Half the World Away

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When Dawn arrives, I show her the map Peter Dunne gave us and ask her where the bar is. She studies the map for a moment, then points. ‘Near here. This road is where we get off the bus so we walk this way.’ She traces the route. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick. ‘Or we can get a taxi,’ she says.

‘We’ll get the bus,’ Tom says, ‘be good to orient ourselves.’

‘And we’re going the other direction from Lori’s flat?’ I check.

‘That’s right. You’re in between here. It’s two stops either way.’

She guides us along the side streets past the park and to the junction where the ring road is. Tom asks about her job. She’s teaching at an English training school. ‘It’s for kids,’ she says, ‘they come after ordinary school or at the weekends. I asked for the day off today.’

‘What age are they?’ I say.

‘Four to twelve.’

‘Did you know that Lori’s visa was dodgy?’ Tom says.

Dawn stops walking. Her face flames and her fingers pinch her lower lip. ‘Kind of,’ she says. ‘She really wanted to stay and it was the only way she could do it.’

‘And the people who arranged it, did she have anything to do with them afterwards?’ Tom says.

‘No. That was it.’ Dawn signals to warn us about a scooter mounting the pavement and we hang back as the man, with a child on his lap, steers past us and parks outside a milk bar. Along this street, tree trunks, the pillars of a building and telegraph poles are all wrapped in a stretchy shiny gold material.

‘How did she find people to teach?’ I say.

‘They found her,’ Dawn says. ‘Everyone wants to speak English. We get asked all the time.’

‘And her other friends, the people we’re going to meet, are they all teachers?’ I say.

‘About half and half. Shona’s studying at the university, doing a master’s, Bradley does translation for a software company, Rosemary is a teaching assistant at a school like mine, and Oliver teaches at the petroleum university. Rosemary and Oliver are both Chinese.’

‘The petroleum university?’ I say.

‘There are loads of universities in Chengdu,’ Dawn says, ‘and some of them specialize in certain areas, like science or technology or finance.’

We wait at the lights to cross the road. There’s a marquee going up outside the shopping mall. The frame is built and the roof canopy on. I watch a man on top of a stepladder: he has a foot on either side, and he swings the ladders along underneath the tent, like a stilt walker.

Once we’ve reached the other side, there are steps up to the middle of the ring-road carriageway, where the bus runs. A woman is sweeping the bridge and a guard in a blue uniform, with a baton hanging from his belt, sits near to the ticket booth.

We offer to pay but Dawn has already slid money under the glass screen and the clerk gives her three counters in return. ‘It’s two yuan anywhere,’ Dawn says.

Twenty pence.

‘They can give change here but if you get a bus on the street you have to give the exact money – or pay more,’ she adds.

We copy Dawn, swiping the counter on the toll gate at the bottom of the escalator to release the barrier. At the top the platform is enclosed in a transparent shelter with a curved roof. An electronic display shows when the next bus is due. I look at the route map to the side: the names are in Chinese and English. I try to memorize our stop, repeat each syllable silently. Look around for landmarks. There is the mall, and to the side of it two mirrored towers that cast shadows onto each other creating a trompe l’oeil: it appears as though there is a third ghostly black building between them.

The bus pulls in and the automatic gate opens so we can board. We make our way to the back where there are free seats. A television plays adverts for some sort of takeaway food outlet, then toothpaste.

From this viewpoint I can see the scale of construction work along the route. The base of a huge crater, the size of a city block, has been levelled, its sides banked up, a swathe of red earth. Hoardings at the far side advertise what will come, Forest Heaven Park, illustrated with an image of glitzy towers.

I think of that poster, the construction workers in New York, having lunch on a girder halfway to heaven. No safety net, no harnesses or hard hats.

Every so often a ringtone goes off and each passenger answers exactly the same way, shouting, ‘Wei?’ into their phone.

A recorded voice comes over the speakers, ‘The next stop will be…’ I can’t discern the destination, a string of syllables going up and down, abstract as musical notes.

I’m apprehensive about the meeting to come, these strangers who befriended my daughter, who were part of her new life. It may not be fair but I keep thinking they failed her. Failed to realize she was missing, failed to raise the alarm. The negligence or self-absorption of youth, perhaps. Or did they simply not care for her enough to worry?

The bus pulls in and I can see down a broad road below, lined with skyscrapers, gleaming in the light, choked by traffic. The horizon melts into the haze.

Two young women board. Both wear make-up, orange lipstick and black eyeliner, and gauzy dresses with pleated skirts, one in peach, the other in lemon. On their feet are the most elaborate shoes, tall wedges, jewelled and appliquéd. One pair has buckles around the ankle, the other a zip at the heel. Not the sort of thing you could run in.

Chengdu very safe city.

I look at my own simple leather sandals, blue T-bars, and notice that Dawn wears flip-flops, with diamanté along the straps. I think of Lori’s Docs, her trainers under the bed. She took her sandals so she couldn’t have gone trekking or anywhere cold.

‘This is us,’ Dawn says, just before the recorded announcement, and we pass the two girls standing in the aisle.

Our travel discs go into a slot on the barrier at the bottom of the escalator and then we descend the steps to the street. A few people are waiting on scooters, perhaps collecting friends from the bus.

On the corner, a stall like a tall wheelbarrow has a tray of water full of peeled pineapples on sticks. The man there is diligently coring each one, leaving diamond-shaped holes in the fruit.

Don’t drink the water.

It’s a ten-minute walk from the bus to the bar. Dawn takes us into the foyer of one of the towers and in the lift up to the twenty-second floor.

‘We call it the Ducks,’ Dawn says. ‘You know – like with bingo calling? Twenty-two – two little ducks. The woman who owns it, she’s from London. She married a Chinese fella.’

When we exit the lift, the view from the walkway is astounding. All the towers here are bronze-coloured; they dazzle and shimmer. It’s close to sunset and the cloud has thinned so a wash of pink brushes the scene. I grip the edge of the wall; it’s chest height for safety, but still I dare not look down.

We hear the bar before we see it, music cranked up loud, a gravelly voice. It takes me a moment to recognize it as Paolo Nutini’s.

There are four tables out front with a striped canopy over. A group sits at one of them, four young men. Dawn waves hello to them but doesn’t stop to talk and we go inside. The room is lit with rope lights and red Chinese lanterns, and furnished with bamboo chairs, stools and tables. The walls are plastered with posters for concerts and festivals. At the far end, there’s a table-football game. The place is empty, apart from the young woman behind the bar. She’s tapping at her phone but stops when she sees us.

‘Nǐ hǎo,’ Dawn says. ‘These are Lori’s parents. This is Alice.’

Alice nods quickly, then looks down. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she says.

‘Thanks,’ I say. There’s a pause that lasts too long.

‘Would you like drinks?’ Alice says.

We buy beers, fetching them from the fridges along the wall. Tom explains that we’re meeting Lori’s friends and want to talk to them. Could Alice turn the music down when everyone arrives?

‘Of course, no problem,’ she says.

We sit outside, at the biggest table. The beer is cold, the bottles sweat. Paolo Nutini gives way to Lana Del Ray. While Tom explains to Dawn how we want to organize the meeting, I catch snippets of conversation from the foursome nearby. Talk of travellers’ tales, visa nightmares, accounts of adventures in Vietnam and Korea. A mix of accents, Home Counties, Geordie, Spanish, Australian. Some are loud, others mostly listen. I catch the smell of weed. They could be kids in any bar, anywhere on the planet, meeting up for drinks and company. Young, apparently confident, hopeful. Like Lori, thrusting themselves into unfamiliar situations, away from all the support they’ve relied on till now.

A Chinese couple arrive and Dawn fusses about. I can see she’s awkward, anxious, as she introduces us to Oliver and Rosemary. Rosemary has waist-length black hair and wears a strapless blue maxi dress. She has butterflies tattooed on her shoulders.

‘Rosemary?’ I query her name.

‘We all choose English names,’ she explains, with a warm smile. ‘It is easier for everyone. How are you?’ Her smile drops and Rosemary looks concerned, a little fearful even, small frown lines puckering her forehead.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Worried, of course.’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I am so sorry. This is very difficult situation.’

Oliver, listening, nods. He has a round face and podgy hands. He wears thick glasses, so his eyes swim in and out of focus when I look at them. He’s dressed in a white polo shirt and chino shorts, a bracelet of large wooden prayer beads on his wrist.

Tom glances at his watch.

‘We get drink?’ Oliver says, as though he is asking my permission.

‘Of course.’

While they’re at the bar, Bradley arrives. He’s come straight from work, he says, and apologizes for being a little late. He has a short-sleeved white shirt and long trousers, proper shoes. ‘You do translation?’ I ask him, after accepting his expressions of sorrow about Lori going missing.

‘That’s right, for a software firm, not the most exciting material in the world.’ He reminds me of Nick: he has a similar square face, regular features, with light brown hair, cut shorter at the sides. He wears a fine moustache and stubble covers his jaw line. I’m no good on American accents but I can tell his is not the Deep South or the Bronx so I ask him where he’s from.

‘Midwest,’ he says.

‘Kansas?’ I say.

‘Even smaller, the middle of nowhere.’

Oliver and Rosemary come back with bottles and Bradley greets them, then goes inside.

Dawn’s been talking on her phone. ‘Shona’s running late,’ she tells us. ‘Someone’s stolen her scooter. She should be about half an hour.’

‘We might as well make a start,’ I say.

Dawn nods. Tom goes in to ask Alice to turn the music down, and comes back out with Bradley.

I wonder if we need to explain to the other customers what’s going on but the group of lads are already picking up their bags and phones, draining their bottles, ready to move on.

My stomach cramps as everyone waits expectantly, their faces grave, and Tom begins: ‘As you know,’ he says, ‘Lori is officially a missing person and a campaign has been launched to find her. We met with the police yesterday and the guy from the consulate, and we went to Lori’s flat today.’ He nods at Dawn, who blinks and looks away. ‘We’re having leaflets done – like this.’ Tom spreads out some copies he printed off at the hotel. ‘We should get them in the morning and we’ll start giving them out tomorrow near her place. We’ll have an interpreter with us. If you can tell us any other places that she went to regularly, we’ll leaflet there too.’

‘Hokey’s,’ Rosemary says. She looks to her friends to see if they agree.

‘Yes,’ Dawn says. ‘It’s a club we go to for birthdays and special occasions – it’s popular with ex-pats.’ Her face is drawn, pale, and she keeps touching her lip.

‘We’d have to go of an evening,’ Bradley says.

‘Tomorrow night, then,’ I say.

‘What about online too – the forum on Chengdu Living?’ says Bradley.

‘And GoChengdu,’ Dawn says.

I write it all down. We’ll pass the suggestions back to Edward at Missing Overseas, who will co-ordinate all the media appeals.

‘The consulate have notified the British Chamber of Commerce,’ Tom says.

Most of them look blank at this but Bradley nods. ‘The business community network. We have an American one too.’

‘Any other physical places?’ Tom asks.

‘Maybe the university?’ Rosemary says. ‘Sichuan Normal University, where Shona studies.’

‘It’s like the main uni for international students,’ Dawn says.

‘Are there any gay bars she likes?’ I say.

Dawn nods. ‘Yeah – one we went to a few times. I can show you where it is.’

‘The police have told us the last verified sighting of Lori was on the Sunday evening,’ Tom says, ‘when she was teaching, and the last communication was a text on the Monday.’

I hate these phrases: verified sighting, last communication. They toll in my head, formal and final.

‘None of you have heard from her since?’ I check.

A general shaking of heads.

My throat’s dry and I take a drink. Condensation drips onto my knee. The beer is already warmer. The sky is growing duller, a tangerine sheen to the light.

‘It’s, like, where can she be?’ Dawn says suddenly, tears standing in her eyes. Bradley squeezes her shoulder. Rosemary clasps her hands together and Oliver looks away, his discomfort almost palpable.

Tom clears his throat.

I find the rota and pull it out, put it on the table. ‘If anyone can help us leaflet at any time, please put your name down. I know you’ve all got jobs but even an hour or so – we’d really appreciate it. We hope to arrange a press conference soon. Spreading the word is the most important thing. And we want to make sure we’ve got everyone’s numbers so we can keep in touch. Our numbers are here.’ I point to where I’ve copied them onto the paper. My hand is shaking.

‘Sure thing,’ Bradley says. He does a late shift, he explains, starts at 2 p.m. so at the end of his day he’s able to liaise with the company’s American wing, who are just arriving at work. And he has other appointments this coming week, but he can come around with us tomorrow night and Thursday morning.

The others consult their schedules on their phones. Dawn’s time is most restricted – she’s doing extra hours – and she begins to fret, apologizing. I do my best to reassure her: ‘You’ve already been a great help.’

Oliver can join us on Monday morning. And Rosemary all day Wednesday and Thursday.

‘We’d like to talk to you all individually,’ Tom says, ‘to try to find out as much as we can about what was happening around the time Lori went missing.’

Oliver asks if we can see him first – he has an English lesson to get to. Unlike Rosemary’s English, his is hard to follow, heavily accented.

Shona arrives. She’s painfully thin, very tall with light blonde hair cut short. She wears a vest top under denim dungaree-shorts. The bones of her clavicle jut out amid strings of beads, all in different materials, sizes and colours. Despite the fair hair, her skin is tanned and she has surprising grass-green eyes. She stoops slightly as she greets us. Her wrists are ringed with bracelets, which clink when she shakes hands.

Dawn goes to buy her a drink and Shona sits down, folding herself into a chair and propping her feet on the crossbar of the table so her knees almost touch her chin.

Tom gives her an update and explains about the rota. She rolls a cigarette, pin thin.

Given we still have the bar to ourselves, I suggest to Tom that we talk to people individually at the spare table opposite, and the friends can have a catch-up while they wait.

‘Or we could just do it all together,’ Tom says quietly. ‘It’s only five of them.’

I disagree. ‘There may be stuff they don’t want to share – like the bust-up with Dawn.’

He shrugs, gathers together the file, and we move over. I fetch fresh drinks and we begin with Oliver. He tells us he missed the party on the Friday. It was his cousin’s wedding that weekend so he was busy with that. Oliver does that classic thing of leaving out tenses and pronouns, which aren’t used as much in Chinese so when I say, ‘When did you last see Lori?’ he says, ‘See March twenty-eight. Good, happy.’

‘Did she talk to you about going away, about holidays?’ I say.

‘No holidays,’ he says. He seems serious, taciturn, and I wonder how he got on with Lori, whether he was a good mate or just hung around the edge of the circle of friends. I can’t imagine him having a laugh with her but perhaps the situation, the fact that we’re strangers and parents and Lori is missing, is making him stiff and reserved.

We talk to Rosemary next. We don’t have much to establish, only whether Lori shared any plans with her when they last spoke and how she seemed then. Rosemary had been at the party on the Friday. She says Lori was a bit quiet early on but she cheered up later. ‘I didn’t hear from her after that,’ Rosemary says.

‘Did she talk to you about travelling?’ I say.

Rosemary shakes her head. ‘No, but the others said she was thinking about it.’

‘Can you think of anything else we should do to try to find her?’ I say.

She considers this, then says, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Are you from Chengdu?’ Tom says.

‘No, a village between here and Leshan,’ Rosemary says.

‘That must be a big change,’ I say.

‘Yes, but my father, he works in the city at a factory so I have been here before to visit him.’

‘Do you like living here better than the village?’ I say.

A sparkle comes into her eyes, a flash of enthusiasm. ‘Very much.’

‘It’s the same in England, for young people,’ I say.

‘Everywhere, I think,’ Rosemary says.

‘You didn’t try to get in touch with Lori over these last weeks?’ Tom says.

Rosemary’s expression alters, fretful again. ‘I messaged her but there was no reply so I thought she was still away. Maybe she is still away,’ she says.

I can’t tell if it’s a question: her voice is uneven and there’s that trace of fear in her look.

The last time Bradley saw or heard from Lori was at the party, the same as Rosemary. ‘Lori was OK,’ he says, ‘maybe a bit down about ending it with Dawn, thinking about a change of scene, having a few days away.’

My pulse picks up at this. ‘Did she say where?’

‘No. Shona said Lori was thinking about the islands, Hong Kong way or Hainan, but she had to look at the fares,’ Bradley says.

‘Did the police check whether she’d taken an internal flight?’ I say to Tom.

‘Well, I’d hope so,’ he says.

‘We should ask,’ I say.

‘If she took a train,’ Bradley said, ‘she’d show her passport, too. They probably keep a record.’

I jot that down, something to consider.

‘Do you remember anything else from the party?’ Tom says.

Bradley shrugs. ‘Things got sorta crazy after that, a drinking game.’

‘Lori played?’ I say.

Bradley looks sheepish. ‘Lori won.’

I think of newspaper headlines, TRAGIC DRINKS DEATH. Those smiling faces of young men or women who’d lost their lives from alcohol poisoning. An image springs to mind: Lori drunk, collapsing, vomiting, choking. The friends unable to rouse her, panicking, desperate to hide the truth. I dig my nails into my palms.

‘But she was OK?’ I say.

‘I think she was sick, you know, after the game but we all left together,’ Bradley says.

Besides, I remind myself, she was teaching the next day and on the Sunday, so nothing could have happened to her on the Friday.

When Shona sits down with us and gets out her tin of tobacco and cigarette papers, she begins to talk before we ask anything.

‘We had a party on the Friday – it was a bit insane. Then she texted me on that Monday. She was doing this photography project.’

I remember the email back in February: Chengdu is growing all the time, malls and skyscrapers going up, everyone studying and working and trying to get ahead, get an education, get a good job to buy the shiny things in the shops. Sound familiar? But there’s also surprises, hidden bits, weird hobbies people have on the side.

‘She wanted to fix up a time to see me.’ Shona’s accent is Scottish.

‘You make the jewellery?’ I nod to the bangles that she’s turning round and round on her wrist.

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘from scrap. Lori texted she could visit me Tuesday or Wednesday. I was in lectures so I didn’t pick up the message till my break.’ She takes a drag on her roll-up.

Tom gets out his cigarettes. I feel a pinprick on the back of my calf and pat at it. A mosquito perhaps.

‘And you replied?’ Tom says.

‘That’s what Superintendent Yin told us,’ I say.

‘Yes, and nothing.’ She concentrates on the bracelets, spacing them out at intervals along her forearm, the rollie between her fingers. Only occasionally does she look our way. Is she shy?

‘Do you still have the text?’ Tom says.

‘Yes.’ She scowls, seems puzzled by our interest.

‘The police say that’s her very last communication,’ I explain. ‘It’s when we lose her.’ I swallow.

Shona puts the cigarette in her other hand and rummages in her bag. Flips open her phone case, then pulls up the message and turns it so we can see. I read, Making a start on the project, ur next. Tue or Wed? Lxxx

I start copying it down but Tom says, ‘Can you forward it?’

‘Sure.’

He reels off his number and Shona sends it to him. There’s a chime as it reaches his phone.

‘ “Making a start”,’ I say. ‘Who was she making a start with?’

Shona shrugs, puts the phone down, tokes on her rollie, wincing at the last drag.

‘What did you know about the project?’ Tom says.

‘Not much,’ Shona says. ‘She wanted something a bit… quirky. Challenging stereotypes. Something you’d never associate with China – no wee pandas or chopsticks. The idea of hobbies, obsessions, she talked about that stuff.’

‘What about the party? Did she talk about it then?’ I say.

Shona gives a small groan. ‘God, I’m sorry. I was wrecked. I can’t remember much at all.’

‘Do you remember anything about her travel plans?’ Tom says.

She shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’

Bradley told us it was Shona whom Lori talked to about wanting a break and looking at the islands, but Shona’s saying she was too pissed to recall it.

‘But you think that’s where she’s gone?’ I say.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Seems the most likely thing.’

They all assumed Lori was off travelling and none of them thought it was odd that she didn’t keep in touch, that she didn’t manage to land up at an Internet café every few days. Their complacency, if that’s what it is, infuriates me.

There’s a burst of laughter, quickly muffled, from the other table where Bradley, Dawn and Rosemary sit. Unbidden, I think of the Meredith Kercher case: her friend, Amanda Knox, and Knox’s boyfriend tried for killing her. Stop it! I cover my confusion by taking a drink. The bottle is so slippery I lose my grip and it bounces off the edge of the table, drenching my legs. ‘Shit!’

Tom gets up. ‘Do you want another – do you want to clean up?’

‘I’m fine. Sit down.’ I’ve wipes in my bag and do what I can with them. ‘Thanks,’ I say to Shona, and she rejoins her friends.

‘We know Lori was teaching that weekend,’ I say to Tom, ‘up to the Sunday evening. If she’s talking about making a start in that text, perhaps that’s where she goes on Monday. And it also sounds like she intends to be in Chengdu until at least the Wednesday.’ Another pinch, on my neck this time, and I hear the high-pitched whine for a fraction of a second.

‘Making a start’s not definitely seeing someone,’ he says.

‘No, but she says you’re next to Shona. That sounds like she has someone else lined up first. And her camera’s not at the flat.’

The back of my legs and my torso are sticky with sweat when I stand up and go over to the others.

‘Did Lori talk to any of you about a photo project she wanted to do, on hobbies in Chengdu?’

‘She was going to shoot me,’ Bradley says. ‘I’m doing up a motorbike, an old Chiang Jiang 750.’

‘But she didn’t?’ Tom says, beside me.

‘No.’ Bradley shakes his head.

‘And Oliver too,’ says Rosemary. ‘He keeps…’ She says a word to Bradley.

‘Pigeons,’ Bradley translates.

‘Pigeons, racing pigeons,’ Rosemary says.

We try calling Oliver, but his voicemail is on.

We thank them all, confirm arrangements for the leafleting, arrange with Shona to visit the university on Monday afternoon, and get ready to leave.

‘Have you eaten?’ Shona asks Bradley.

‘Not yet. I thought I’d grab something now. What about you guys?’ He turns to Tom and me. ‘Will you join us?’

We agree. Dawn says she has to get home.

On the walkway, a new group arrives, two boys, two girls. One stops to talk to Bradley and another greets Rosemary: ‘How’s it going?’

Their conversations flow around me.

‘You tired? You look tired.’

‘How was Singapore?’

‘Cool.’

‘You finished?’

‘Just my dissertation.’

‘No pressure, then.’

Bradley explains who we are and there’s a brief gap of silence before the newcomers respond. Only one knew Lori to talk to, the one who’s been away.

‘We’re running a missing-person campaign,’ Tom says. ‘Anything you can do to spread the word would be great.’

They all agree, eager to help. The young people exchange fist bumps, pats on the shoulder and hugs, and swap promises to meet up, all muted by the spectre of Lori, who should be here with us and is not.

Above, the heavens are fading, violet, no stars or moon, not even the flashing of aeroplane lights in the gloom.