Half the World Away

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Hours later, I’m lying on my back, on the bench, my knees raised as it’s not long enough for me to stretch out, when there’s a clanking as the door opens. I swing upright and go dizzy. A woman officer shouts and motions me to come out. I follow her down the corridor and into the same room where we were first held.

She pats her hand at me indicating I should sit.

My mouth is claggy, throat parched. I’ve had nothing to eat, not even some water since we got here.

Moments after, Tom comes in with an escort.

‘You OK?’ he says.

‘Yes. Your hand…’ There is blood on his knuckles.

‘Altercation with the wall.’

Our two escorts speak to each other and the woman goes out.

‘Where are the others?’ I say to Tom.

‘Don’t know, not seen anyone. Do you speak English?’ he says to the policeman. ‘English?’

The policeman replies in Chinese. It means nothing to us.

‘If they charge us…’ I say.

‘They’re not going to charge us,’ Tom says.

‘How do you know?’

He says nothing.

The woman comes back in. She has my bag and the tray with our passports and phones on. I feel a wave of relief, a loosening inside. She holds the tray out and we take our things. She has a form, too, which we have to sign. It could say anything but I imagine it must be to show we had our valuables safely returned.

I sign it.

Tom says, ‘In English?’

‘Tom, just sign it,’ I say.

We are taken through the front of the building and left outside the police station. The officers go back inside.

It is dusk; the sky glowers lilac grey. My bottled water is still in my bag and we share it; it’s tepid but I don’t care.

I start to call Rosemary but Tom says, ‘Let’s move along a bit, in case they change their minds.’

We don’t know the area but walk down the street, past several bus stops where people are gathered, to a main road. Across the other side is the river. We go and find a bench under the trees along the promenade. The evening is muggy, the heat like warm breath enveloping us.

Rosemary answers straight away. She’s fine: she and Anthony were both sent home about an hour ago. The police told them that we were trespassing, that leafleting is not permitted anywhere near the mall without clearance. She sounds shaken – there’s none of the usual lightness in her voice. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

‘I’m OK,’ she says. ‘It is OK now.’

I speak to Anthony, apologize to him, too, and arrange to text him after tomorrow’s press conference to make any arrangements for Friday.

My phone goes before I can redial and it’s Peter Dunne. ‘Mrs Maddox, you’ve been released?’

‘Yes, how did you-’

‘We got a call mid-afternoon and I’ve been talking to people behind the scenes. I understand the local police objected to you leafleting at the mall.’

‘We’d have stopped but they didn’t give us the chance,’ I say.

‘You’ve had your documents returned?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Good. And you were treated reasonably?’

What’s reasonable? ‘No one explained what was happening,’ I say. ‘We didn’t get to make a phone call, or have access to a lawyer.’ I’m getting angry and there’s an edge of hysteria making my voice quiver. ‘We weren’t given any food or drink.’

‘I see. It is very unfortunate but, hopefully, that is the end of the matter. I will be writing in my official capacity to the department responsible to protest their heavy-handed behaviour. Is there anything you or Mr Maddox need from me otherwise?’

‘Have you heard from Superintendent Yin?’ I say. ‘Have they spoken to Mr Du?’

‘Not today.’ How can he dismiss it like that? ‘Thank you for the statement for the press conference. That’s excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow. If you can be there by half past nine.’ And he’s gone.

‘Nothing from the police,’ I say to Tom, ‘and he doesn’t seem to care. What is taking them so long? Have they even done anything we’ve asked them to?’

Tom clenches his jaw, gives a shake of his head. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Superintendent Yin was behind our detention.’

‘I thought the same,’ I say. ‘It’s like they’re boxing us off, keeping us in the dark.’

The air is filled with the roar of traffic, and the Chinese language ebbs and flows, falling and rising. I close my eyes. So tired. My stomach growls. ‘I’m starving,’ I say.

‘Grab something at the hotel,’ Tom suggests.

‘I need a shower first. I had a cell mate.’ I shudder.

He raises an eyebrow.

‘A bloody great cockroach, this big.’ I show him with my fingers.

‘You didn’t make a pet of it, then?’

‘No fear.’

I walk over to check the street sign and peer at the map, then suggest we walk along to a bigger junction where we’ve a chance of finding a taxi.

Before we get there, I spot strings of lights in the sky. Scarlet and blue, yellow and white, as though someone has taken Christmas lights and draped them high above the city, maybe half a dozen different streams of them. Some flicker on and off, like flashing LED lights.

‘What are they?’ I say.

‘They’re on the kites,’ says Tom.

I pause. ‘How do you know that? How can you know that?’

‘Lori mentioned it one time.’

‘I don’t remember,’ I say.

‘Maybe in an email,’ he says.

We walk on and see people leaning along the stone parapet. Hear a mix of music. On the promenade below two groups of women are dancing. One lot are in pairs doing slow twists and turns, singing along to the song, which is amplified. A couple are in stitches, laughing as they swing gently away from each other then back to clap hands – it’s like a languid Chinese jive.

The other group of women all face the river and on the stone wall is a small screen, which shows a figure performing movements that the women copy, stretching and waving one arm, then the other, then both, bending to rub each knee in turn. Keep fit on the waterside.

It’s bizarre, like a hallucination. I almost feel like it is being put on for our benefit – see how harmonious our society is, how we cherish our culture, how we share together. Never mind that my being locked in a cell is just a tiny example of the crushing grip of the state.

Just past the dancers, the kite man is surrounded by a group of children. He fixes a ball of light, flickering neon blue, to a line and it soars up the string making the whole length dip and rise in a lazy arc. Above us, bats crisscross and tumble, and all around tiny white moths cloud the air. A few pinpricks sting my calves and neck. I don’t know if it’s the moths, mosquitoes or some other insects biting me.

I think of Lori standing here, watching the spectacle. Is she out there somewhere, now? Across the river or uptown, glimpsing those glittering strobes in the gloom?

A toddler waddles past, making a squeak with every other step, the sound a baby’s squeezy toy might make. Something in his shoe, I think. It feels like everyone is out and about tonight, carrying on this spectacle of communal life. What would they do if we interrupted the placid scene and started talking ugly truths, told them we’d been thrown in a police cell, that Lori is missing, that all over China girls are being kidnapped but their parents aren’t heard?

I feel unsafe, untethered, as though I might lose control, start shouting and raving. I gesture to Tom to walk on.

Around the corner a makeshift stall has been laid out in the dark, vegetables and fruits on the pavement and a set of electronic scales. A handful of customers wait their turn. There is a basketball game on in the court by the junction and more music comes from the trees nearby. A man’s voice swoops and soars and, as we pass, I can just make out the silhouettes of more dancing couples.

After a long drink of lukewarm water and two painkillers, I shampoo my hair and shower away the grime and sweat and some of the tension.

I don’t wait for Tom to arrive in the restaurant but go ahead and order steak, fries and salad. And, on impulse, a beer.

He’s only ten minutes late. There’s a giddy sense of relief at having come through an unpleasant ordeal unscathed. I wonder if we’re right, and if our detention by the police was more than just a coincidence, not simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The state flexing its muscle to put us in our place. How can we possibly know?

The beer goes to my head.

We don’t linger after we’ve finished eating and polished off the beer. I can barely string one word in front of another and we have an early start for the press conference.

‘Detained?’ Nick says. ‘What on earth did you do?’

‘We were just leafleting, that’s all.’

‘Christ, Jo!’

He sounds as if he thinks it was my fault. I almost start arguing but I’m exhausted, my eyes prickly and sore, my back throbbing. ‘Crossed wires,’ I say, ‘some jobsworth laying down the law. It’s all OK now.’ Squashing what I really feel, I give up seeking reassurance and comfort from him. ‘Anyway, how are the boys – how’s Isaac?’

‘Better today – well, not throwing up, but he’s being a little shit to Finn. I’ve sent him upstairs because he won’t say sorry. We’ve only been back half an hour.’

Isaac is stubborn: he’ll sit it out all night if he’s so inclined. Nick will get more and more wound up. What can I do from so far away?

I put in a plea for Isaac: ‘If he’s under the weather it always makes him extra cranky. Tell them I love them, both of them. Good night.’

‘Good luck tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you on the telly.’

‘You think so?’

‘Edward says they’ll all be there: BBC, ITV, Channel 4, Sky.’

‘That’s great. Night, then.’

I feel lonely, getting ready for bed, homesick. My boys, I miss them so. I crave the feeling of Isaac’s skinny arms about my neck, his whispered secrets. Finn singing and swinging my hand.

And Lori, too, I miss her, oh, how I miss her. The tug of longing, bound in a thread of fear.