Half the World Away

CHAPTER SIXTY

The phone call comes at seven thirty on a Wednesday morning in mid-November.

‘Mr Dunne?’

‘Mrs Maddox, we have just been informed that Bradley Carlson was executed this morning.’

A thump in my chest. My legs turn to water. I sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Right.’ Ringing in my ears. He’s dead.

‘As you know,’ he says, ‘it is UK policy to oppose the death penalty in all circumstances, but the Chinese were eager to make an example of him.’

I think of Carlson strapped to a trolley, IV lines or a needle delivering the fatal dose. Should I be happy about this? Should I feel victorious? Or relieved? I just feel sick.

There’s a pause as I try to absorb the news.

‘I’ll let Mr Maddox know, too,’ Peter Dunne says.

‘Yes, thank you.’ I try to concentrate on the conversation, on responding appropriately, but there’s a beating in my head. I’m floundering. ‘And thank you for everything you’ve done.’

‘I’m only sorry that your introduction to China was under such terrible circumstances,’ he says. ‘If you or Lorelei ever need anything in future, please do not hesitate to get in touch.’

I wake Lori and tell her the news. She covers her face with her hands.

Isabelle rings. ‘We’re going to be asked to comment. Do you want to discuss what you say with Lori, Nick and Tom?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘Nick’s still away, though.’

‘I see. OK.’

‘What are we supposed to say?’ Lori looks between Tom and me.

‘We’re glad he was caught, glad he’s been convicted,’ I say.

‘Glad he’s dead,’ Tom says.

I stare at him.

‘I don’t feel glad about any of it,’ Lori says.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Maybe that’s not the right word.’

‘We say the absolute minimum.’ Tom pulls a piece of paper over and takes a pen.

I have a flashback to his hotel room, those days of leafleting, the list we made about Lori’s last photographs.

‘ “Lorelei and her family are…” ’ Tom looks at us. Lori shrugs.

‘Relieved?’ I say.

Tom screws up his mouth but obviously can’t think of anything better.

‘Isabelle can always tweak it,’ I say. ‘ “Lorelei and her family are relieved that the matter has been concluded-” ’

‘Sounds like a boundary dispute,’ Tom says. ‘ “… relieved that justice has been done and now wish to concentrate on looking to the future.” ’

‘That’ll do,’ Lori says.

There’s a ghastly sense of anti-climax to the whole thing. I’ve no desire to cheer, raise a fist or even sigh with relief at the conclusion of the legal process. Bradley Carlson may be dead but we are still here, swirling in the aftermath of his violence. Still haunted.

We get a letter from Chengdu, addressed to Mr and Mrs Maddox and Miss Maddox. A franking mark tells us it’s from the consulate. Inside there is another envelope, thick yellow vellum, embossed with pictures of koi carp. I open it and pull out a note.

Dear Mr and Mrs Maddox and Miss Lorelei Maddox,

I am translating for Mr Bai and Mrs Wen who wish to thank you for your most kind thoughts. We send you hope for health and prosperity and happiness and we thank you for your kindness and assistance.

Warm regards.

They have signed their names in Chinese characters, delicate pen strokes, in rich black ink.

My eyes fill and the writing swims. I cannot swallow. I look away, out of the window, where dark clouds, huge like galleons, race across the winter sky. And seagulls wheel below them. I think of the Chinese girl with the daisy chain and the large sunglasses, setting out on her life, and how it was stolen from her. So brutally. Of the endless sorrow that her parents must bear. And how in the midst of that grief they could consider us, choose a card, decide what to say and arrange to have it sent. Such human kindness. I think of Lori and her pain, the wounds that may never heal, the invisible ones.

And I weep for us all.