Half the World Away

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

‘Fuck. What did I do now?’ Tom stares at me.

Through my sobs I tell him about Isaac.

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Wait there.’

He returns with his laptop and a bottle of some sort of Chinese liquor and insists I drink some. It makes me cough – I feel like it’s stripped the lining from my mouth.

‘What if he… what if I can’t get there in time?’ I feel horrible saying it, thinking it.

‘Let’s look at flights,’ he says. ‘At least you’ll know what your options are.’

He browses websites. There aren’t many to Manchester but we include those to Birmingham, Leeds-Bradford and Liverpool as well. Then he collates the possibilities and emails it to print downstairs.

I am counting the minutes since Nick rang, opening my phone time and again. When it does ring, I leap out of my skin. But it’s not Nick, it’s Anthony. ‘Mrs Maddox, I’m not going to be available tomorrow, I am sorry. I’m going to be out of the city for a while.’

‘Right.’ I’m not sure what to say.

‘There are many other agencies you may contact in Chengdu.’

‘Yes.’

A pause. Then he says, ‘Goodbye.’ And that’s it. He’s resigned. It’s like a slap in the face. I can barely take it in.

‘Anthony,’ I tell Tom. ‘He’s not going to be available.’

Tom snorts. ‘Really? Couldn’t have anything to do with us getting him arrested, could it?’

‘Maybe he was warned off,’ I say.

‘Maybe he just wants a quiet life. Edward will be able to suggest someone else, or Peter Dunne will. There’s something about them having a list of translators on the FCO website.’

Tom gets up and stares out of the window. He makes conversation but I’m too distracted to respond. He hovers. ‘Come on,’ he says eventually.

‘What?’

‘Let’s get out for a bit. You’re going to go batshit crazy just sat here waiting and I’m going to go crazy watching you.’

I look at my phone.

‘You’ll still get the call,’ he says, ‘whether you’re here or outside.’

‘You go. I’ll be fine.’

He looks at me, sceptical.

‘I’ll be all right. I don’t need you… pacing.’

He’s about to argue.

‘Tom.’ I hold up my hand. ‘Please. I’ll be OK. I’ll let you know.’

I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I close my eyes to rest them but I’m far from sleep.

I think of Isaac, of him being ill, then rallying enough to needle Finn, and of Nick sending him to his room. Did they make up before night time? Before he collapsed?

I ring Peter Dunne. I detect a note of impatience as he starts, ‘I still haven’t heard back from PSB-’

‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I’ve had some bad news from home. My son Isaac, my youngest, he’s in hospital. He’s collapsed and, erm…’ I’m out of breath, feeling dizzy, I gulp some air ‘… they’re assessing him now. If he deteriorates I may have to get a flight back.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. If you do need to travel please let me know and we can arrange a seat for you at short notice.’

‘Thank you.’

The phone rings, shrill in the silence of my room.

‘Nick?’

‘I’ve just spoken to the doctor. Isaac’s being prepped for surgery.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘It’s his appendix. It’s burst. They’ll remove it and they said their main concern will be to prevent any infection.’

‘Oh, Nick.’

‘Try not to worry,’ Nick says.

‘He’s five years old and I’m not there.’

‘I am,’ Nick says.

But I’m his mum.

‘All being well, he’ll be in hospital for a few days until he’s recuperated enough and then it’s bed rest at home. We’ll be fine.’

What is he saying? He wants me to trust him to cope with it all? To accept that he is the parent in charge, the one holding things together?

‘You’ve only another week, as it is,’ he says, ‘and if there’s going to be a press conference, you should stay. Keep looking for Lori.’

He’s right: no matter how much I want to be there, to be at Isaac’s bedside, it seems the emergency is over and I can’t abandon my search for Lori.

‘They reckon it’ll be about three hours,’ Nick says.

‘Ring me,’ I say.

‘I will.’

‘How’s Finn?’ I say.

‘Sparked out – and snoring.’

I call Tom and tell him what’s happened. ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘They know what’s wrong, how to treat it. You haven’t eaten?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Is that a good idea?’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Skipping meals because you’re upset. I’m going to one of the snack places. You could come. I won’t force-feed you.’

We walk to the row of eateries round the corner from the hotel. Raw food is set out on a table in front of the window of the first establishment and we try to work out what it is. Tom points at a line of thin pink strips of meat and says the word for duck. The vendor frowns. Tom repeats himself. The vendor speaks a stream of words, perhaps thinking we’re asking to buy. Tom says ‘duck’ again and points. The vendor nods.

‘Duck’s tongues,’ Tom says, ‘I thought they were.’

‘How come?’

‘Had them in Chinatown one time.’

Of course he did. Whole swathes of Tom’s life I know nothing about, haven’t wanted to know anything about. And vice versa, I guess. Though I’d venture his has been more varied and exciting than mine.

The man gestures for us to come inside.

‘Bú yào, xiè xie,’ I say, smiling and shaking my head, ‘No, thank you.’

Further down, there’s an eatery with a couple of spare tables and laminated pictures on the wall, showing the dishes they offer.

Tom points to the ones he wants. I tell him to get enough to share. He’s right – there’s no point in keeling over with low blood sugar.

The TV is on in the corner, some sort of soap opera. A girl and two suitors, it looks like. There’s a slapstick feel to it. The cook and another woman are sitting on stools, watching it, with a little boy. They’re laughing. Perhaps it’s a sitcom.

‘Peter Dunne called just before we came out,’ Tom says.

‘He called you?’

‘I think he thought you’d rather a lot on.’

‘And?’ I say.

‘The PSB is satisfied that Mr Du had no further contact with Lori after his lesson on Sunday and that she made no arrangements to photograph him. Like he told us.’

‘Can they prove it?’ I say.

‘It seems so, but Peter Dunne wouldn’t give me any details. Or couldn’t because he’s not in the loop.’

Our food arrives. Pork, spring onions, greens and aubergine in chilli sauce with sticky rice. Hot liquid in little glasses, faintly yellow. Water? Or perhaps it’s tea, though I can’t taste tea. The food is salty and oily and the taste of the Sichuan peppers is strong.

Tom scoops up greens and rice with his chopsticks, dips his head to eat.

‘Where does that leave us? Lori hadn’t photographed Bradley or Oliver,’ I tick off the candidates, ‘or Shona. And Mrs Tang was away working.’

‘Unless they’re lying,’ Tom says. ‘We’ve only got their word for it.’ He takes another mouthful.

‘And Oliver – the way he ignores our messages.’

Tom wipes the juice off his chin with a tissue and puts it in the waste bin. ‘But maybe we’re getting too fixated on the project,’ he says.

‘What else have we got, Tom?’ I go through it out loud. ‘She breaks up with Dawn on Thursday, gets so drunk that she’s sick on the Friday. She teaches as normal over the weekend, and on Monday she texts Shona. That’s where the trail…’ I hear the end of the phrase and almost don’t say it but tell myself I’m being ridiculous ‘… goes dead. There’s nothing else and, as far as we can tell, the police haven’t come up with anything. There’s neither hide nor hair of her. People don’t just disappear.’

He looks as if he’ll contradict me but I go on, ‘They don’t. They run away, they have an accident or…’ I shiver, feeling feverish, nerves jangling again.

There’s a blare of music from the TV, the theme tune. The cook takes the boy off her lap and stands up.

Tableaux flit into my head, an ugly peep show. Dawn in a rage, hurt by Lori, confronting her… Oliver calling Lori up, asking her to the loft where he keeps his pigeons, an argument erupting, he gets angry… Mr Du touching her, Lori pulling away… Some awful mishap with Shona on her scooter. The group of friends sealing an unholy pact to protect one of their number. Lori, with her camera, stumbling upon something hidden, secret and deadly, the triads or government corruption.

I knock them down, shake them off, the scenarios from this catalogue of dread.

‘I want to go back,’ I say.

‘Home? Tonight?’ Surprised.

‘No, the hotel.’

‘Look, if you want to-’

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

There’s a pressure in the air that makes the back of my skull and my teeth ache. The sky is dark. A gust of wind sends leaves and scraps of litter scurrying down the street. It blows dust in my eyes. I have a sense of hopelessness: we’re getting nowhere – people don’t want to help, they don’t care. Lori is lost and Isaac is sick and I’m floundering. We are scattered, my family, broken.

A text from Nick. All well. Isaac sleeping. He’ll go on to a ward tonight. Finn staying with Penny for a couple of days.

My room is sweltering. But I prefer the noise of the city to the drone and stale cold of the air-conditioner so I slide open the windows.

In the night thunder breaks. I jolt awake to the sound of a great timpani drum beating above, strike after strike, clanging and jangling in the dark. As if the skin of the sky will split. Outside, sheets of lightning flash over the city; jagged forks stab down among the buildings. The thunder pounds and crackles and roars but no rain comes. There is no respite from the sultry air. The pressure builds even stronger behind my eyes, in my head. I watch until my joints grow stiff.