CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
We sit, shell-shocked, in a waiting area outside the emergency room. Paralysed among the bustle of staff, the flurries of activity. Grimy, the muck and oil from the workshop ingrained in our skin. It is sweltering. Even my eyelids feel sweaty.
A doctor who speaks perfect English tells us that Lori is in triage and we will be able to see her once her assessment is completed. When her blood results are back they will know what treatment she needs.
I ask how long that will be.
‘An hour, two hours,’ the doctor says, ‘high priority,’ he adds, as he walks away.
Tom is weeping, silently, his eyes red-rimmed, tears making track marks through the dirt on his face.
I go to him, stand and pull his face to my belly until the jerking of his shoulders slows and stops. I move away and he wipes his face, rubbing his nose on his forearm. He turns his ruined eyes to me.
I sit beside him, kiss him.
‘She’s alive,’ I say. ‘Yes? She’s still alive.’
The same doctor returns. He has charts with him. ‘We have blood test results,’ he says, ‘and X-rays. Your daughter has heart arrhythmia,’ he places a finger on his own chest, ‘and low blood pressure. This is a result of the lack of nourishment – an electrolyte imbalance. We will need to introduce essential salts, potassium, magnesium, phosphate and so on, as well as rehydrate the patient. Your daughter also has a condition called pneumonitis, in the lung, probably from irritation due to choking on the . . . mask?’ He signals to his mouth, sketches a line to and fro.
‘Gag,’ I say.
‘Gag,’ he agrees. ‘She inhaled secretions and these cause inflammation. We will also be treating her for infection with antibiotics. In addition to wounds on her wrists and ankles, she has pressure sores from being immobile for so long. There is some vaginal bruising, which suggests she has been sexually assaulted.’
‘Raped?’ I need to be clear. I am quivering, all of me, every muscle, and I can’t control it.
‘Yes. Swabs have been taken for forensic and medical examination and we will test for sexually transmitted infections and HIV. She is being washed now and then will be transferred to intensive care.’
‘Can we see her?’ I say.
‘Soon, maybe one hour for the intensive-care assessment. Please always clean your hands.’ He points to a sanitizer-gel dispenser on the wall. ‘Every time.’
‘Yes. Please – can we see her before she’s moved? Just for a moment, please?’ My voice shakes. I find it hard to breathe and dots prick my vision.
‘I will see if she is still here,’ he says.
Five minutes later he is back. ‘Come with me.’
We follow. My heart aches. It feels swollen and sore as though it’s been crushed.
She is there. On a trolley, covered with a modesty sheet, her hair damp, arms at her sides above the sheet. Her eyes are still closed. The bruises and sores on her face are stark against the pallor of her complexion. There are dressings on her wrists and ankles, on her left elbow. Her feet are swollen, the skin tight and shiny, crazed with fissures. A cannula is fixed to her right hand, connected to a drip.
Something collapses inside me. Oh, Lori. I go to touch her and the doctor calls me back, tells me I must wait.
Two women come in and the doctor tells us they have to move her now and someone will fetch us when she is settled in intensive care.
I cannot hold her, soothe her, rock her. All the things my body hungers for.
It is late afternoon. Outside, the sun burns and the city simmers.
Peter Dunne arrives – Tom called him. He helps with the bureaucracy, the fees we have to pay, the forms we have to fill in for Lori’s admission. ‘Many of the hospital staff speak English,’ he says. ‘The hospital prides itself on matching international standards – this is a Gold Card facility especially for foreigners. She’ll get the best possible care here.’
I ask him if he’ll call Nick. I’m dizzy with shock and can’t marshal my thoughts. I think if I try to speak to anyone on the phone, even my husband, I’ll just seize up. There is a gale in my head, tossing my thoughts about, roaring through and snatching them away before they can be completed.
Peter Dunne magicks up tea and buns and suggests gently that we may want to freshen up.
In the Ladies, I scrub the filth from my face and neck, my forearms. I can’t do anything about my clothes but Peter Dunne has arranged to have all our things moved to a hotel nearby so we can walk to the hospital. Later, we can take turns to go and change.
‘What was he doing?’ Tom asks Peter Dunne. ‘Bradley – with the Chinese woman, then Lori – what the hell . . .’
‘The police are still trying to establish all the facts,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘Why would he . . . why?’ I say. Vertigo makes my vision swoop, my head spin. Did they know – Shona and Dawn and the others? Were they involved? ‘Was it just him?’ I daren’t say what I’m thinking.
Peter Dunne says, ‘Everything so far points to Carlson acting alone. No sign of anyone else being involved.’
* * *
We are allowed into the intensive-care unit and told we can see Lori for ten minutes every hour for the rest of the day. She is in a single room. She is covered with wires. A feeding tube goes into her nose, and several different IV lines come from bags suspended by the bed head that lead to the cannula in her hand. A line is inserted near her left elbow and other leads come from large sticky pads, one high up on the right of her chest, and the other on her left-hand side, measuring her heartbeat, I assume. There is a peg on her finger too, trailing a wire. A bag is clipped to the bed frame and the tube from that goes under the sheet. A catheter. Other machines are ranged close by – I’ve no idea what they are, what they do. A monitor above the bed head records the activity.
The intensive-care nurse says Lori will stay sleeping. She was drugged during her incarceration and can only slowly be weaned off the sedatives – there is a risk of additional complications from withdrawal. The nurse talks on but I barely hear: I’m overwhelmed by the sight of Lori smothered with all the equipment.
The next time we go in, I hear a rattle in her breathing. An alarm beeps fast and high and my heart jumps into my throat. Tom is already on his feet but a nurse comes in, presses something on a machine and replaces one of the bags of fluid. She stands over Lori for a moment, listening, then gestures to Lori’s face. ‘We clear,’ she says. ‘Suction.’ And she mimes putting something up her own nose. ‘Soon, yes.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
It seems there is always an alarm shrilling and we can hear different alarms from the other rooms. My heart starts and races with each one. I am drowning in adrenalin. There is no quiet here, no sense of calm.
We are ushered out again when the ten minutes is up and the nurse returns ready to clear Lori’s airways.
* * *
Nick wants to know everything when I call, and I talk him through finding Lori, then list her injuries, medical problems and the treatment she’s receiving. Several times I have to stop and wait, composing myself until I can carry on.
‘Jesus,’ he says quietly, as I finish. ‘Oh, God, Jo.’
‘I know. But she’s in the best place and they seem to be really good, the doctors and nurses. It’s just . . . it’s just she’s so very poorly.’
I hear him sniff hard. ‘Right,’ he says. He clears his throat. ‘OK. Missing Overseas are issuing a press release at lunchtime.’
I think of all the other families who continue to search, to wait. We have found her. The thought makes me giddy. We have found her. And there is a chance she will make it. We are so very, very lucky.
On Sunday morning the doctor tells us Lori is in some pain and because of the trauma to her liver the usual drugs could do more damage. He recommends acupuncture, a common practice here for pain management. Lori is still unable to consent. We agree straight away.
When we ask if we can stay in the room with he
r now, he says yes, but cautions us that if at any point we are asked to leave we must do so immediately.
Tom and I decide to take turns, five-hour shifts.
I walk to the new hotel, numb, unseeing, like a zombie. Twice I collide with people. I cannot remember the Chinese for ‘sorry’ and just walk on.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
‘Mummy!’ Finn’s voice, the joy in it, unseats me.
‘Hello, Finn.’ Mine squeaks. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Isaac’s home. Is Lori coming back now?’
I take a breath. Dare I promise? She’s still very sick. Will I jinx things if I say yes? ‘Hope so,’ I say.
‘And you?’ Finn says.
‘Yes.’
‘Then we could get my rocket from the museum.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
I picture him, sitting on the floor next to the dog, nodding to himself now that everything is sorted out.
‘OK, put Daddy on now. Bye-bye. Love you.’
A woman stops me as I’m leaving to go back to the hospital. ‘Mrs Maddox?’ She says something about press and turns to signal to a man who carries a camera with a microphone attached.
‘We’d just like a word with you about your daughter.’
‘No, no, I’m sorry.’ I veer round her and keep walking.
‘Mrs Maddox?’ She hurries after me. ‘Just a comment. You must be very happy to have found her, to know she’s safe.’
Tears swim in my eyes. ‘Yes. But I can’t . . .’ I bleat. ‘I’m sorry.’ I walk on and she leaves me be.
Peter Dunne comes to the hotel early on Monday morning with a copy of the Sichuan daily newspaper. The story is inside, complete with a picture of Superintendent Yin and his team of detectives outside the police station, as well as the photograph of Lori.
Peter Dunne translates for me: ‘Chengdu police confirm that Mr Bradley Carlson, a US citizen, has been detained after the remains of a Chinese woman were discovered at his home in the Qingyang area of the city. Carlson is also being questioned about the kidnapping of missing Briton Lorelei Maddox, who was released from captivity on Saturday and is now receiving care at Huaxi hospital. Superintendent Yin said, “These unspeakable crimes have shocked the harmonious community of Chengdu and will not be tolerated. The suspect is now being questioned and justice will be done. The team of detectives have worked very hard on this investigation and their efforts are to be congratulated.” ’
All hail, Superintendent Yin.
I tell Peter Dunne about the journalist outside the hotel, how I fled.
‘It’s for the best,’ he says. ‘The Chinese are going to want to control the story as much as they can. Besides, you’ve still not made your statements to the police, have you? I understand they want to speak to you both as soon as possible.’
I sigh. It’s the last thing I feel like doing.
‘You are witnesses,’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘I know.’
When I arrive, early afternoon, to relieve Tom, he is on the phone.
‘In a few days, maybe, not now, everything’s still—’
‘Who is it?’ I say.
‘Dawn. She’s with Shona and Oliver – they’ve just heard. I’ve told them they can’t visit Lori yet but they wanted to see us.’
‘Let them come,’ I say, ‘just for a little while.’
‘Here?’
‘The hotel. I’ll see them,’ I say.
He cocks his head – am I sure?
I nod. ‘Unless you want . . .’
‘No,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll stay on.’
I nod. He tells Dawn where to go and stresses it can’t be for long.
Dawn bursts into tears, inconsolable. ‘Mrs Maddox, how could he do that? How could anyone do that?’
I hug her. She’s so young, they’re all so young, and I hate that Bradley has brought such horror and corruption into their lives. I hate that I ever harboured suspicions about them, about the possibility of a conspiracy, when they were just her friends all along.
We do what we have to, like survivors of an accident or people faced with the sudden shock of betrayal: we pick it over, mining the disbelief, reviewing, rewinding, reiterating all the nuggets of hindsight, the audacity of Bradley’s conduct. In our case the lies, the duplicity, the pretence he effected and the stark violence of his actions.
Our own clumsy little inquest.
When I think how close we were to losing her, that if we’d left it to the police we would’ve been too late, I want to throw up.
Shona seems angry more than anything. ‘How could we not know?’ she says abruptly, when there’s a pause in the conversation. She trembles and says, ‘How could we have been so stupid?’ She shakes her hands, palms splayed, and the bracelets on her arm chime.
‘He’s clever,’ I say. ‘He fooled everyone. All that rubbish about her going on holiday to confuse us.’
Oliver is leaving. I follow him out and say, ‘Can I ask? When we left messages you didn’t reply. Why not?’ I remember thinking Oliver might be hiding something and was avoiding us. I’m also still thinking, Could we have got there any sooner? ‘Messages,’ I say, holding up my phone. I’m welded to it.
He blinks rapidly, eyes swimming behind the thick lenses, and then looks down. He grasps one of his hands in the other and says, ‘I don’t like talk phone.’ His face flushes.
‘You don’t like to talk on the phone?’ I say.
He nods.
Some phobia, a hang-up. That’s all it is. I almost laugh.
‘OK. OK,’ I say.
‘Zài jiàn,’ he says.
‘Bye-bye.’
I promise to tell Dawn and Shona as soon as Lori is fit for visitors, then walk back to the hospital so Tom can get some rest.
I am bracing myself for when she comes round, determined not to fall apart at the pitiable sight of her.
She smells still, an awful stench, like putrid meat, but the doctor reassures me that there is no sign of blood poisoning, which would almost certainly kill her.
The vigil is terrifying and also profoundly boring. Which seems like sacrilege. The minutes stretch out. Sometimes I doze, or I stare at my phone, wander from website to website. Frustrated time and again to find them censored, not accessible, stuck behind China’s great firewall.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I am there, half asleep, when she first stirs. She makes a whimpering sound, no words, her face slack. Her eyelids flutter open, eyes unfocused. And then a whisper, raw: ‘Mum?’
My heart tumbles in my chest. My breath stops. ‘I’m here, love. It’s Mum. I’m here, Lori.’ Gently, fearful of hurting her, I put my hand on her shoulder. She winces and I pull it back. ‘You’re safe now,’ I tell her. ‘You’re in hospital.’ I touch her hair. It feels dry and brittle. Leaning in close, I try to ignore the rotten smell. ‘You’re safe now.’ Oh, my sweet girl. She is awake. She is awake. I want to run through the halls calling everyone to see. She is awake!
She makes a sound, a small cry in her chest, but she doesn’t speak and I say, ‘You rest, and as soon as you’re better we’re going to get you home.’
Her eyes close and sleep overtakes her.
She knows me, she can speak, she can understand. She is coming back to us. So many fears I’ve been carrying, like demons on my back. Gone now, lifted and flown away. I ring Tom.
A car picks us up in turn to take us to the police station. I don’t know what I expected from them, some recognition, perhaps, that our efforts were instrumental in unmasking Bradley and in saving Lori – but there is nothing. Just bland formalities and tight half-smiles as I go through my statement. At least this time there is a police translator, whose English is good and who takes it all down, a few sentences at a time, before reading the whole thing aloud in Chinese to Superintendent Yin and Detective Song.
I sit in the stifling heat and feel sweat beneath my breasts, at the back of my knees. I see that same file, the picture of Lori: almost unrecognizable from th
e gaunt-faced waif she is now.
Lori wakes again as Tom gets back from the police station.
Her eyes flutter open and she makes a mewing sound.
‘Hello, love,’ I say. I reach and touch her shoulder. And again she flinches. My heart drops. Tom walks round to the other side of the bed and she shrinks away from him, her eyes dark pools, haunted. She cannot bear to be touched.
‘It’s OK, Lori,’ I say. ‘We’re here now. You’re in hospital, getting better, and then we will take you home.’
I long to wrap her in my arms and kiss and comfort her. To feel her warmth against mine and sing her to sleep. To fill this empty ache.
‘No way,’ Tom says, his lips taut, bleached at the edge, when Peter Dunne tells us that the police want to arrange a time to take Lori’s statement. ‘She nearly died and they want her to dredge it all up. Ain’t going to happen.’
‘She’s not well enough,’ I say. ‘She’s still traumatized.’
‘She will need to speak to them before you go home,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘Or what?’ Tom says. ‘They’ll stop us leaving?’
Peter Dunne’s silence is answer enough.
‘Jesus!’ Tom says. ‘She might have died. Left up to them she probably would have.’
‘And another woman did,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘They need Lorelei’s account as a victim and a witness. They want to build the strongest possible case against Carlson.’
Lori hasn’t spoken about it yet. Tom and I agreed that we would not put pressure on her, not ask any questions, but make it clear that we would be ready to listen whenever she wanted us to. ‘Anything you want to tell us,’ I had said, smoothing the sheet, longing to touch her, ‘anything at all, no matter how bad, we want to hear it. When you’re ready. OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her brow furrowed, eyes sunken and dim.
Now, accepting that her statement is something that must be done, I say, ‘And they must send someone who speaks English. It’s going to be difficult as it is.’
Half the World Away Page 25