Half the World Away

by Cath Staincliffe

  I have a shower, a good long shower. Letting the water drum on my head and my back, eyes closed, until I am as numb on the outside as I am on the inside.

  I wake in the dark with a terrible dread. I remember instantly the image of the suitcase, zipping back the lining. Her skull. I switch on the bedside light and sip some water.

  I can’t stay in bed. At the window I look out onto the demolition site. It is abandoned tonight, silent, dark. The sky is burnt umber; through a ragged tear in the clouds I can see a star. The first star I’ve seen since we arrived. Lori got a telescope for her tenth birthday. She already had a camera and she’d taken pictures and made scrapbooks; some told little stories. Then she got interested in space after the solar eclipse when she was nine and they did a project at school. Did she miss the stars here? And the sunshine?

  PS Mum, send cheese. And baguettes. Now. *joke*

  PPS Mum, don’t worry, I’m fine. Just a lot thinner than you remember. #Notdeadyet.

  My breath catches in my throat. I am trembling.

  The corridors are hushed. Low safety lights every few yards cast a gentle glow; the carpet is thick under my bare feet.

  I knock on Tom’s door and hear movement from inside.

  He opens it, a towel around his waist, creases on his cheek from the pillow.

  ‘What?’

  I don’t speak. His eyes search mine. I move forward, he steps aside, closes the door behind us. I reach for him, my hands raised to his face.

  ‘Jo?’

  I place a finger on his lips. His eyes are pained, wary.

  I want this. I move my hand back to his left cheek, feel the vibration as his muscles tense. Keep my gaze fixed on his, let him read what’s there. I watch until I see his expression shift. I see desire bloom in his eyes, see his nostrils widen as he takes a breath. I place a hand on his chest, feel the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, the rhythm of blood pulsing through him. The life of him.

  I reach up and kiss him.

  We make love, and it is as if we are calling her back. Making Lori again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I wake with a start. My first thought is Lori. Lori lost. I’m lying on my back, and Tom’s arm is across my stomach, heavy and warm. The curtains aren’t fully closed and in the pale light I can make out his face, peaceful. Holding his wrist lightly so his arm won’t drop and wake him, I edge out of bed.

  After putting on my nightdress and finding my room key, I walk along the corridor. I examine my conscience for signs of guilt, for a tell-tale twist in my stomach, a sinking feeling, but there is nothing. Hollow. I am hollow. Calm. Which can’t be right. Dazed.

  The sky is clear blue. All blue. The medley of horns and music and motors roars on unceasing.

  I lie on my bed and scroll through my phone. Lori holding Finn when he was born. Isaac and Finn sleeping cuddled up to Benji. Nick with Isaac on his shoulders. Lori on a horse at the age of thirteen, a few months when it was the only activity she wanted to do. Her graduation day, Tom, Nick and Lori. Her two dads. The three of them beaming.

  The skull, its grinning teeth, flashes into my head and I shut my phone. Covered with goose-bumps, I climb under the sheet. Listen to the din of the city, let it fill my head. Every time my thoughts slither back to Bradley Carlson, to the wardrobe, to the suitcase, I change position and focus on the noises outside. Imagine the drivers, irascible in the traffic jams, the women dancing by the underpass, the calligrapher with his giant brush, the licks of water on the stone path, the toddler and his squeaking shoes.

  * * *

  My phone rings and it’s Tom. ‘I’ve just had a call from Peter Dunne,’ he says. ‘He wants to see us – he’ll be here in about twenty minutes. There’s a meeting room on the ground floor, room four.’

  It’s unlucky, I think, number four. The character is similar to the one for death so the Chinese avoid using a four when they can. I’m stupid to think this way: how much more bad luck can I get?

  ‘You OK?’ he says gently.

  ‘Yes.’ He’s asking about last night.

  ‘Good.’

  I shower and dress and make my way to the room.

  Tom is there already, with Peter Dunne and a Chinese man I haven’t met. All standing.

  Peter Dunne introduces the stranger. ‘Mrs Maddox, this is Detective Song. He is working with Superintendent Yin.’

  Detective Song shakes my hand. He is younger than Super-intendent Yin, no sign of grey in his hair. He has a smooth, broad face and one eye is narrower than the other, which makes him look as if he’s peering or scrutinizing something.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Peter Dunne says.

  Once we’re all settled in the easy chairs, he continues, ‘We’ve heard today from the forensic laboratory here in Chengdu.’

  My stomach clenches and my mouth goes dry.

  ‘Comparison with dental records proves that the remains found are not Lorelei’s.’

  ‘Not?’ Tom says.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say.

  ‘It is not Lorelei,’ Peter Dunne repeats.

  Tom makes a noise, like a laugh, incredulous.

  I don’t understand. I get to my feet. ‘How can . . . who . . . but who . . .’ The room spins.

  ‘Sit down.’ Tom reaches for my arm and pulls me back. ‘Who is it, then?’ he says.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Peter Dunne says. He says something to Detective Song, and gets a reply. ‘Detective Song says they’re making every effort to determine the identity but they do know the remains are female and either Chinese or Japanese.’

  I’m trying to disentangle what he’s saying. It feels like my brain is stuck, full of fog. ‘It’s definitely not Lori?’ I say.

  ‘Definitely,’ Peter Dunne says.

  Tom sighs, a great shudder. ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘She’s still missing, then,’ I say. A laugh, twisted, dangerous, flowers in my chest. ‘You must tell him,’ I point to Detective Song, ‘tell Superintendent Yin, her camera, on Lori’s camera, there are pictures from the Monday when she was meeting Bradley. They must look at them.’

  ‘Pictures of Bradley Carlson?’ Peter Dunne says.

  ‘No. But from that . . . it could . . . they must—’ My words become garbled.

  ‘Thank you.’ Peter Dunne exchanges words with Detective Song, who speaks for some time.

  ‘The camera,’ I say again.

  ‘Yes,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘The camera has been taken in as evidence and will be examined. Detective Song has every expectation that Mr Carlson will confess to his crimes and tell them what he knows of Lorelei’s disappearance.’

  ‘They are looking?’ Tom says. ‘They are actively looking for her?’

  Peter Dunne speaks and I see a polite smile from Detective Song. Then we wait for a translation.

  ‘Searches are being made of Mr Carlson’s place of work, and his current and previous address in Chengdu.’

  ‘They could check his phone, couldn’t they?’ I say. ‘Find out where he was that day. With all the technology they can do that. They do it at home, don’t they?’

  Detective Song’s next statement is that all necessary resources will be used to trace Lorelei.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ a rush of anger penetrates my confusion, ‘is he just saying what he thinks we want to hear?’ I nod towards the policeman.

  ‘This nutter has already killed someone,’ Tom says.

  ‘Are they looking?’ I say. ‘The photos together with Bradley’s mobile. They can track where Lori was.’

  Detective Song sits unruffled. Peter Dunne talks to him, pressing him, I hope. ‘He assures me that they will—’

  ‘When? They should be out there now. My daughter is in danger.’ I’m on my feet again. Tom makes no move to restrain me.

  ‘They are also launching a murder investigation,’ says Peter Dunne.

  ‘So get Interpol involved, ask for help,’ Tom says. ‘Whatever the fuck it takes.’

  ‘They wouldn’t eve
n know about the murder if we hadn’t—’ I begin.

  ‘Mrs Maddox—’ Peter Dunne sounds like he’s cajoling me.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I say. ‘Don’t fucking bother.’ And I walk out.

  Tom catches up with me in the foyer. I can sense people’s eyes on us, the drama unfolding, the Westerners making a fuss.

  ‘We do it ourselves,’ I say to him.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘You get the map.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Tom opens the window in his room and lights a cigarette. His hand is unsteady. Before we start looking at the photos he copied, I call Nick. His phone goes to voicemail. It is three in the morning at home. I imagine him asleep, on a camp bed beside Isaac.

  I’d rather speak to him in person but I want him to know the news the moment he wakes up. So I leave a message: ‘Nick, please call me as soon as you can.’

  Tom plugs his phone into his laptop so the images are bigger. There are fifteen photographs from Monday, 7 April. Lori hadn’t set up any GPS data so they don’t give co-ordinates but the technical data includes the time when each image was created.

  ‘Have you any paper?’ I ask him.

  ‘Under there,’ Tom says, nodding at a room-service menu on the desk.

  ‘I’ll do a chart,’ I say.

  We go through all the pictures, making notes of the exact time they were taken and what they show.

  The first six images are of traditional buildings, like the pagodas in the park. Tom thinks one looks familiar. ‘Where’s the map?’

  I pass it to him. He opens it out and turns it over. ‘Yes.’ He points to a tiny photo of the same pagoda under the detailed list of tourist attractions. Wenshu Monastery.

  ‘Which is near Bradley’s,’ I say.

  The six photos were all taken within five minutes of each other. The next one, of the river reflecting the built-up skyline, is some fourteen minutes later. There are then two pictures that we struggle to identify. One is like peeling paint on wood; the other resembles lichen. Next up shows a stencil of a laughing Buddha – the outline is in black and near the bottom of the frame there is a splash of faded red, like spray paint. That was timed sixteen minutes after the river scene. There are three photographs of overhead wires slung between trees and telegraph poles, then a blurry yellow image that looks like a shop sign but is so unfocused that it’s impossible to make out the strokes of the characters. It reminds me of those pictures that show streams of car lights at night. I wonder if she took it by mistake.

  The last photo is a riot of colour. I think it’s wool at first, tangled wool, and then I see glints of metal at the end of some of the pieces. And I realize I’m looking at electrical cables: blue, yellow, white, red, black and grey. No context, just cables. It was taken at two minutes past eleven that morning. If their plan went ahead and Lori had reached Bradley, as she said in her text, she would’ve been with him by then.

  ‘We start at the monastery,’ I say. ‘I’ll fetch my bag.’

  The taxi drops us off close to Wenshu Monastery. The area is milling with visitors, most of them Chinese but a good few Westerners too. There’s building work going on along one side of the complex. The streets around are full of souvenir and gift shops selling jade, brocade, antiques and pottery. I see old stamps and memorabilia, copies of Mao’s Little Red Book, toys and games, tea sets and fans, lucky charms hung with red silken tassels. Eateries are thronged with people. And, as always, there is the call and response of car horns. A woman sells double flower buds, cream-coloured – I catch the scent as we pass, sweet and peppery.

  We pay and go in through the main entrance, which is a temple hall dominated by a statue of a laughing Buddha, gold and full-bellied, raised up in a glass case. In front of the case are gifts: bunches of flowers, eggs and fruit. Along the sides of the hall, more gold statues wear multi-coloured robes and headdresses. The building is open at the back, leading into a square with another temple straight ahead, and pagodas to either side. A huge cauldron releases clouds of smoke from burning incense.

  ‘They’re taken here,’ I say to Tom. ‘Look.’ The first photographs are of the area where we stand. The large pavilion has a single roof with curved eaves and pantiles. In front of the pagoda on the right there is a stall selling flowers and Lori has a photo of that.

  I walk over the square to the temple and look inside. Three great statues, all elaborately decorated, and beneath them a sea of offerings: bunches of chrysanthemums and lilies, piles of red apples, black cherries and oranges, votive candles, sweets, seashells.

  There are cushions on the floor and I watch a woman approach and prostrate herself, supplicant to the Buddhas. Should I do the same? Lie down and beg for help, pray that we find Lori?

  ‘Jo,’ Tom says, ‘the last of these photos is the tower, the one just outside.’

  The cast-iron tower tapers like a chimney, and is designed like a pagoda with roofs all the way up, the eaves hung with bells. Each bell has a metal fish dangling from the tongue.

  ‘So we go to the river from here?’ I say.

  I check the map: the river is north of us a couple of blocks and Bradley’s apartment is to the east. Did she call for him or did they meet somewhere else? At the river? I check the chart. The river photo was taken at ten twenty-eight. Was she waiting for him when she took it?

  ‘Fourteen minutes between the last photo at the monastery and the one at the river. How long to walk there?’

  ‘Let’s see,’ Tom says.

  Stopping to cross the road, I look in one of the shop windows and see a pair of tiny shoes like bootees. Almost a hoof shape, elaborately decorated. And then I recoil as I understand what they are: worn by a woman whose feet were bound.

  ‘Look at the shoes,’ I say.

  Tom realizes too. ‘Oh, God.’

  The sun blazes down. When I take my sunglasses off to read the map, the glare is blinding and I duck into the shade of a willow tree where I can see better.

  We reach the river after nine minutes and look at the skyline opposite but it bears no resemblance to the silhouette reflected in the water in Lori’s photograph. ‘We need two big towers together at the left,’ I say to Tom, ‘then these four smaller blocks, then another really tall one at the right.’

  ‘If we walk five minutes each way we should find it,’ he says.

  We go left, to the west, first. A fisherman walks along the centre of the river, thigh deep in the muddy water, dragging a large fan-shaped net. There are cafés and shops across the road. The air smells of pungent spice.

  ‘I’ve finally worked out what it reminds me of,’ Tom says, ‘the Sichuan pepper. It’s like ouzo.’

  I’m catapulted back. A night at university. Someone, I can’t remember who, had been on a Greek-island holiday and brought back a bottle of the clear liquor. We poured it into mugs and drank it as well as lager. There was possibly some smoking involved. Certainly cigarettes, if not something stronger. It was just before I found out I was pregnant. I know because when I got morning sickness it was like a flashback to that horrendous hangover, the sort that makes you understand the term ‘liver damage’. I was so happy then, giddy at my relationship with Tom and loving my course, and I felt it could only get better.

  Now every fifty yards or so we assess the skyline but after ten minutes (to be absolutely sure) we haven’t found the one we want. We stop and drink water. My fingers have started to swell in the heat, my ankles too.

  ‘If she got a bus or the Metro,’ I say, ‘we could be in the wrong place completely.’

  We’re about to start walking back the way we came when my phone rings. Nick.

  ‘Jo,’ he says, his voice thick with sleep.

  ‘Nick, it’s not Lori,’ I say in a rush, ‘the remains – they’re not Lori.’ I hear a sharp intake of breath. ‘They don’t know who it is, but it’s not Lori.’ Relief at that statement tears at my heart anew.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he says.

  ‘I know.
’ I watch the traffic flow across the other side of the river, the taxis and buses, the big fancy cars and bicycles, the phalanx of scooters.

  ‘Jesus,’ he says again. ‘They’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Definite.’

  I give him a few more seconds to take it in, then say, ‘How’s Isaac?’

  ‘The same, good, sleeping.’

  ‘It’s late,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I needed a pee, saw you’d left a message.’

  I wonder where he is. Is he on the ward or in some patients’ lounge or family room, or the corridor?

  ‘So we keep looking,’ I say. ‘We just have to keep looking.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, Christ, Jo.’ His voice snags and I beat back my own tears.

  ‘Ring me later,’ I say.

  ‘I will. Night-night.’

  ‘Night. I love you,’ I say.

  ‘Love you too.’

  I close my eyes a moment, then look at Tom. He gives a rueful smile, acceptance in his gaze, and I return it. Then he dips his head and we start walking again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ‘There!’ I point to the bend in the river, to the two towers higher than the others. I’m almost certain, but it’s only when we’ve come closer that we can see the third tall tower that completes the shape we’re looking for.

  Tom takes a picture, like Lori’s, the reflections outlined in the water.

  Where did she go next? Where were the pictures of peeling paint and lichen? ‘What’s the timing for those next two images?’ I say, and study the chart. ‘Ten forty and ten forty-one.’

  There is a bridge just beyond the curve in the river. ‘She could’ve crossed. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ I complain. ‘I think we should forget these two pictures, they’re too abstract – they could be anything, anywhere.’

  ‘Same with the Buddha stencil?’ Tom says.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘People might recognize that – something quirky. It could be graffiti on a wall near here. Though it’s hard to tell how big it is.’