I sign it.
Tom says, ‘In English?’
‘Tom, just sign it,’ I say.
We are taken through the front of the building and left outside the police station. The officers go back inside.
It is dusk; the sky glowers lilac grey. My bottled water is still in my bag and we share it; it’s tepid but I don’t care.
I start to call Rosemary but Tom says, ‘Let’s move along a bit, in case they change their minds.’
We don’t know the area but walk down the street, past several bus stops where people are gathered, to a main road. Across the other side is the river. We go and find a bench under the trees along the promenade. The evening is muggy, the heat like warm breath enveloping us.
Rosemary answers straight away. She’s fine: she and Anthony were both sent home about an hour ago. The police told them that we were trespassing, that leafleting is not permitted anywhere near the mall without clearance. She sounds shaken – there’s none of the usual lightness in her voice. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘I’m OK,’ she says. ‘It is OK now.’
I speak to Anthony, apologize to him, too, and arrange to text him after tomorrow’s press conference to make any arrangements for Friday.
My phone goes before I can redial and it’s Peter Dunne. ‘Mrs Maddox, you’ve been released?’
‘Yes, how did you—’
‘We got a call mid-afternoon and I’ve been talking to people behind the scenes. I understand the local police objected to you leafleting at the mall.’
‘We’d have stopped but they didn’t give us the chance,’ I say.
‘You’ve had your documents returned?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Good. And you were treated reasonably?’
What’s reasonable? ‘No one explained what was happening,’ I say. ‘We didn’t get to make a phone call, or have access to a lawyer.’ I’m getting angry and there’s an edge of hysteria making my voice quiver. ‘We weren’t given any food or drink.’
‘I see. It is very unfortunate but, hopefully, that is the end of the matter. I will be writing in my official capacity to the department responsible to protest their heavy-handed behaviour. Is there anything you or Mr Maddox need from me otherwise?’
‘Have you heard from Superintendent Yin?’ I say. ‘Have they spoken to Mr Du?’
‘Not today.’ How can he dismiss it like that? ‘Thank you for the statement for the press conference. That’s excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow. If you can be there by half past nine.’ And he’s gone.
‘Nothing from the police,’ I say to Tom, ‘and he doesn’t seem to care. What is taking them so long? Have they even done anything we’ve asked them to?’
Tom clenches his jaw, gives a shake of his head. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Superintendent Yin was behind our detention.’
‘I thought the same,’ I say. ‘It’s like they’re boxing us off, keeping us in the dark.’
The air is filled with the roar of traffic, and the Chinese language ebbs and flows, falling and rising. I close my eyes. So tired. My stomach growls. ‘I’m starving,’ I say.
‘Grab something at the hotel,’ Tom suggests.
‘I need a shower first. I had a cell mate.’ I shudder.
He raises an eyebrow.
‘A bloody great cockroach, this big.’ I show him with my fingers.
‘You didn’t make a pet of it, then?’
‘No fear.’
I walk over to check the street sign and peer at the map, then suggest we walk along to a bigger junction where we’ve a chance of finding a taxi.
Before we get there, I spot strings of lights in the sky. Scarlet and blue, yellow and white, as though someone has taken Christmas lights and draped them high above the city, maybe half a dozen different streams of them. Some flicker on and off, like flashing LED lights.
‘What are they?’ I say.
‘They’re on the kites,’ says Tom.
I pause. ‘How do you know that? How can you know that?’
‘Lori mentioned it one time.’
‘I don’t remember,’ I say.
‘Maybe in an email,’ he says.
We walk on and see people leaning along the stone parapet. Hear a mix of music. On the promenade below two groups of women are dancing. One lot are in pairs doing slow twists and turns, singing along to the song, which is amplified. A couple are in stitches, laughing as they swing gently away from each other then back to clap hands – it’s like a languid Chinese jive.
The other group of women all face the river and on the stone wall is a small screen, which shows a figure performing movements that the women copy, stretching and waving one arm, then the other, then both, bending to rub each knee in turn. Keep fit on the waterside.
It’s bizarre, like a hallucination. I almost feel like it is being put on for our benefit – see how harmonious our society is, how we cherish our culture, how we share together. Never mind that my being locked in a cell is just a tiny example of the crushing grip of the state.
Just past the dancers, the kite man is surrounded by a group of children. He fixes a ball of light, flickering neon blue, to a line and it soars up the string making the whole length dip and rise in a lazy arc. Above us, bats crisscross and tumble, and all around tiny white moths cloud the air. A few pinpricks sting my calves and neck. I don’t know if it’s the moths, mosquitoes or some other insects biting me.
I think of Lori standing here, watching the spectacle. Is she out there somewhere, now? Across the river or uptown, glimpsing those glittering strobes in the gloom?
A toddler waddles past, making a squeak with every other step, the sound a baby’s squeezy toy might make. Something in his shoe, I think. It feels like everyone is out and about tonight, carrying on this spectacle of communal life. What would they do if we interrupted the placid scene and started talking ugly truths, told them we’d been thrown in a police cell, that Lori is missing, that all over China girls are being kidnapped but their parents aren’t heard?
I feel unsafe, untethered, as though I might lose control, start shouting and raving. I gesture to Tom to walk on.
Around the corner a makeshift stall has been laid out in the dark, vegetables and fruits on the pavement and a set of electronic scales. A handful of customers wait their turn. There is a basketball game on in the court by the junction and more music comes from the trees nearby. A man’s voice swoops and soars and, as we pass, I can just make out the silhouettes of more dancing couples.
After a long drink of lukewarm water and two painkillers, I shampoo my hair and shower away the grime and sweat and some of the tension.
I don’t wait for Tom to arrive in the restaurant but go ahead and order steak, fries and salad. And, on impulse, a beer.
He’s only ten minutes late. There’s a giddy sense of relief at having come through an unpleasant ordeal unscathed. I wonder if we’re right, and if our detention by the police was more than just a coincidence, not simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The state flexing its muscle to put us in our place. How can we possibly know?
The beer goes to my head.
We don’t linger after we’ve finished eating and polished off the beer. I can barely string one word in front of another and we have an early start for the press conference.
‘Detained?’ Nick says. ‘What on earth did you do?’
‘We were just leafleting, that’s all.’
‘Christ, Jo!’
He sounds as if he thinks it was my fault. I almost start arguing but I’m exhausted, my eyes prickly and sore, my back throbbing. ‘Crossed wires,’ I say, ‘some jobsworth laying down the law. It’s all OK now.’ Squashing what I really feel, I give up seeking reassurance and comfort from him. ‘Anyway, how are the boys – how’s Isaac?’
‘Better today – well, not throwing up, but he’s being a little shit to Finn. I’ve sent him upstairs because he won’t say sorry. We’ve only been back half an hour.’
Isaac is stubborn: he’ll sit it out all night if he’s so inclined. Nick will get more and more wound up. What can I do from so far away?
I put in a plea for Isaac: ‘If he’s under the weather it always makes him extra cranky. Tell them I love them, both of them. Good night.’
‘Good luck tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you on the telly.’
‘You think so?’
‘Edward says they’ll all be there: BBC, ITV, Channel 4, Sky.’
‘That’s great. Night, then.’
I feel lonely, getting ready for bed, homesick. My boys, I miss them so. I crave the feeling of Isaac’s skinny arms about my neck, his whispered secrets. Finn singing and swinging my hand.
And Lori, too, I miss her, oh, how I miss her. The tug of longing, bound in a thread of fear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A taxi’s been booked to take us to the Rose Hibiscus Hotel where the conference will be held. I’m wearing my smartest outfit, a short-sleeved navy shirt-dress.
We find Peter Dunne a little after nine in the lobby. He’s travelled on the bullet train, taking just two hours to cover one hundred and sixty-six miles from Chongqing. His greeting is brisk – he seems distracted.
‘Can you wait here a moment?’ he says. ‘I need to speak to one of the managers.’
A few minutes later I see him cross the lobby, talking animatedly on his phone. He watches us all the while. Something’s happened, I think. He looks very serious. Is it Lori? Dread sluices through me. I get to my feet. Tom follows my gaze. ‘Jo?’
Peter Dunne closes his phone case and walks over to us.
I feel sick. Saliva floods my mouth.
‘We need to leave,’ he says. He presses the bridge of his glasses with his middle finger.
‘What is it?’ Tom says.
I can’t speak.
‘They’ve cancelled,’ Peter Dunne says.
Not Lori then – they’ve not found Lori? I try to concentrate but I feel dizzy.
‘Who has?’ Tom says.
‘Hard to be sure,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘Can’t we just do it anyway?’ Tom says.
I become aware of two guards by the door and another at the lift, both watching us.
‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise. They’re saying the adverse publicity would damage the city’s image and overshadow the international conventions due in Chengdu this month.’
‘Who’s saying it?’ Tom persists.
‘Come on.’ Peter Dunne nods to the door where the guards wait, scowling at us.
Peter Dunne is on the phone again as we go through the revolving doors and down the marble steps. ‘Veronica? Send an email, high priority, to all the press list for the Lorelei Maddox conference. It’s been cancelled. Make sure everybody’s informed they will not be allowed in.’
A police van squeals to a halt outside the hotel, and a group of men dressed in riot gear pile out. My heart jumps. I’ve a sense of cold panic. The urge to run. I can’t face being locked up again.
‘Christ,’ Tom says, ‘bit over the top, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a show,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘warning any journalists who ignore our message not to get awkward. Just ignore them and walk with me. This way – there’s a teahouse round the corner.’
It’s a luxurious one, set in a courtyard garden. ‘A hidden gem, popular with ladies who shop,’ Peter Dunne says, as the waitress leads us to a table.
I’m trembling, shaken, as I stare at the pool in the centre with water playing over sculpted rocks, the bamboo plants that screen off the tables from one another. It’s all so bloody pretty, with chairs and tables carved from a rich red wood and the inlaid table-top depicting a dragon eating its own tail, but we have just been silenced, run off, by the authorities we are relying on for help.
‘I can recommend the jasmine tea,’ Peter Dunne says.
‘I need coffee,’ Tom replies.
‘They do that, too.’ Peter Dunne’s phone buzzes and he apologizes. ‘Have to get this.’ He has a conversation in rapid-fire Chinese. Then the tone seems to shift a little, with Peter Dunne listening more than talking. When it is over he explains that it was Superintendent Yin.
‘Did he pull out of the conference?’ Tom says, his eyes flashing, ‘Is that how it works?’
‘No, the decision will have been made by someone higher up in the pecking order. No doubt Superintendent Yin agrees with them. The culture here, the expectation is that the police take full responsibility for investigation and then publicize their success, once results have been achieved.’
Anthony said the same thing.
‘Asking for help is regarded as a sign of inadequacy,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘of weakness. What he did tell me is that they’ve completed their search through the records for train services and all internal flights. There is no evidence of Lorelei using her passport to travel in either a plane or a train within China.’
‘So no holiday,’ I say. It’s like I’ve been clinging to a cliff path and have reached the end, where the last part has crumbled. And there is no way forward.
We are interrupted by the waitress who takes our orders.
‘So we’re being gagged,’ Tom says, ‘and there’s nothing we can do about it.’ His voice is rising in volume.
‘There may be another option,’ Peter Dunne says, ‘but I’ll need some time to sort it out.’
‘What?’ I say.
‘We host the conference at the consulate in Chongqing. It’s sovereign British territory: Chinese law, Chinese authority holds no sway within the consulate. But I’m going to have to ask you to keep that to yourselves for now. If the authorities get wind, there are other measures they can take to make life difficult.’
Tom looks at him, inviting him to expand on that.
Peter Dunne gives a warning look as our drinks arrive. The waitress brings fine china cups and a teapot, Tom’s coffee, and a plate of biscuits shaped like lotus flowers.
When she’s out of earshot again, Peter Dunne says, ‘Journalists might be apprehended. There could be unexpected roadblocks close to the venue. So . . .’ he leans forward and pours our tea ‘. . . I’ll let you know as soon as I can but we need to be discreet.’
‘How long?’ Tom says.
‘A couple of days, three at the most.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You won’t be popular.’
He gives a thin smile and raises his cup. ‘I can’t guarantee it will happen but I’ll do what I can. I have to speak to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’
‘Politics?’ says Tom.
‘Always,’ says Peter Dunne.
It’s only four in the morning back home so no one there knows yet that the press conference was stopped.
Tom is in a foul mood on the way back to our hotel.
‘It’s a fucking joke,’ he says, getting into the taxi. ‘Bastards.’
The driver scowls at him and I think he might chuck us out, too, but then he starts the engine.
‘What do you want to do?’ I say, as we get dropped off at the hotel. I still feel shaken, my nerves raw. ‘We could leaflet at Lori’s again?’
‘I want a stiff drink,’ he says. ‘Several.’
‘Christ, Tom, it’s not even noon. Is that your answer to a setback? Throw alcohol at it?’
‘What are we doing here?’ he says. ‘This is a fucking joke.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘It is, Joze.’
I hate it when he calls me that, a pet name from before it all went sour. ‘We’re looking for Lori,’ I say.
‘Fourteen million people,’ he shouts, spittle on his lips, his eyes blazing. ‘Fourteen million. Her friends haven’t got a fucking clue, no one else gives a shit, no matter how nicely-nicely they’re playing it. We’re bad news, Lori missing is bad news. They just want us to shut up and ship out.’
‘Fuck you too, then,’ I yell.
He grabs my wrist and I yank it away, feel the friction sting
as I do. ‘Sod off. If you don’t care—’
‘It’s not a competition, Joze.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
He glares, closes his eyes a moment. Looks back at me. ‘But realistically—’
‘No!’ I raise my arms to silence him. My phone rings and I’m too busy shouting to answer it. ‘No. We keep looking.’
‘How long?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’ I will not cry. Prick.
‘And Finn? Isaac?’ he says.
‘They want me to find Lori, bring her home. How could I possibly face them – how could I sleep at night if I hadn’t tried everything? If—’
Now he’s raising his arms, folding them over the top of his head. His eyes change, flames replaced by liquid. ‘OK,’ he says.
‘Or have you somewhere more important—’
He steps close so quickly I rear back. He places a finger on my mouth. Fury back in his face. I stand there, aware of the heat and pressure of his finger on my lips. It’s only momentary but there’s the smell of violence in it, an undertow of rage.
Then he wheels away.
I flip him a V-sign
I knew his anger in the past, that awful time when our marriage was falling apart and he would lash out, verbally cruel.
Then the ringing starts again. Whoever it is doesn’t want to leave a message.
Nick. 4 a.m. at home. Has he heard somehow?
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Jo, it’s about Isaac.’
‘What?’
‘He’s OK, don’t worry, but we’re at the hospital, A and E.’
‘Nick?’ My skin, every inch, freezes. My vision blurs. ‘What happened?’
In the second before he answers, possibilities cascade through my mind, outtakes from a gruesome parallel universe: Isaac savaged by the dog; Isaac running away and knocked down by a car; Nick losing his temper and hitting him; Isaac messing with a knife; Isaac in the medicine cupboard; Isaac at the top of the stairs, falling.
‘He started screaming, in the middle of the night. I thought it was a nightmare but he collapsed.’ Nick’s voice wavers. ‘I called an ambulance. They’re assessing him now.’
Half the World Away Page 19
