Tom’s face is serious. The look in his eyes may be pity or criticism but I disregard it. ‘You have a fag,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to ring home.’ He opens his mouth but I keep moving, swing my bag up onto my shoulder, not wanting to hear what he might say about Lori, about what’s happened to her, about being realistic, about facing up to things.
‘Come to mine when you’re finished,’ I say, ‘and we’ll call Edward and do the press-conference statement.’
‘If Tom’s charging around like a bull at a gate no wonder the cops are pissed off,’ Nick says, when I tell him what’s happened.
‘It’s not like that,’ I say. ‘The guy was really dismissive, then called the guards on us. Anyway, we have the press conference sorted. Tom’s going to speak to Edward and work out what to say.’
‘You should do it,’ Nick says.
‘What?’
‘You should talk. It’ll be more powerful,’ he says.
‘I don’t know, father-daughter?’ I say.
‘Except you only need one journalist to latch onto the fact that Tom pissed off when Lori was a baby to taint the message.’
I hadn’t thought of it like that. Does it matter? Is Nick right or does he resent the fact that Tom is here and he isn’t? ‘I’ll see what Edward says. How is everything?’
He exhales heavily and says, ‘Isaac’s been sick again.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Twice in the night.’
‘Is he going to school?’ I say.
‘Yes, he seemed all right this morning. Ate his Krispies.’
‘We can’t go on with it like this,’ I say. ‘The GP told me we could ask for a referral. Maybe we should do that now.’
‘Can we do it over the phone?’ Nick says.
‘I’ve no idea. You could ring them and ask. Is Finn OK?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m OK,’ he says. But he sounds flat. It can’t be easy, the pressure of worrying about Lori, the demands of the campaign, holding the fort at home, on top of everything else.
‘Two paragraphs max,’ Edward says, ‘a few sentences. Start with Lori, her personality, her qualities. You want to give her an identity, make people warm to her and see her as an individual. Say something about China or Chengdu and how she liked it – that’ll help appeal to Chinese viewers. Next paragraph, keep it simple: if Lori is listening, please get in touch, and appeal to anyone who knows anything, no matter how small, to come forward.’
‘Does it matter who says it?’ Tom asks.
‘Not at all.’
I think of Nick’s advice.
‘How do we decide?’ I say to Tom, when the call is over.
‘You want to do it?’ he says.
I think of the pressure, the attention, of trying to get my words straight. I think about breaking down. I think of Lori. ‘Yes,’ I say.
‘OK.’
We compose the text and Tom types it up. ‘Lori is a lively, loving girl, a brilliant sister to her two young brothers. She’s a photographer and a teacher, who works hard and likes to spend time with her friends. Lori has been keeping a blog about her travels and when she got to China she fell in love with the place. Lori, if you hear this, please get in touch, and if anyone watching has heard from Lori or knows anything that might help us find her, no matter how small, please contact the police or the helpline number.’
Tom checks the spelling, then emails it to Peter Dunne and to Edward.
* * *
When Tom has gone, I pull back the double glazing, let in the city noise. It is a still night, the sky a bruised purple. I listen to all the sounds and try to unpick them, to separate them out and name each one. I fight to hear what is beneath, beyond, that wall of sound. If I could just hear her laugh, that joyous, delighted, abrupt laugh. That burst of pleasure. Or the little murmur she makes in her throat when she considers something.
I stand there until I grow stiff, my back aching, then give in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We meet Anthony outside Lori’s, and when Rosemary arrives, I introduce them. They chat to each other in Chinese. Rosemary’s hair is so long and thick I wonder if she finds it uncomfortable with the heat and humidity. She’s wearing a maxi dress again, black cheesecloth with a red orchid print. Instead of leafleting on the street I suggest the shopping mall. It’s a ten-minute walk – we passed it on the way from our hotel. I check with Rosemary: would Lori have shopped there sometimes?
‘Oh, yes, lots of shops. And the big supermarket has Western food.’
We walk in the shadow of the ring road to get there, risking our necks crossing each junction. The cloud chokes the city, thick and dense, impenetrable. Everything is smudged with the haze.
In the plaza, in front of the mall, cheerleaders are performing, boys and girls with red outfits and golden pom-poms. A marching band, also in red, accompanies them, the sound of the bass drum thumping across the square.
Given that both Anthony and Rosemary speak Chinese, we decide to split up. Anthony and I will cover one floor, Tom and Rosemary another, and we will meet up in an hour and a half.
Looking at the signs outside, we could be anywhere in the developed world: Uniqlo, Ted Baker, Vuitton, H&M, Starbucks and McDonald’s.
There’s a security guard at the entrance.
‘Should we tell him what we’re doing?’ I say.
Anthony talks to him. The man listens and shakes his head, waves us away.
‘He says no,’ Anthony says. ‘We must get permission.’
‘Fuck,’ Tom says.
‘Probably be the same back home,’ I say. ‘The Trafford Centre or wherever. We’ll stay outside, then, go further along.’ We leave Tom and Rosemary at the next doorway. Anthony and I circle the complex until we find a busy spot. A shiny new car, strewn with balloons, revolves on a stage near to a stall. The promoters all wear matching yellow T-shirts and baseball caps.
We intercept people heading towards the mall and hand out leaflets. Most people actually take one, which encourages me. We’ve been there about ten minutes, when a security guard from the nearest entrance calls out and starts walking over to us. He speaks to Anthony, then into his walkie-talkie. Then he shouts at Anthony again.
Anthony backs away, telling me, ‘We have to leave. We are not permitted to be here.’
I’m irritated, but what can I do? ‘Let’s find the others, then,’ I say.
There’s no sign of them where we parted so we walk on. The marching band is still parading and a sizeable crowd is watching, but as we skirt around them I realize that a smaller crowd is looking the other way. A police van is on the square and I can see Tom and Rosemary standing beside it and a group of policemen. The police are armed. I run up. ‘What’s going on? What’s the matter?’
Tom starts to talk but one of the police, a chubby man with a pitted complexion, begins shouting at Rosemary and gestures to me and to Anthony, who has followed me.
The officer comes closer and signals that he wants the leaflets. He snatches the ones we carry and hands them to another cop. All the police are hard-faced, unsmiling.
‘They’re just leaflets,’ I say. ‘Tell them,’ I say to Anthony. He begins to speak but is cut off. The atmosphere is brittle. The man in charge says something and there’s sudden movement as his colleagues grab our hands and bind our wrists with plastic ties.
‘What the fuck?’ says Tom.
‘Please,’ Rosemary says, ‘be calm and quiet.’
The boss says something to her.
‘We are being detained,’ Rosemary says, ‘for causing a public nuisance and distributing propaganda without authority.’
‘It’s not propaganda,’ I say, ‘and Superintendent Yin knows we are leafleting. Please tell him, Anthony, tell him.’
Anthony tries to talk and again the officer shouts over him. He points with his baton to the back of the van. The men who tied us up pull us to the vehicle and make us get in. We sit on the bench se
ats that run the length of either side, Rosemary and me on one, Tom and Anthony opposite. Our grim-faced escorts get in and sit between us.
‘English,’ I say, ‘British. Superintendent Yin – we have to contact—’
The officer shouts me down, his face contorted. Fear sparks through me, raising the hairs on my arms, making my nerves shriek.
‘No talking,’ Anthony says. He and Rosemary are ashen-faced. Tom looks furious, his eyes flashing. I shake my head: he mustn’t do anything to inflame the situation. The back doors slam. I can still hear the brass band playing. Then, after a moment, the engine starts.
It is hot in the back of the van and it smells of sweat and metal and engine oil. We’re jolted about as the driver swings through the traffic.
The men accompanying us look young but sit rigid and aloof, not making eye contact with any of us or each other.
I feel wild with anxiety, my heart thudding and my guts burning. What will they do to us?
It’s perhaps twenty minutes later when the van stops. We are taken by our escorts into a police station. Not the one where we met Superintendent Yin. They ferry us through a door at the back and into a holding area where the officer who’s done all the shouting is talking to a constable. Our box of leaflets is on a desk. They release our ties and we are made to sit on a steel bench, guarded by the same men.
There are forms to be filled in and they start with Tom. When it is clear that he has no Chinese, they rope Anthony in to translate. Name, place of residence in China, visa details. I hear Anthony say nǚ ér and shī zōng. He will explain why we’re here, I tell myself, and it’ll all be cleared up. I’m trying not to cry.
‘Give him Peter Dunne’s number,’ Tom says. ‘I’ve got it here.’ He pulls out his phone and the chief starts shouting. The officer at the desk gets a plastic tray out and we are made to empty our pockets, hand over our bags and remove jewellery and belts. The man in charge picks up my passport and glances through it, does the same with Tom’s, a look of disdain on his face.
There is some more discussion with Anthony, and I think I hear the name Yin.
Anthony points to the leaflets. He is silenced with a gesture from the boss.
A woman officer comes in and signals at me to go with her. My knees are weak as I get to my feet.
She takes me along a corridor and down some steps and puts me in a cell. The door is slammed and any sound from beyond is muffled. There’s no window, just white-painted concrete walls, a concrete bench and a hole in the floor in the corner. On the ceiling a lamp in a metal cage gives off a sickly yellow light. The stench of sewage is powerful enough to make me heave. The small room is hot, as though the heat has been baked into the concrete. There are marks scratched into the paint, Chinese characters. Names, perhaps, or rude words, complaints, messages of protest.
They can’t do this, I think. Which rather flies in the face of the evidence. How’s it going to look, though? CHINESE POLICE ARREST PARENTS OF MISSING GIRL. But if they just keep it quiet, nobody will know. Like with Lori. Who here knows? The few people we’ve managed to reach with a leaflet.
The police will contact the consulate, surely. That’s what Peter Dunne said: all the times he’d been dragged out of bed when British citizens had fallen foul of the law.
With the sickening smell and the fist of tension gripping my guts, it’s hard to breathe. I think of the yoga exercises I once learned but my mind is too panicked to concentrate on anything like that.
What if they deport us? The thought of going home without Lori is unbearable. Of course it’s been a storm cloud on the horizon, the possibility that we won’t find her, that she will stay missing, but to be sent home early, to be excluded from the search . . . Would they be that cruel?
I imagine Tom’s sarcastic response. I think of Peter Dunne’s warning about sensitive times. Of course they would do whatever was deemed necessary to suit the politics of the moment. We’re irrelevant. Lori’s disappearance is insignificant in the greater scheme of things.
Something moves by the drain: a cockroach, brown and shiny, the size of a plum, skirts the hole. I draw my feet onto the bench and hug my knees. I don’t want to watch the insect but I want to lose sight of it even less. Aren’t they supposed to favour the dark?
It circles the drain again, then crawls quickly along towards the door. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to scream. Sweat pricks my skin.
It’s important to be calm – calm and co-operative, polite. Show the police that we are harmless. Just ignorant. Ignorance is no defence – is that true here too? The bang of a door somewhere sends vibrations through the walls and the bench, then it all goes quiet again. The cockroach parades the width of the door, getting close to my side of the room. I clap my hands to send it away but the fucking thing takes to the air, flying at me, a whirr of shell and wings. They’re not supposed to fly. I jerk out of the way, a cry in my throat.
It bumps into the wall and falls, then scuttles, hogging the edge of the wall until it reaches the drain. I press my fist against my mouth. I’m shaking. My heart burns in my chest. All the reassurances I’ve given the children – you’re much bigger than that is; it’s more frightened of you than you are of it; just ignore it and it’ll leave you alone – they die on my tongue.
What about Rosemary? She’s only young. Will this have her branded a troublemaker, an undesirable? Could she lose her job for an indiscretion like this? And Anthony? Will their involvement be held against them?
We haven’t committed any crime, as far as I can see, we’ve not been charged. They’d have to charge us, make sure we understood, wouldn’t they? They’ll try the phone number on the leaflets, speak to Superintendent Yin, won’t they?
Perhaps they’ve already spoken. Perhaps Superintendent Yin decided our door-stepping Mr Du was beyond the pale and that having us picked up today would teach us a lesson. A flash of anger brings sweat to the back of my neck.
My bladder aches, a band of cramp, deep in my abdomen. The cockroach waves its antennae and edges over the rim of the drain hole. There is no way I can pee with the cockroach there. Jump, you little bastard.
There’s a sudden shout in the building, a man I think, but it’s blunted by the thick walls. I can’t make out the language, whether it’s words or just a yell. I don’t think it’s Tom. I stay stock still, listening, holding my breath until my neck is sore. Nothing.
Then a sudden clattering noise, a whirring as the cockroach jinks through the air, flying drunkenly out of control. I scream and duck, almost wet myself. The insect lands clumsily by the door.
My stomach hurts when I stand but I cross to the drain, pull down my shorts and feel the burning sensation as my bladder empties, leaving the dull ache behind. The cockroach scoots under the bench. I stand by the drain. There’s a thumping in the back of my head and my mouth is gummy. They’ll have to bring us water, in this heat, surely.
A buzzing, sizzling sound and the light snaps off. I can’t see the cockroach. I stifle a sob. The light fizzes back on. The creature hasn’t moved: it waits, pressed in the shadow of the bench, antennae twitching.
Isaac hates the dark. He always has his night light on. He won’t go into caves or tunnels, not even cupboards, if there’s no light. His insecurities leave me feeling helpless as a parent, at times blaming myself or Nick. Why haven’t we been able to make him feel safe? What did we do wrong? Did we neglect him in some way? Not enough attention. Not enough cuddles. Should I have nursed him for longer? They say every child has a different role in the family. Is that all it is? Isaac sees Finn as settled, happy, relaxed, so has to claim alternative qualities of his own.
My headache is worse. I try to relax my jaw, massage my temples. My skin is oily, dirty. The small of my back hurts from standing but the cockroach stays where it is.
What if they do charge us? Send us to prison instead of deporting us. It does happen. Drug smugglers, people charged with corruption, or spying, with offences against the state.
What did we do? A few leaflets, that’s all. I try to talk down my panic. Just leaflets asking for help to find Lori. That’s all.
Fuck them! Rage surges up my spine into the back of my skull. I cross to the bench and kick at the cockroach. It scurries towards the drain end of the room and I go after it. Kicking out and trying to swipe it into the drain. It lurches up off the ground and crosses the hole to the strip of floor beyond. I twist my foot, kicking with the edge of my sandal and tip it into the hole. I stamp my foot over the space again and again to stop it crawling back up. ‘And fucking stay there,’ I say out loud, ‘just fucking stay there.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hours later, I’m lying on my back, on the bench, my knees raised as it’s not long enough for me to stretch out, when there’s a clanking as the door opens. I swing upright and go dizzy. A woman officer shouts and motions me to come out. I follow her down the corridor and into the same room where we were first held.
She pats her hand at me indicating I should sit.
My mouth is claggy, throat parched. I’ve had nothing to eat, not even some water since we got here.
Moments after, Tom comes in with an escort.
‘You OK?’ he says.
‘Yes. Your hand . . .’ There is blood on his knuckles.
‘Altercation with the wall.’
Our two escorts speak to each other and the woman goes out.
‘Where are the others?’ I say to Tom.
‘Don’t know, not seen anyone. Do you speak English?’ he says to the policeman. ‘English?’
The policeman replies in Chinese. It means nothing to us.
‘If they charge us . . .’ I say.
‘They’re not going to charge us,’ Tom says.
‘How do you know?’
He says nothing.
The woman comes back in. She has my bag and the tray with our passports and phones on. I feel a wave of relief, a loosening inside. She holds the tray out and we take our things. She has a form, too, which we have to sign. It could say anything but I imagine it must be to show we had our valuables safely returned.
Half the World Away Page 18
