Half the World Away

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Tom wheels Lori into her flat, to the middle of the living room. She looks about and I hear her let go of her breath, a little puff, but I can’t tell what she feels about the place, though she’s clearly terribly shaken after giving her statement.

We have a new wheeled suitcase that we bought from a shop near the hotel, and a roll of bin bags for rubbish.

‘You’re going to have to tell us what to pack,’ Tom says.

‘All your clothes?’ I suggest.

‘Yes,’ she says. I make a start in the bedroom and before long her friends arrive.

There are greetings and enquiries about how she is today. Lori’s replies are brief, muted. I go and say hello to them all.

‘Maybe two of you could do the kitchen and two in here?’ Tom suggests.

They divide up and I go back into the bedroom. I collect her shoes and put them in the case. I bring the clothes in that she’d left drying on the balcony, among them the shirt that I was sure she would have taken if she had been away on holiday.

There isn’t much conversation, but now and again I hear Dawn say, ‘Take or leave?’ and Lori reply, or Lori say to someone, ‘You can chuck that out.’

It doesn’t take long. All of the kitchen equipment is left for the next tenant. Her travel guides and work notes, dictionary and other bits and pieces go into the case.

‘Nearly done,’ I tell them. We will drop the keys at the gatehouse and Dawn will see the landlord to settle the finances. She thinks the deposit will more or less equate to the rent payments Lori missed but will let us know.

Tom takes the photo off the wall and puts it into her case along with the lucky Chinese knot.

I feel a rush of emotion, aware of all the partings that are imminent, but Lori takes it in her stride: telling Oliver to keep in touch; thanking Rosemary for everything and making her promise she’ll visit us in Manchester when she comes to the UK. Shona stoops down and gives Lori a small package: inside is a necklace, glass fragments in cobalt blue and bottle green caught in twisted silver.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ Lori says.

‘You get well now,’ Shona says.

Just Dawn is left. She goes to hug Lori and Lori freezes, then leans forward, her thin arms encircling her friend.

I see Dawn’s back judder and hear her sniff. Lori gives a little cry, then releases her arms. Dawn straightens up, saying, ‘Sorry,’ and blowing her nose. Lori wipes her face with her hands and gives a lopsided smile. ‘Zài jiàn,’ she says thickly.

Dawn hiccups a laugh. She turns to Tom, who pats her arm and says, ‘All the best.’ Tom and I walk her to the door and I give her a quick hug. Her face is working, she’s barely holding it together, and I think we both know it’d be best if she didn’t go to pieces in front of Lori. She whispers her goodbyes and leaves.

Lori asks me to open the balcony windows and Tom takes her out in the wheelchair. With help she gets to her feet, leaning her arms on the rust-pocked railings.

‘It’s clear today,’ I say.

To the right, we can see across to the second ring road, and beyond that the high-rises stretch to the horizon. The sun glints on the windows in the tower blocks opposite us. A crane at work on the construction site to the left swings a load way up high over the roof. The air is filled with sound, the ubiquitous horns, the drone of machinery, someone whistling, other voices raised, as if in argument, and a dog howling.

‘I was so happy here,’ she says.

I touch her back, feel the knobs of her spine, a flicker of tension. She doesn’t say anything else.

The three of us stand gazing at Chengdu until Lori sits down and it’s time to go.

The airport, bright with its shimmering marble floors, is very warm and airless, in spite of banks of air-conditioning vents in the walls. You could look outside, where a thick haze is smothering everything, and think it was a foggy autumn day at home, chilly and damp with the smell of burning leaves and wet wool in the air. It’s fifteen days since we arrived in China, but feels so much longer.

Bilingual announcements echo over the PA system. A Chinese group share a picnic, the spicy aroma percolating through the departure lounge.

I buy pandas for the boys.

We have VIP status, will be fast-tracked to our seats, avoid the queues, get extra leg room, considerate attention. But nothing can fast-track the journey. Over fourteen hours until we reach home. It’s odd at first to see so many Caucasian faces again, Westerners. No one’s staring at us any more. Or not for that reason. Some stare at Lori. Perhaps she is recognizable from the news coverage. Her face and that of Bai Lijuan, along with pictures of Bradley Carlson, have been beamed around the world. A global story for our global village. Or is it simply because she looks so frail? Face still skull-like, no fat on her, shoulders angular, knees sharp, beneath the loose jade silk pyjama-suit she wears.

While we wait at Schiphol for the connecting flight, Tom makes calls, work ones but also to Edward at Missing Overseas – he has been managing the press at this end with Nick. A request has been made for them to respect the family’s privacy with the carrot of inducement that some of us may be available to appear at a press conference in due course. It’s Lori they want, of course, Lori who survived and emerged from the maw of the monster.

We won’t let them do that, we agreed, gawp and preen and pick over her trauma, but as Edward has explained, we wanted the publicity, we courted them when she went missing, invited the press to help us. ‘And now it’s biting us in the arse,’ Tom said.

‘We can speak,’ I said to Tom, ‘you and I can, when we’re ready.’

Lori drowsed a lot of the long flight. I had to hold back from fussing, didn’t comment when she ignored the food and barely had any of the supplementary drinks she’d been given. Tom and I sat either side of her. He drank steadily, taking full advantage of the complimentary bar service. I didn’t dare. I knew I’d suffer with a vicious headache and dehydration. My eyes feel as though they have been peeled.

As we come into the arrivals hall in Manchester, there is a sudden stir: a group of people surge forward, some with cameras, some with microphones, firing questions at us.

‘How are you feeling, Lorelei?’

‘Will you be testifying?’

‘What was your ordeal like?’

‘How did the police find you?’

‘How is it being home?’

I flinch, stop pushing the wheelchair. Lori cowers, her eyes squeezed shut.

Tom has the luggage trolley. He holds up his hands. ‘Wait,’ he says loudly. ‘We’re just glad to be home and we would really appreciate some privacy.’ He’s on edge – I imagine him taking a swing at someone.

‘What’s the first thing you want to do, Lorelei?’

‘Were you happy with the work of the Chinese authorities?’

They continue to call out. Then, with a lurch of anxiety, I see Nick at the other side of the gangway hurrying towards us. He looks worn out, bloodshot eyes, rumpled clothes, his hair in need of a wash. There’s a woman with him and he introduces her as Isabelle – she’ll be helping us with the media. I’m just wondering why Isabelle can’t start by getting rid of the scrum crowding close by when she speaks up: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a statement here from the family.’

Nick nods to me and gestures we should keep moving.

I can hear the beginning of her speech: ‘ “We would like to say that we are very relieved and very thankful to be at home with Lorelei, who is recovering her strength day by day after excellent care from the Huaxi hospital. We would like to thank all those people who were able to help…” ’

Out of earshot, Nick stops walking and crouches to greet Lori. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he says.

She smiles, wan, tired.

We exit the arrivals hall. Tom lugs his case from the trolley. I feel a clutch of panic at the notion of him leaving us now.

‘I’ll get a cab,’ he says. He bends over Lori. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘OK, Dad,’ she says.

He kisses the top of her head.

As he steps away, I go to him, put my arms around him and hug. There’s a fraction of a pause, then he returns the embrace. My eyes shut tight savouring – for the last time, I imagine – the feel of him, his width and height, the heat of his chest, the smell of tobacco and cedar, the prickle of his hair brushing against my cheek.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He draws away, his eyes on mine, clear and calm.

I take the luggage trolley and turn to Nick. ‘You’ll push Lori?’

‘Yes,’ he says. He looks at me for a moment too long and my throat closes in panic, but I ignore him and set off across the road to the car park.