Half the World Away

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Nick refuses point blank to discuss his drinking with me when he comes back to the house, three days after he walked out.

He’s packing a bag.

‘We can get through this,’ I say. ‘Look at everything we’ve coped with so far. If we stick together, if you get some help-’

‘I don’t need help,’ he says.

‘You need to accept you’ve got a problem.’

He pauses, a pile of T-shirts in his hands, and stares at me, his eyes cold, his face shadowed with stubble. ‘I do accept that,’ he says, ‘and you’re the problem.’

‘Oh, come on…’

‘All this whining at me to stop drinking,’ he says, ‘it’s just a distraction.’

‘From what?’ I say.

‘I’m not the one who’s unfaithful,’ he says.

I feel a wave of heat and the pinch of anxiety. ‘I told you, I did not sleep with Tom.’

‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ he says.

‘Nick, can we just-’

‘No,’ he says, throwing the clothes onto the bed, ‘we can’t just do anything.’

‘What about Lori?’ I say.

He snorts as he opens another drawer. ‘That’s rich, coming from you. What would she make of it, eh?’

My guts clench. Would he do that? I’ve no idea how Lori would react but how can he even contemplate hurting her to get back at me when she is so weak and damaged?

‘She needs us,’ I say, ‘and I’m not the one who’s pissed all the time.’

He glares at me, a bitter smile on his face. Bends to fill his bag.

‘Where are you going?’ I say.

‘Ivan’s.’ Ivan is divorced. He lives in Chester, about forty-five miles away.

‘What are you going to do?’ I say.

‘Fuck knows.’

I give up. He’s no good to Lori angry and drunk.

Or to me.

I can’t stay in the room any longer. My throat aches with unshed tears as I leave him to his packing.

He doesn’t say goodbye before he goes.

The boys miss Nick. I do, too, the way he was before. It’s hard to pinpoint when he started to change but I know we were arguing before I went to China. And the redundancy really didn’t help.

He rings every week or so to talk to Isaac and Finn. Lori won’t speak to him.

He calls me, too, in the early hours, sometimes drunk and contrite, his words laboured between long pauses, painful and pointless, at other times drunk and abusive. Now I’ve taken to muting my ring tone when I’m going to bed. Sometimes he leaves rambling messages. It seems clear that, so far, he hasn’t addressed the issue, hasn’t done anything about it.

The boys think he’s gone away to work. Lori knows the situation.

‘It’s not fair,’ she said, when I told her. ‘Why is he being so stupid?’

‘People say it’s a disease. It’s complicated,’ I try to offer some insight, ‘but the only person who can do anything about it is Nick himself and for that to happen he has to admit there’s a problem.’ And if he did, I’m not sure I’d want him back.

It’s the first week in September when we hear from Peter Dunne again. ‘We’ve just come from court,’ he says. ‘We were called there for the verdict. They’ve found him guilty on all counts. And they’ve handed down the death sentence.’ My stomach plummets but at the same time there’s a rush of dizzying relief. Guilty. Guilty. The word we’ve been waiting for.

‘He has the right to appeal, so that process will begin now,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘Two separate appeals in different courts, the Higher People’s Court first and then the Supreme People’s Court. His lawyer will be arguing for clemency, to reflect the fact that Carlson made a full confession and co-operated with the police.’

‘What happens if he wins the appeal?’ I say.

‘The death sentence may be commuted to what they call life with two years’ reprieve. In effect it’s a life sentence in prison. Realistically, that’s the best he could hope for. However, Carlson showed no remorse or humility in court. He acted as though it was simply bad luck that he was caught. That won’t play well with the appeal judges.’

‘I’d like them to lock him up for the rest of his life,’ I say. It seems fitting after what he did to Bai Lijuan and Lori. To see him incarcerated, at the mercy of his captors, to have no control over his movements, over any aspect of his life, to be powerless. ‘How long will it take? When will we know?’

Peter Dunne can’t be sure.

He says goodbye, and I’m aware that the wait for news will go on. The spectre of the case is there all the time at the back of my mind, a shadow, a place of darkness.

The final appeal in the case of American Bradley Carlson, found guilty of intentional homicide, rape and kidnap of Bai Lijuan and the abduction and rape of Briton Lorelei Maddox with intent to kill, has been denied. Wang Hongtang, the defendant’s lawyer, argued for clemency on grounds that Carlson had co-operated and made a full confession. However, the procurator-general said, ‘We have seen no evidence of contrition or remorse from the defendant. This sentence sends a clear message. These crimes were the most serious. They were planned and carried out with clear intention to murder. There were no extenuating circumstances whatsoever.’

Something buckles in my chest. So he will die. My head fizzes and my vision fractures. The state will kill him. Is he afraid? Surely he must be. I study that notion. See him craven and gibbering, dragged to the place of execution. What if he is indifferent? Or gets some sick thrill at the notoriety this brings. If he is a psychopath, as they say, does he have the capacity to experience terror? Does he understand now what it was like for Lori as he trussed her up, drugged her and raped her? Does he see how monstrous his acts were? I want him to suffer, I acknowledge, but if he is executed next year or the year after then his suffering will end. I would rather he be left alive, rotting slowly, devoid of hope and dignity and freedom.

Still I cannot equate this man, who bought caustic soda and plastic ties, took pictures of his victims unconscious and naked, with the young man who ordered our food at the hotpot restaurant and consoled Dawn when she cried about Lori. The man pictured smiling on Lori’s blog, his arm around her shoulders. Had he chosen her then? Marked her out as his next victim?