Half the World Away

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

A taxi’s been booked to take us to the Rose Hibiscus Hotel where the conference will be held. I’m wearing my smartest outfit, a short-sleeved navy shirt-dress.

We find Peter Dunne a little after nine in the lobby. He’s travelled on the bullet train, taking just two hours to cover one hundred and sixty-six miles from Chongqing. His greeting is brisk – he seems distracted.

‘Can you wait here a moment?’ he says. ‘I need to speak to one of the managers.’

A few minutes later I see him cross the lobby, talking animatedly on his phone. He watches us all the while. Something’s happened, I think. He looks very serious. Is it Lori? Dread sluices through me. I get to my feet. Tom follows my gaze. ‘Jo?’

Peter Dunne closes his phone case and walks over to us.

I feel sick. Saliva floods my mouth.

‘We need to leave,’ he says. He presses the bridge of his glasses with his middle finger.

‘What is it?’ Tom says.

I can’t speak.

‘They’ve cancelled,’ Peter Dunne says.

Not Lori then – they’ve not found Lori? I try to concentrate but I feel dizzy.

‘Who has?’ Tom says.

‘Hard to be sure,’ Peter Dunne says.

‘Can’t we just do it anyway?’ Tom says.

I become aware of two guards by the door and another at the lift, both watching us.

‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise. They’re saying the adverse publicity would damage the city’s image and overshadow the international conventions due in Chengdu this month.’

‘Who’s saying it?’ Tom persists.

‘Come on.’ Peter Dunne nods to the door where the guards wait, scowling at us.

Peter Dunne is on the phone again as we go through the revolving doors and down the marble steps. ‘Veronica? Send an email, high priority, to all the press list for the Lorelei Maddox conference. It’s been cancelled. Make sure everybody’s informed they will not be allowed in.’

A police van squeals to a halt outside the hotel, and a group of men dressed in riot gear pile out. My heart jumps. I’ve a sense of cold panic. The urge to run. I can’t face being locked up again.

‘Christ,’ Tom says, ‘bit over the top, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a show,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘warning any journalists who ignore our message not to get awkward. Just ignore them and walk with me. This way – there’s a teahouse round the corner.’

It’s a luxurious one, set in a courtyard garden. ‘A hidden gem, popular with ladies who shop,’ Peter Dunne says, as the waitress leads us to a table.

I’m trembling, shaken, as I stare at the pool in the centre with water playing over sculpted rocks, the bamboo plants that screen off the tables from one another. It’s all so bloody pretty, with chairs and tables carved from a rich red wood and the inlaid table-top depicting a dragon eating its own tail, but we have just been silenced, run off, by the authorities we are relying on for help.

‘I can recommend the jasmine tea,’ Peter Dunne says.

‘I need coffee,’ Tom replies.

‘They do that, too.’ Peter Dunne’s phone buzzes and he apologizes. ‘Have to get this.’ He has a conversation in rapid-fire Chinese. Then the tone seems to shift a little, with Peter Dunne listening more than talking. When it is over he explains that it was Superintendent Yin.

‘Did he pull out of the conference?’ Tom says, his eyes flashing, ‘Is that how it works?’

‘No, the decision will have been made by someone higher up in the pecking order. No doubt Superintendent Yin agrees with them. The culture here, the expectation is that the police take full responsibility for investigation and then publicize their success, once results have been achieved.’

Anthony said the same thing.

‘Asking for help is regarded as a sign of inadequacy,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘of weakness. What he did tell me is that they’ve completed their search through the records for train services and all internal flights. There is no evidence of Lorelei using her passport to travel in either a plane or a train within China.’

‘So no holiday,’ I say. It’s like I’ve been clinging to a cliff path and have reached the end, where the last part has crumbled. And there is no way forward.

We are interrupted by the waitress who takes our orders.

‘So we’re being gagged,’ Tom says, ‘and there’s nothing we can do about it.’ His voice is rising in volume.

‘There may be another option,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘but I’ll need some time to sort it out.’

‘What?’ I say.

‘We host the conference at the consulate in Chongqing. It’s sovereign British territory: Chinese law, Chinese authority holds no sway within the consulate. But I’m going to have to ask you to keep that to yourselves for now. If the authorities get wind, there are other measures they can take to make life difficult.’

Tom looks at him, inviting him to expand on that.

Peter Dunne gives a warning look as our drinks arrive. The waitress brings fine china cups and a teapot, Tom’s coffee, and a plate of biscuits shaped like lotus flowers.

When she’s out of earshot again, Peter Dunne says, ‘Journalists might be apprehended. There could be unexpected roadblocks close to the venue. So…’ he leans forward and pours our tea ‘… I’ll let you know as soon as I can but we need to be discreet.’

‘How long?’ Tom says.

‘A couple of days, three at the most.’

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You won’t be popular.’

He gives a thin smile and raises his cup. ‘I can’t guarantee it will happen but I’ll do what I can. I have to speak to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’

‘Politics?’ says Tom.

‘Always,’ says Peter Dunne.

It’s only four in the morning back home so no one there knows yet that the press conference was stopped.

Tom is in a foul mood on the way back to our hotel.

‘It’s a fucking joke,’ he says, getting into the taxi. ‘Bastards.’

The driver scowls at him and I think he might chuck us out, too, but then he starts the engine.

‘What do you want to do?’ I say, as we get dropped off at the hotel. I still feel shaken, my nerves raw. ‘We could leaflet at Lori’s again?’

‘I want a stiff drink,’ he says. ‘Several.’

‘Christ, Tom, it’s not even noon. Is that your answer to a setback? Throw alcohol at it?’

‘What are we doing here?’ he says. ‘This is a fucking joke.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘It is, Joze.’

I hate it when he calls me that, a pet name from before it all went sour. ‘We’re looking for Lori,’ I say.

‘Fourteen million people,’ he shouts, spittle on his lips, his eyes blazing. ‘Fourteen million. Her friends haven’t got a fucking clue, no one else gives a shit, no matter how nicely-nicely they’re playing it. We’re bad news, Lori missing is bad news. They just want us to shut up and ship out.’

‘Fuck you too, then,’ I yell.

He grabs my wrist and I yank it away, feel the friction sting as I do. ‘Sod off. If you don’t care-’

‘It’s not a competition, Joze.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

He glares, closes his eyes a moment. Looks back at me. ‘But realistically-’

‘No!’ I raise my arms to silence him. My phone rings and I’m too busy shouting to answer it. ‘No. We keep looking.’

‘How long?’ he says.

‘I don’t know.’ I will not cry. Prick.

‘And Finn? Isaac?’ he says.

‘They want me to find Lori, bring her home. How could I possibly face them – how could I sleep at night if I hadn’t tried everything? If-’

Now he’s raising his arms, folding them over the top of his head. His eyes change, flames replaced by liquid. ‘OK,’ he says.

‘Or have you somewhere more important-’

He steps close so quickly I rear back. He places a finger on my mouth. Fury back in his face. I stand there, aware of the heat and pressure of his finger on my lips. It’s only momentary but there’s the smell of violence in it, an undertow of rage.

Then he wheels away.

I flip him a V-sign

I knew his anger in the past, that awful time when our marriage was falling apart and he would lash out, verbally cruel.

Then the ringing starts again. Whoever it is doesn’t want to leave a message.

Nick. 4 a.m. at home. Has he heard somehow?

‘Hello?’ I say.

‘Jo, it’s about Isaac.’

‘What?’

‘He’s OK, don’t worry, but we’re at the hospital, A and E.’

‘Nick?’ My skin, every inch, freezes. My vision blurs. ‘What happened?’

In the second before he answers, possibilities cascade through my mind, outtakes from a gruesome parallel universe: Isaac savaged by the dog; Isaac running away and knocked down by a car; Nick losing his temper and hitting him; Isaac messing with a knife; Isaac in the medicine cupboard; Isaac at the top of the stairs, falling.

‘He started screaming, in the middle of the night. I thought it was a nightmare but he collapsed.’ Nick’s voice wavers. ‘I called an ambulance. They’re assessing him now.’

‘Oh, God.’ I should be there. ‘Have they said anything?’

‘No.’

‘Shit. Where’s Finn?’

‘He’s here. I couldn’t leave him. He wants to say hello.’

‘Yes.’ I snatch a breath, sit on the edge of the steps. There are banks of flowers growing at the side, vivid pink cosmos with feathery leaves, showy arum lilies, verbena.

‘Mummy?’

‘Hello, Finn.’

‘We’re at the hospital.’

‘Isaac’s poorly, isn’t he?’

‘Are you coming home now, Mummy?’

Oh, God. I swallow. ‘Not just yet. That’s great, you helping Daddy.’

‘Yes. I’m going to get some 7-Up now from the machine.’

‘OK. Love you. Put Daddy on.’

If I got a flight tonight, I think, it takes thirteen maybe fifteen hours, depending on connections. With the time difference I could be home tomorrow at noon.

‘I can see about flights,’ I say to Nick.

‘How was the press conference?’

‘It didn’t happen. We’re being jerked about. Peter Dunne’s trying to fix up an alternative, in the consulate.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as he can. We’re not to tell anyone yet. But Tom could do the conference. I’ll come home if I need to… if he’s not… if he’s…’ What am I saying? If he gets worse, if they don’t know what’s wrong.

‘Can you even get a flight?’ Nick says.

‘I don’t know. They must make some sort of provision for emergencies,’ I say.

‘Wait, let’s see what the doctors say. It could be something simple-’

‘Like what?’ I say.

‘I don’t know. I’m not a bloody-’ He makes an effort to sound reasonable. ‘I’m just not sure it makes sense for you to leap on a plane straight away. And if he’s better, then what – you leave again?’

I don’t know how to respond. A group of Chinese tourists comes out of the hotel. I can feel them glancing at me, sitting on the steps.

What is Nick saying? That if I come home I should stay there?

‘He’s in the best place,’ Nick says.

‘How was he, in the ambulance?’

‘Finn and I had to go in the car,’ Nick says. ‘They couldn’t take both of us in the ambulance with Isaac.’ There’s a pause, then he says, ‘He wasn’t conscious.’

I blink hard. ‘I’ll look into flights,’ I say, ‘just in case.’ There’s a buzzing in my head on top of the edgy percussion of the city.

‘Don’t book anything,’ Nick says. ‘I’ll ring as soon as there’s any word.’

My eyes burn with unshed tears. ‘Oh, Nick,’ I say.

I can hear Finn calling him, asking him something.

‘I’d better go,’ Nick says.

‘Yes. Fine. You’ll ring?’

‘Promise. Bye.’

I’ve only just got to my room when there’s thumping at the door.

Tom glares at me, his pale eyes icy. ‘I’ve been trying to call you,’ he says, ‘Peter Dunne has the go-ahead from his higher-ups. He’s thinking Saturday but he needs to confirm a few things. I’ll be in the bar. You need to set your bloody phone up so it tells you when there’s another call waiting.’

I hit him. I slap at his face and then push his chest with both hands. And then I burst into tears.