‘Oh, God.’ I should be there. ‘Have they said anything?’
‘No.’
‘Shit. Where’s Finn?’
‘He’s here. I couldn’t leave him. He wants to say hello.’
‘Yes.’ I snatch a breath, sit on the edge of the steps. There are banks of flowers growing at the side, vivid pink cosmos with feathery leaves, showy arum lilies, verbena.
‘Mummy?’
‘Hello, Finn.’
‘We’re at the hospital.’
‘Isaac’s poorly, isn’t he?’
‘Are you coming home now, Mummy?’
Oh, God. I swallow. ‘Not just yet. That’s great, you helping Daddy.’
‘Yes. I’m going to get some 7-Up now from the machine.’
‘OK. Love you. Put Daddy on.’
If I got a flight tonight, I think, it takes thirteen maybe fifteen hours, depending on connections. With the time difference I could be home tomorrow at noon.
‘I can see about flights,’ I say to Nick.
‘How was the press conference?’
‘It didn’t happen. We’re being jerked about. Peter Dunne’s trying to fix up an alternative, in the consulate.’
‘When?’
‘Soon as he can. We’re not to tell anyone yet. But Tom could do the conference. I’ll come home if I need to . . . if he’s not . . . if he’s . . .’ What am I saying? If he gets worse, if they don’t know what’s wrong.
‘Can you even get a flight?’ Nick says.
‘I don’t know. They must make some sort of provision for emergencies,’ I say.
‘Wait, let’s see what the doctors say. It could be something simple—’
‘Like what?’ I say.
‘I don’t know. I’m not a bloody—’ He makes an effort to sound reasonable. ‘I’m just not sure it makes sense for you to leap on a plane straight away. And if he’s better, then what – you leave again?’
I don’t know how to respond. A group of Chinese tourists comes out of the hotel. I can feel them glancing at me, sitting on the steps.
What is Nick saying? That if I come home I should stay there?
‘He’s in the best place,’ Nick says.
‘How was he, in the ambulance?’
‘Finn and I had to go in the car,’ Nick says. ‘They couldn’t take both of us in the ambulance with Isaac.’ There’s a pause, then he says, ‘He wasn’t conscious.’
I blink hard. ‘I’ll look into flights,’ I say, ‘just in case.’ There’s a buzzing in my head on top of the edgy percussion of the city.
‘Don’t book anything,’ Nick says. ‘I’ll ring as soon as there’s any word.’
My eyes burn with unshed tears. ‘Oh, Nick,’ I say.
I can hear Finn calling him, asking him something.
‘I’d better go,’ Nick says.
‘Yes. Fine. You’ll ring?’
‘Promise. Bye.’
I’ve only just got to my room when there’s thumping at the door.
Tom glares at me, his pale eyes icy. ‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ he says, ‘Peter Dunne has the go-ahead from his higher-ups. He’s thinking Saturday but he needs to confirm a few things. I’ll be in the bar. You need to set your bloody phone up so it tells you when there’s another call waiting.’
I hit him. I slap at his face and then push his chest with both hands. And then I burst into tears.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
‘Fuck. What did I do now?’ Tom stares at me.
Through my sobs I tell him about Isaac.
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Wait there.’
He returns with his laptop and a bottle of some sort of Chinese liquor and insists I drink some. It makes me cough – I feel like it’s stripped the lining from my mouth.
‘What if he . . . what if I can’t get there in time?’ I feel horrible saying it, thinking it.
‘Let’s look at flights,’ he says. ‘At least you’ll know what your options are.’
He browses websites. There aren’t many to Manchester but we include those to Birmingham, Leeds-Bradford and Liverpool as well. Then he collates the possibilities and emails it to print downstairs.
I am counting the minutes since Nick rang, opening my phone time and again. When it does ring, I leap out of my skin. But it’s not Nick, it’s Anthony. ‘Mrs Maddox, I’m not going to be available tomorrow, I am sorry. I’m going to be out of the city for a while.’
‘Right.’ I’m not sure what to say.
‘There are many other agencies you may contact in Chengdu.’
‘Yes.’
A pause. Then he says, ‘Goodbye.’ And that’s it. He’s resigned. It’s like a slap in the face. I can barely take it in.
‘Anthony,’ I tell Tom. ‘He’s not going to be available.’
Tom snorts. ‘Really? Couldn’t have anything to do with us getting him arrested, could it?’
‘Maybe he was warned off,’ I say.
‘Maybe he just wants a quiet life. Edward will be able to suggest someone else, or Peter Dunne will. There’s something about them having a list of translators on the FCO website.’
Tom gets up and stares out of the window. He makes conversation but I’m too distracted to respond. He hovers. ‘Come on,’ he says eventually.
‘What?’
‘Let’s get out for a bit. You’re going to go batshit crazy just sat here waiting and I’m going to go crazy watching you.’
I look at my phone.
‘You’ll still get the call,’ he says, ‘whether you’re here or outside.’
‘You go. I’ll be fine.’
He looks at me, sceptical.
‘I’ll be all right. I don’t need you . . . pacing.’
He’s about to argue.
‘Tom.’ I hold up my hand. ‘Please. I’ll be OK. I’ll let you know.’
I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I close my eyes to rest them but I’m far from sleep.
I think of Isaac, of him being ill, then rallying enough to needle Finn, and of Nick sending him to his room. Did they make up before night time? Before he collapsed?
I ring Peter Dunne. I detect a note of impatience as he starts, ‘I still haven’t heard back from PSB—’
‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I’ve had some bad news from home. My son Isaac, my youngest, he’s in hospital. He’s collapsed and, erm . . .’ I’m out of breath, feeling dizzy, I gulp some air ‘. . . they’re assessing him now. If he deteriorates I may have to get a flight back.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. If you do need to travel please let me know and we can arrange a seat for you at short notice.’
‘Thank you.’
* * *
The phone rings, shrill in the silence of my room.
‘Nick?’
‘I’ve just spoken to the doctor. Isaac’s being prepped for surgery.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘It’s his appendix. It’s burst. They’ll remove it and they said their main concern will be to prevent any infection.’
‘Oh, Nick.’
‘Try not to worry,’ Nick says.
‘He’s five years old and I’m not there.’
‘I am,’ Nick says.
But I’m his mum.
‘All being well, he’ll be in hospital for a few days until he’s recuperated enough and then it’s bed rest at home. We’ll be fine.’
What is he saying? He wants me to trust him to cope with it all? To accept that he is the parent in charge, the one holding things together?
‘You’ve only another week, as it is,’ he says, ‘and if there’s going to be a press conference, you should stay. Keep looking for Lori.’
He’s right: no matter how much I want to be there, to be at Isaac’s bedside, it seems the emergency is over and I can’t abandon my search for Lori.
‘They reckon it’ll be about three hours,’ Nick says.
‘Ring me,’ I say.
‘I will.’
‘How’s Finn?’ I
say.
‘Sparked out – and snoring.’
I call Tom and tell him what’s happened. ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘They know what’s wrong, how to treat it. You haven’t eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Is that a good idea?’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Skipping meals because you’re upset. I’m going to one of the snack places. You could come. I won’t force-feed you.’
* * *
We walk to the row of eateries round the corner from the hotel. Raw food is set out on a table in front of the window of the first establishment and we try to work out what it is. Tom points at a line of thin pink strips of meat and says the word for duck. The vendor frowns. Tom repeats himself. The vendor speaks a stream of words, perhaps thinking we’re asking to buy. Tom says ‘duck’ again and points. The vendor nods.
‘Duck’s tongues,’ Tom says, ‘I thought they were.’
‘How come?’
‘Had them in Chinatown one time.’
Of course he did. Whole swathes of Tom’s life I know nothing about, haven’t wanted to know anything about. And vice versa, I guess. Though I’d venture his has been more varied and exciting than mine.
The man gestures for us to come inside.
‘Bú yào, xiè xie,’ I say, smiling and shaking my head, ‘No, thank you.’
Further down, there’s an eatery with a couple of spare tables and laminated pictures on the wall, showing the dishes they offer.
Tom points to the ones he wants. I tell him to get enough to share. He’s right – there’s no point in keeling over with low blood sugar.
The TV is on in the corner, some sort of soap opera. A girl and two suitors, it looks like. There’s a slapstick feel to it. The cook and another woman are sitting on stools, watching it, with a little boy. They’re laughing. Perhaps it’s a sitcom.
‘Peter Dunne called just before we came out,’ Tom says.
‘He called you?’
‘I think he thought you’d rather a lot on.’
‘And?’ I say.
‘The PSB is satisfied that Mr Du had no further contact with Lori after his lesson on Sunday and that she made no arrangements to photograph him. Like he told us.’
‘Can they prove it?’ I say.
‘It seems so, but Peter Dunne wouldn’t give me any details. Or couldn’t because he’s not in the loop.’
Our food arrives. Pork, spring onions, greens and aubergine in chilli sauce with sticky rice. Hot liquid in little glasses, faintly yellow. Water? Or perhaps it’s tea, though I can’t taste tea. The food is salty and oily and the taste of the Sichuan peppers is strong.
Tom scoops up greens and rice with his chopsticks, dips his head to eat.
‘Where does that leave us? Lori hadn’t photographed Bradley or Oliver,’ I tick off the candidates, ‘or Shona. And Mrs Tang was away working.’
‘Unless they’re lying,’ Tom says. ‘We’ve only got their word for it.’ He takes another mouthful.
‘And Oliver – the way he ignores our messages.’
Tom wipes the juice off his chin with a tissue and puts it in the waste bin. ‘But maybe we’re getting too fixated on the project,’ he says.
‘What else have we got, Tom?’ I go through it out loud. ‘She breaks up with Dawn on Thursday, gets so drunk that she’s sick on the Friday. She teaches as normal over the weekend, and on Monday she texts Shona. That’s where the trail . . .’ I hear the end of the phrase and almost don’t say it but tell myself I’m being ridiculous ‘. . . goes dead. There’s nothing else and, as far as we can tell, the police haven’t come up with anything. There’s neither hide nor hair of her. People don’t just disappear.’
He looks as if he’ll contradict me but I go on, ‘They don’t. They run away, they have an accident or . . .’ I shiver, feeling feverish, nerves jangling again.
There’s a blare of music from the TV, the theme tune. The cook takes the boy off her lap and stands up.
Tableaux flit into my head, an ugly peep show. Dawn in a rage, hurt by Lori, confronting her . . . Oliver calling Lori up, asking her to the loft where he keeps his pigeons, an argument erupting, he gets angry . . . Mr Du touching her, Lori pulling away . . . Some awful mishap with Shona on her scooter. The group of friends sealing an unholy pact to protect one of their number. Lori, with her camera, stumbling upon something hidden, secret and deadly, the triads or government corruption.
I knock them down, shake them off, the scenarios from this catalogue of dread.
‘I want to go back,’ I say.
‘Home? Tonight?’ Surprised.
‘No, the hotel.’
‘Look, if you want to—’
‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
There’s a pressure in the air that makes the back of my skull and my teeth ache. The sky is dark. A gust of wind sends leaves and scraps of litter scurrying down the street. It blows dust in my eyes. I have a sense of hopelessness: we’re getting nowhere – people don’t want to help, they don’t care. Lori is lost and Isaac is sick and I’m floundering. We are scattered, my family, broken.
A text from Nick. All well. Isaac sleeping. He’ll go on to a ward tonight. Finn staying with Penny for a couple of days.
My room is sweltering. But I prefer the noise of the city to the drone and stale cold of the air-conditioner so I slide open the windows.
In the night thunder breaks. I jolt awake to the sound of a great timpani drum beating above, strike after strike, clanging and jangling in the dark. As if the skin of the sky will split. Outside, sheets of lightning flash over the city; jagged forks stab down among the buildings. The thunder pounds and crackles and roars but no rain comes. There is no respite from the sultry air. The pressure builds even stronger behind my eyes, in my head. I watch until my joints grow stiff.
CHAPTER FORTY
I’m up at dawn. The storm has broken and rain hammers down from the glowering sky.
I dreamed of Isaac. A lovely dream. I arrived home, rushed and anxious, to find him sitting at the top of the stairs in his pyjamas.
As he saw me, he smiled and stood up. ‘Look, Mummy, I can fly.’ His face full of glee. And he flapped his arms and cycled his legs and was soaring around the hallway, which was a massive dome hung with chandeliers.
It’ll be after eleven at home but I text anyway: All OK?
Yes, Nick’s reply comes. I’m staying with him. He needs plenty of sleep. Skype when he’s up to it?
Sure.
Penny has emailed to say that Finn is fine:
It must be hard to be so far away when Isaac is poorly but do try not to worry. Nick’s with him and Finn is enjoying the novelty of sleeping on a sofa bed in Gav’s room with Benji in attendance (Gav’s still working in Berlin). We are all thinking of you and hope there will soon be news of Lori. There are some lovely messages for her on Facebook.
In the hotel restaurant I eat some melon, a round of toast, drink tea and return to my room. It is still only seven forty-five. I don’t know what to do with myself.
I practise saying my piece for the press conference. Read it over and over until I almost know it off by heart. Then I swipe through the photos on my phone, Isaac and Finn, Lori, Nick. I read Lori’s blog again, that first entry.
In my defence I’d like to point out that
a) No one asked me
b) I’m really not the alluring type
c) If I am called after a rock then so are the Jades and Rubys and Ambers out there and maybe my rock has a little bit more character than theirs. Maybe. Granite, anyone? Millstone grit?
d) My singing may drive people to distraction but I have never drowned a soul, mariner or otherwise.
Perhaps people who hear the appeal will look at her blog, get more of an idea of who she is.
By the time Tom comes to my door at nine, I have showered and tidied up, and I am watching the construction vehicles working in the rain, demolishing the last of the long sheds. The site is po
cked with puddles now, some very large. The lorries that are removing the debris drive through them, causing great waves of spray and sending the water streaming across the ground.
I answer Tom’s knock.
‘How’s Isaac?’ he says.
‘He’s sleeping, no problems.’
‘OK. I’m going to see Mrs Tang, and then I’ll do some leafleting. I’ll see you when I get back.’
‘Did you get an interpreter?’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘No, I forgot. But I’ll try to find someone later.’
‘And Mrs Tang?’
‘Got this.’ He holds up his phone. The English–Chinese dictionary app.
‘OK.’
He shuts the door. I sit on the bed, feel a swift lurch of misgiving, a flush of heat. What am I doing? It forces me to my feet. I grab my bag and my raincoat from the wardrobe and run to the lift. When I get down to the lobby, I see Tom on the steps outside, his jacket already darkening with the rain. No umbrella.
I race after him. I’d thought the rain would be refreshing and lower the temperature but it’s steaming, like being in the shower.
I catch him at the junction.
‘Jo?’
‘I can’t just sit there,’ I say, breathless. And I don’t want to be on my own.
He nods.
We wait for the lights to change.
The park is quiet, everything sodden. We pass life-size models made of bamboo: a yak, a water-wheel, a cottage, a cart.
Tom is drenched by the time we reach the ring road. My top half is dry but my jeans have soaked up the water and stick to my ankles. My sandals are slippery, treacherous.
We buy our tokens for the bus and take the escalator up to the platform. Curtains of rain cloak the city, blurring the view. Once we are on our way, I see a policeman asleep in his car at the side of the ring road. I want to stop the bus, run over and hammer on his windscreen, wake him. ‘Find my daughter. Now. Find her. Why aren’t you looking? Look now.’
In the grey of the downpour, Lori’s building with its vivid blue tiles is a brash slab of colour, smeared with rust marks, like wounds.
Martin answers the door, and smiles. ‘Hello. Come, come.’ He waves us indoors, takes us through the kitchen into a living room that is divided into two areas: a dining table and chairs and beyond that the lounge area, with two long couches in an L-shape facing a TV. The wallpaper is patterned with tall canes of bamboo, and there is a beautiful fretwork screen concertinaed by the wall next to the dining table. All the furniture is made of rich dark wood, highly polished.
Half the World Away Page 20