Half the World Away

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

We are just leaving the dining room after breakfast when the campaign leaflets arrive. A box of five thousand, A5 size, and five hundred A4 posters. Tom takes delivery and pays the man. We check them and everything looks as it should. I feel a moment’s dizziness, page after page of Lori’s face, the grim fact of us being here – without her.

When Anthony comes we have coffee in the lounge bar and bring him up to date. We try calling Oliver again, hoping to ask him about the photography project, but there’s no reply so Anthony leaves a message in Chinese, explaining that we’d like to talk to him as soon as possible.

The car drops us at Lori’s street.

‘We don’t need the driver to wait,’ Tom says. ‘We can let him know when we’re done.’

The three of us call in at each of the units along the street, cafés, a fruit shop, liquor store, mobile-phone shop, tea shop and mini-market, and hand out leaflets. Each time Anthony asks them to display a poster. Outside one of the cafés, the proprietor talks excitedly, nodding, and two of the other staff gather around to join in the conversation.

‘Lorelei ate here sometimes,’ Anthony says. ‘She was a good customer. They can’t remember when she last came. Not for a while. I’ve asked them if she was here in the last month. They don’t think she was.’

I look at the trays of raw food set out to entice diners, rows of duck’s feet – scrawny claws with barely any meat on them – red crayfish, pigs’ trotters. Flies circle and land on the meat and one of the girls waves them off.

The older woman leans in close, speaking rapidly, touching her chest.

‘She wishes you luck, for your daughter to be safe and back soon,’ Anthony says.

The woman talks some more.

‘She says you must have good fortune. That luck will come to you.’ The woman reaches out and pats my hand. She nods to Tom. My throat tightens.

‘Please – say thank you,’ I say.

‘Xiè xie,’ Anthony says. Shay shay.

I echo him and Tom does too.

We have a similar reception from the women in the mini-market. They even remember what Lori used to buy: honey and orange juice, eggs and nuts and tea and beer. While we’re there they put up the poster, on the wall by the till.

Then we start leafleting on the street. We quickly discover that we are ill-prepared. With a break in the cloud and patches of blue sky, the temperature is close to thirty degrees and we have no shade. We have nowhere to keep the leaflets either, nowhere to sit if anyone wants to find out more, no table to rest on if they want to give us any information. There is a low wall next to the entrance to Lori’s block and the shop beside it is shuttered, so we put our things there. Tom goes across the road with a bundle of leaflets and Anthony and I stay together.

People take the leaflets, expectant at first. As they realize that this is no mobile-phone deal or invitation to a cultural event, their faces crease with incomprehension. Then they see that we are not tourists or university lecturers but here for a darker reason. An inclination of the head, a murmur in the throat, and they back off, continuing their journeys.

Two girls stop and talk to Anthony. I can’t follow the conversation, but when they leave, he says, ‘They were curious, but they don’t know Lorelei. They never saw her.’

The flow of people passing never ends. Men with their T-shirts rolled up to their armpits, exposing their bellies to cool off. Grandparents with kids. Some of the little ones aren’t in nappies but wear traditional baby clothing split at the crotch. I wonder how it works, if they have to be toilet-trained first. What if they have an accident?

Listening to Anthony, I learn words that I wish I did not have to: daughter – nǚ ér; missing – shī zōng; have you seen her? – nǐ kàn jiàn to le ma?

After an hour we have a break. Tom asks Anthony if there is anywhere we can get a table with a sunshade for our next stint.

‘B &Q,’ he says.

‘No way!’ Tom laughs. ‘We could use some stools from the apartment.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought the key.’

Anthony shows us where the store is on the map and we decide to go.

‘I can call the car,’ Anthony says.

‘Be quicker to get a cab.’ Tom points to where two taxis are parked further along the road. We collect up the leaflets and walk down that way.

Anthony approaches one car and talks to the driver, who keeps shaking his head. He tries the next, and we watch the scene repeat itself. Then a third taxi drives along and pulls in opposite. Anthony waves to him, a beckoning motion with his palm facing down. The man stays put and Anthony goes up to the car. They talk, Anthony gesturing to us. After some discussion, Anthony waits for a gap in the traffic and crosses back to join us.

‘Is it too far?’ I ask him.

‘It’s lunch-hour,’ he says. ‘They won’t take a fare in lunch-hour. I’ll call the driver.’

The DIY store is startlingly similar to the ones at home. We find a round plastic table that can collapse flat for storage, and a yellow parasol that will fit into the hole in the middle.

It’s crazy: three weeks ago I was on a different continent buying bedding plants in the same outlet, growing anxious about Lori.

‘Jo?’ Tom touches my elbow. We’re at the till and the woman’s waiting for me to pay.

‘Sorry. Sorry.’

We leave the table in the car while we get some lunch at a place Anthony knows. He guides us through the choices: the menu up on the wall is all in Chinese. We settle for noodle soup, medium-size.

It’s spicy but not as hot as last night’s food. There are slices of ginger and dark greens in it. Again, it makes me sweat, but it’s refreshing in the way that hot tea can be.

On the street corner, a grizzled man sits by a rush mat, which is piled with bunches of herbs that are wilting in the heat, and clips his toenails. Horns punctuate the drone of traffic and Chinese singing comes from somewhere nearby.

Anthony asks about our hotel and I tell him I’ve been meaning to ask them to fix the water cooler. The water’s tepid.

‘Tepid?’ he says.

‘Lukewarm, not really cold.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Anthony says. ‘This is the custom. Very cold drinks are not good in this climate. We don’t have it too cold, don’t have ice.’

A flock of young people, white shirts, black trousers, ties and lanyards, are milling about outside the shop opposite.

‘Estate agents?’ Tom turns to check and Anthony agrees.

The boom years.

I don’t like going into Lori’s flat. It makes me want to weep. That she is still not here, that this is her space with her things, and she is missing.

But I’m brisk, business-like, as I stack the stools for Tom to carry and take the chance to use the toilet and wash my face before we head back out.

The sky is clouding over again, trapping the heat, and the afternoon is sweltering. Not one of the people we approach with leaflets recognizes Lori or can help us.

I tell myself this doesn’t matter: all we need is to get them talking, that the ripples will spread and eventually someone somewhere will ring up with those magic words: I know where she is. I know where you can find her.

That evening Tom and I manage to retrace our steps to the bus and find our way to the bar. Shona and Bradley meet us there. I’m troubled that there’s still no word from Oliver and ask them if they’ve heard from him today. But they haven’t.

‘It’s just we wanted to talk to him but he’s not returned our calls,’ I say.

Shona shrugs, looking awkward. Doesn’t she understand that this might be important? That we’re desperate for leads as to where Lori has gone and Oliver might be able to help?

‘Do you want me to try?’ Bradley offers.

I say yes, and he calls Oliver, listens, then gives a shake of his head when the voicemail announcement starts. Bradley leaves a message in Chinese. How can Oliver ignore us, given what’s happened? Why would he do that?

It’s later than the night before – and the bar is busier. We begin handing out leaflets and stop to explain whenever anyone asks questions.

One young woman, with dreadlocks and milky skin, says, ‘Oh, my God.’ She puts her hand on her chest, just below her neck. ‘You must be completely devastated. That is so awful. Not knowing. How would you cope?’ She turns to her friends. ‘Like with Madeleine, yeah? Not knowing.’

She may be right but I don’t need the melodrama, the avid interest that smacks of ghoulishness. She starts asking questions but for once I don’t elaborate. ‘It’s all there,’ I say, pointing to the leaflet.

‘And that’s all you know?’ She shakes her head, looking like she might cry.

I walk away without replying.

After our stint at the Ducks, we visit a noodle bar popular with the friends, in the adjacent tower block.

‘The food is good,’ Shona says. ‘Big portions, too, and low prices.’

Bradley checks with the owner if we can put leaflets on the tables and he agrees.

The gay club, known by its street number, 141, is ten minutes’ walk away. Like the other places, it’s housed in a tower block, this time on the eighth floor. It is dance night and the thump of bass shakes the ground and travels through me as we come out of the lift.

The woman at the door, Kimmie, is happy for us to take leaflets round and tells us to leave some extra with her: she’ll put them out during the week. She knows Lori and Dawn. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she says to me. ‘Anything else we can do, you just shout.’ Her sympathy brings me close to tears.

The dance floor isn’t very big and there’s a crush of people, arms in the air, filling it. There’s no dress code and outfits vary: people in T-shirts and jeans, in stunning frocks, others in leather and PVC. On stage the Chinese DJ is dressed in a white three-piece suit and top hat, which must be unbelievably hot, and has a face painted like an elaborate mask. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

The few revellers who aren’t dancing sit in the booths around the dance floor drinking, snogging, having conversations, mouth to ear, to be heard. By the time we leave, my ears are ringing. Kimmie wishes us all the best and tells us to take care.

At our next stop, Hokey’s, a cocktail bar on a busy street, blue neon characters glow on the sign outside and large black catfish patrol inside a tank bathed in orange light at the entrance. Behind the glass doors it’s velvety dark but I can see more of the neon signs. Bradley talks to the doorman, who listens and takes a bundle of leaflets.

The proprietor of the hotpot restaurant we try next waves us away. When Bradley keeps talking, the man all but turns his back. Tom takes one of the leaflets and puts it on the table beside the chits for the diners, the man’s ashtray and playing cards.

‘He’ll probably chuck it,’ Tom says, as we leave.

‘Why did he say no?’ I ask Bradley.

‘Bad for business,’ Bradley says. ‘He’s a fucking asshole.’

Shona nudges him. ‘What?’ Bradley says.

‘We don’t mind,’ I say, thinking she’s worried about the language. ‘He is a fucking asshole.’

‘A fucking arsehole, even,’ says Tom, and we laugh.

‘We should come later, next weekend,’ Bradley says, ‘on the Saturday, grab the clubbers.’

Something drops inside me at the thought of still looking in another week’s time. Surely we’ll have found her by then.

Before I sleep I ring Lori’s phone and get the ‘It has not been possible to connect you, please try again later’ announcement. I will, I always do. I can’t even leave her a message. But I keep hoping. Hope is all there is.