I point to the kitchen, where Nick has rigged up the family computer. It’s the only room with a large table.
‘Social media?’ Tom says, as he unzips his laptop.
‘I asked them to tell their friends on Facebook and so on,’ I say.
‘Edward says Missing Overseas will use Facebook and Twitter,’ Nick says. ‘I’m on LinkedIn.’
‘That still going?’ Tom says. Before either of us can react to the dig, and its juvenile nature, he says, ‘You?’
‘Why should I be on LinkedIn?’ I say. ‘I’m a bloody school secretary.’
‘OK, the press,’ Tom says. ‘I know someone on the Metro. They should do a feature.’
‘The Big Issue,’ Nick says. ‘Edward says he’s hopeful they’ll do something, talk about Lori as part of a broader piece.’
‘What about local news, TV and radio?’ Tom says.
The message alert sounds on the computer and Nick reaches over to open it. ‘It’s up,’ he says, and we crowd around the monitor. He clicks the link in the email, which takes us to the Missing Overseas website and Lori’s picture appears, with the agreed text:
Lorelei Maddox
Age: 23
Missing since 2 April 2014.
Lorelei has been missing in China since 2 April 2014.
She was last seen in Chengdu where she was working as a private English teacher. Lorelei is 5’3” tall and of slim build with dark hair and blue eyes.
Do you have any information?
‘Daddy and I need to talk to you about something.’
We are at the table and the boys have just eaten. I suggested to Nick we have something later, left-over stew in the freezer that needs using up.
‘The holidays?’ Finn beams.
‘No, Finn, not the holidays.’
‘A party?’
Nick touches his arm, mouths, ‘Shush.’
Isaac is still, wary.
‘You know Lori’s gone to China—’ Nick says.
‘Are we going?’ Finn jumps in.
Nick shakes his head. ‘Just listen. Well, Lori hasn’t Skyped us for a while and her phone’s not working and she’s not at her house in China, so some people are trying to find her.’
‘Is she lost?’ Finn says.
‘She might be,’ I say.
‘She should ask a policeman,’ Isaac says.
‘That’s a good idea,’ I say. ‘Perhaps she will.’
‘So,’ Nick says, ‘we’re going to be telling everybody she’s missing and asking them to help look for her.’
‘There might not be a policeman,’ Finn says.
‘A grown-up then. Ask a grown-up,’ Isaac says.
‘Lori is a grown-up,’ Finn says.
‘Anyway, we hope we find her soon but we wanted you to know what was happening.’ Nick gets to his feet. He pours himself a whisky.
‘We’ve made this,’ I say, ‘to show people.’ I have a copy of the press release. The ink’s running out on the printer so the picture is faded, the text striped with white lines.
‘Missing,’ Isaac says.
I read the rest of it out for them.
‘Hmm – like Poncho,’ Finn says.
Oh, God. Poncho was Lori’s hamster when she was about eight. Finn wasn’t even born. But it’s a family myth, how Poncho disappeared behind the radiator in the kitchen and was never seen again. How Lori sat up all night keeping vigil, with a saucer full of Poncho treats to tempt him back. How she fell asleep sitting up.
Eager to distract them from the fact that there was no happy reunion with Poncho, I say, ‘But Poncho couldn’t ask anyone the way home. He couldn’t talk, only make noises. What noises do hamsters make?’
Isaac says hamsters don’t make any noises – Sebastian has one and it never says anything. Finn says they squeak. They bicker about that for a while and I clear the table.
I stick the ‘Missing’ sheet up on the cork board. It’s as if I’m waiting for it to hit me, as though we’ve unlocked the floodgates and the water is rushing towards us but we can’t hear the roar, can’t see the torrent racing our way. There is just the caught breath of a pause, a frozen heartbeat, the unnatural stillness, pinning me in place.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Mummy, phone!’ Finn stands at the kitchen door, waving the handset. I’m fetching the washing in. I dump the clothes in the basket and take it from him. ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Maddox?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Dawn Jeffreys. I’m Lori’s friend, in Chengdu.’
‘Dawn, yes.’ My pulse speeds up – there’s drumming up my spine. I move to sit on the bench, willing her to say, Don’t worry, she’s here, I just spoke to her, everything’s OK.
‘I heard about Lori, that she’s missing. I’m so sorry.’ The line is clear but her Australian twang is unfamiliar so I have to concentrate hard to follow.
‘You haven’t seen her? Or heard anything? You don’t know where she is?’
The sparrows are fighting over the bird-feeder, jostling for purchase.
‘No, I’m sorry.’ There’s a slight delay between one of us speaking and the other person hearing it.
‘When did you see her last?’ I say.
‘Thursday, the
third of April.’
After the blog. Suddenly that seems good. We thought that the Wednesday was her last contact. But Dawn saw her on Thursday. I feel giddy. So it’s not twenty-one days now, it’s twenty.
‘Didn’t you think it was odd,’ I say, ‘that there was no word from her?’
There’s a pause and I hear a muffled sound, gulping. Dawn is crying. ‘We broke up,’ she says, her voice choked, ‘that Thursday. I thought she needed some space . . . I . . .’
Oh, God. The racket from the sparrows drowns her out, forcing me inside through the kitchen to the stairway, far enough from the kids’ television to hear her.
‘Everybody here is doing what they can,’ she says. ‘The police have been talking to us.’
‘Was she OK about the break-up?’ Could this be the reason for Lori’s silence? A broken heart triggering a crisis? I’m shaken, then feel a flicker of anger that Dawn rejected her.
‘It was her decision,’ Dawn says.
Lori ended the relationship. Why? I struggle to reorient myself. ‘Right,’ I say.
‘And she was around on the Friday – there was a party,’ Dawn says.
The Friday. Nineteen days. ‘Do you think she might have gone away somewhere?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dawn says. ‘No one here has heard anything from her.’ She gulps again.
I can’t think what else to say, still trying to process the new information. ‘Dawn, can I take your number so we can talk again?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll just get a pen.’
She reads it out and gives me her email address as well. Our goodbyes are clumsy, speaking over each other, my timing disrupted by all the new questions crowding behind me. And at the core of them, like a heartbeat, driven and relentless: Where are you, where are you, where are you, Lori?
‘How long do we give them?’ Tom is on the phone to Jeremy Chadwick at the Foreign Office, badgering him. ‘It’s been a week since the Chinese police started work,’ he says, ‘and we have to hear second-hand from a mate of Lori’s, who had the decency to get in touch, that Lori was seen on Friday, the fourth, two days later than we thought. Why are the police not keeping us updated?’
Half the World Away Page 7