Half the World Away

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Mama,’ Martin calls, and Mrs Tang comes from the narrow hallway. She welcomes us, shakes hands. She is small, wiry, her hair starting to go grey. She wears a stripy jumper, black slacks and tortoiseshell glasses. There are no signs of her hobby here. We are offered tea several times but say, no, thank you.

  Mrs Tang has only a word or two of English. Martin picks up the flier from the dining table and his mother talks to him about it. He says, ‘Mama is sad.’

  ‘Lori talked about photos?’ I mime a camera, then point at Mrs Tang.

  ‘Yes . . . Mama . . .’ He gestures to her and talks in Chinese, clicks his tongue, irritated, I think, that he can’t explain.

  Tom opens the dictionary app on his phone, shows Martin, who finds the word he wants. ‘Reserved,’ Tom reads.

  ‘Shy,’ I say, remembering what Anthony translated the last time we were here, ‘Mrs Tang was shy about doing it?’

  ‘Animals?’ Tom says.

  ‘Yes.’ Martin understands this: he talks to his mother and Mrs Tang beckons to us. We go along the hall that leads off the dining area to a box room at the end. The walls are covered with stuffed animals, set out on shelves. Two squirrels, various birds, a snake and something I think is a mongoose. Some stand on small plinths and others are under glass cases. In front of the window is a wide desk covered with tools, scraps of material and the body of a rat, which looks crushed.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘very good.’ But the animals with their glass-bead eyes, their curled claws and stiff poses make me uneasy. I don’t like to think what Mrs Tang has to do to create her models. The room smells of nothing worse than solvents, glue perhaps, a tang reminiscent of nail-varnish remover.

  I daren’t catch Tom’s eye after his impersonation of the joke taxi-dermy animals on Twitter.

  ‘Shall we?’ I point back to the living room.

  We stand around the dining table, but Mrs Tang gestures that we should sit on the sofas.

  ‘When did Mrs Tang last see Lori?’ I ask Martin. ‘When – what day?’

  He speaks to his mother and they seem to agree. Martin gets up, goes through to the kitchen and comes back with a wall calendar. The months are marked on one sheet, no pictures, just the dates in red and black, Chinese and English.

  He hands it to Mrs Wang and she points.

  ‘April six,’ Martin says.

  ‘Sunday?’ Tom says.

  Martin checks and Mrs Tang agrees.

  ‘Is she sure?’ I say.

  Martin doesn’t understand me. Tom finds the translation, ‘Definite, certain. Kending.’

  Tom hands the phone to Mrs Tang. ‘Kending.’ She nods. She talks for a while to Martin. He thinks for a moment, then explains. ‘Sunday six April Ma go Nanchong.’

  ‘To work,’ Tom says.

  ‘Work. See Lori,’ Martin says.

  ‘See Lori here?’ I point to the window, jabbing my fingers down.

  ‘Here,’ Martin says. He hums, looks up to the ceiling. His mother says something else and he nods to her.

  ‘Lori talk . . . photo.’ He mimes a camera, like I did, his fingers forming a rectangle one on top presses the button. ‘Photo . . . tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.’

  I’m confused.

  Tom holds out his hand for his phone and Mrs Tang passes it back. Tom looks up ‘tomorrow’ and shows Martin. Martin pulls a face.

  ‘Photo . . . small time,’ Martin says.

  ‘Soon?’ I guess.

  ‘Soon, soon.’ Martin nods. He says something else to Mrs Tang and she smiles in agreement.

  I speak in pidgin English: it seems the best way to make myself understood, ‘Lori say to Mrs Tang, Lori take Mrs Tang photo soon. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin says, but he waves his hands as if there’s more to come. ‘Back Nanchong.’

  ‘Take photo when Mrs Tang back Nanchong?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ Martin says.

  I smile and thank them, but I feel deflated. This tells us nothing about Lori’s movements on the Monday.

  Mrs Tang says something and wiggles her wrists. Martin laughs.

  ‘First photo bike,’ Martin says.

  ‘Bike?’ Tom says.

  Mrs Tang giggles. ‘Jumas dee,’ she says, ‘jumas dee.’ As though we might understand. She waggles her hands again.

  ‘James Dee,’ Martin says.

  ‘James Dean?’ Tom gets it.

  ‘Jumas Dee.’ Mrs Tang beams. ‘Easy Rider.’ She mimes the revving of a motorbike and makes a growling sound. We all laugh. I recall images: Dennis Hopper in his buckskin jacket riding a chopper bike; James Dean, hot young rebel astride his motorbike, fag in his mouth, wearing his leather flying jacket.

  Realization slams through me.

  First photo bike.

  A motorbike. A vintage motorbike.

  She was going to shoot me . . . an old Chiang Jiang 750. Bradley’s words.

  It falls through me like slabs of ice. Cold lead weight.

  A trap-door opens at my feet.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Back upstairs in Lori’s flat, we try to make sense of what we’ve just heard.

  ‘Bradley said himself that he was going to be involved,’ says Tom.

  ‘But he said Lori hadn’t filmed him yet. Perhaps her plan fell through,’ I suggest. I’m trying to stay rational, not jump to conclusions, but my body is having none of it. A surge of adrenalin has sent my pulse soaring, my guts are knotted, my mouth dry. ‘No,’ I rebuff my own explanation. ‘The text to Shona was sent at twenty past ten. It said making a start. Not made a start . . . as though she was in the middle of working on it.’

  ‘Or about to start it,’ Tom says. ‘He’s lying to us, the little shit.’

  Why?

  ‘We need to make sure we’ve not got our wires crossed,’ I say. ‘Then we tell the police.’

  ‘Jo, if he is lying, there’s a reason. He’s not suddenly going to come clean. He’ll keep lying. Look, we go round there – it’s easier to tell if he’s bullshitting us in person.’ Tom is already on his feet.

  ‘And say what? Do what?’ I look across the balcony, through the veil of rain, to the cranes working on the new buildings.

  ‘Tell him we’re double-checking the timeline before Lori disappeared, and ask him again when he last saw her. Depending on what he tells us, we say we’ve spoken to someone who heard he and Lori were meeting up on the Monday and see how he reacts.’

  ‘And if he just denies it, explains it away?’ I say.

  ‘We beat the shit out of him,’ Tom says.

  I gape.

  ‘I’m joking!’

  ‘How do I know you won’t do that?’ I say to Tom. ‘Lose your temper, attack him.’

  ‘I won’t touch him,’ Tom says steadily.

  ‘He might freak out, if we just turn up and start asking questions,’ I say.

  ‘Where does he live?’ Tom says.

  ‘It should be here somewhere.’ I check on Lori’s noticeboard, find his name scrawled near the top and his address. It takes a while to work out where it is on the map but we do.

  ‘Look,’ Tom points, ‘there’s a tourist attraction here – a monastery – not far from his place. We can tell him we were already in the area and wanted a quick word.’

  ‘Not call him first?’ I say.

  ‘If he says he’s not home we’re screwed,’ Tom says.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I just hope he’s there.’

  ‘He starts work at two,’ Tom says.

  ‘Yes, but he said he had extra meetings some mornings, which is why he’s not been able to do much leafleting this week.’

  There’s some back-and-forth with the cab driver but he finally understands where we want to go.

  Bradley’s is a gated complex, several towers of black and grey with large red lettering on top that will light up at night, I imagine, like the ones I’ve seen from the hotel.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Tom says, and we watch the gate from over the road for a few moments. People comi
ng in and out, in a rush, as the rain slaps down.

  ‘They’re not all using their key cards,’ Tom says.

  It’s true: people are following each other through and holding the gate open for those coming in behind them. There’s a different gate to exit at the other side of the security booth. Three guards are visible, chatting to each other just inside the entrance, umbrellas up against the rain.

  I’ve a sick, fluttery feeling in my stomach.

  ‘Come on,’ I say.

  We wait for a gap in the traffic and cross. Loiter a minute until a woman carrying bags of groceries makes her way to the entrance. She switches her shopping to one hand and uses the other to swipe her card and release the gate. We follow her through.

  The central area is landscaped, like the place where Lori’s student, Mr Du, lives. There’s no fountain here but pools and streams full of fish, a basketball court and bridges leading to a pavilion. The rain beats down on the water, pitting it like dimpled pewter.

  The towers form a horseshoe and noise reverberates between them, the chatter from a television, a burst from a pneumatic drill, someone playing martial music, birds squawking, all amid the susurration of the downpour.

  Bradley’s block is number five, his flat 1804, the eighteenth floor.

  The radio in the lift plays jingles. I feel dizzy. My head is full of vibrations, making it hard to think straight. Are we mad? ‘Maybe we should just tell—’

  ‘It’s cool, we’re here now.’ Tom’s face is set. ‘We’re just double-checking in the area, like we said.’

  ‘Wow! Everything OK?’ Bradley is bare-chested, barefoot, wears dark chinos. There are scraps of shaving foam on his cheeks either side of his moustache.

  ‘Fine,’ Tom says. ‘We just wanted a quick word.’

  ‘Aw, I’m going to work.’ He grimaces. ‘I could catch up with you later?’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute.’ Tom steps forward, forcing him into the flat.

  Bradley laughs, disconcerted. ‘Sure. If I’d known you guys were coming we could have—’

  ‘We were just passing,’ I say, ‘going to the monastery, Wenshu. We’re soaked, sorry.’ I’m aware that our clothes are dripping on the floor.

  Tom walks in. The door leads us through the utility area into the kitchen, where sliding-panel doors open onto the living room.

  ‘I really have to be out of here in ten minutes,’ Bradley says.

  I was expecting something scruffy, like Lori’s place, but Bradley’s flat is much more upmarket, larger, lighter, and furnished with good-quality pieces. There is a square wooden dining table, four ladder-backed chairs, and a huge settee, upholstered in chocolate brown. A large TV, speakers and games consoles sit on a dark cherry-wood bench. The coffee table is a similar colour, the carved legs shaped like elephants standing upright, their trunks raised.

  Several pieces of artwork hang on the walls: a watercolour of mountains in the mist, a night scene in gaudy oils, a calligraphy piece of characters brushed on a bamboo scroll and a framed painting of one of the face-changing masks, like the one we saw performed in the park.

  ‘We’re just double-checking some of the facts we’ve got,’ Tom says. He pulls out one of the dining chairs without being invited and I do the same.

  Bradley doesn’t sit but stands by the table, his knuckles tapping lightly on the edge near to his phone, wallet and keys. ‘If you want to call tonight—’ he says.

  Tom interrupts him: ‘You last saw Lori at the party on the Friday?’

  Bradley looks at him, mouth agape, as though he can’t believe how rude we’re being. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear anything from her after that?’ Tom says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she arrange a date to meet up to photograph you and your motorbike?’

  Bradley’s smile fixes in place. His eyes harden momentarily. ‘No. No, she had been talking about it generally but we’d never gotten round to specifics.’ He throws up his hands. ‘Sorry, I really need to be out of here.’

  ‘You finish off.’ I try to smile. ‘We’ll go down with you.’

  ‘No, really . . .’ He laughs. There is no humour in it.

  ‘I could really do with a minute here,’ I say. ‘I feel quite faint – everything’s so . . .’ I cover my mouth, my emotional incontinence only partly contrived. ‘I’m sorry.’ I bend down, head between my knees.

  Tom puts a hand on my back. ‘Deep breaths,’ he says.

  Bradley hesitates. Politeness? Or maybe he’s trying, as we are, to act normally. He slaps the table. ‘No sweat.’ But he doesn’t look at all happy.

  He goes into the nearest room, which I assume is the bathroom. The door clicks shut.

  Tom reaches over and grabs Bradley’s phone. My heart’s in my mouth as he opens the case and begins to scan it. I move my chair closer so I can see. Tom enters the messages folder, scrolls through the list of people. The bathroom door opens and we both jump. Tom puts his hand down by his side. Bradley walks away, further along the hall. ‘Wenshu is amazing,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘There’s a great veggie restaurant in there, too.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I say. My voice sounds strained.

  Bradley goes into a room at the end of the hall and shuts the door.

  Tom returns to the phone, rolls back through the message threads until he reaches Lori. ‘Fuck!’ he mouths. His face darkens. I read her most recent message. Bit late soz. B there 10.30 Lxxx It is dated Monday, 7 April.

  Bradley’s previous message sent the day before. Can do 10ish? B. In response to Lori’s, U around tomoz for photos? Lxxx

  It’s like a blow to the guts, swift and powerful. She met him. She met him on the Monday. Oh, Jesus.

  I glance at Tom, see the anger in his eyes. Put my hand on his arm, a reminder, a warning.

  There’s a sound from Bradley’s room: a cupboard door banging, maybe. Tom pulls out his own phone and takes pictures of the message thread. He’s putting Bradley’s phone back when Bradley comes out, buttoning a shirt. I stand up and move to shield Tom. My legs feel feeble. Hoping to distract Bradley, I walk to the sliding glass doors. He has two white wicker easy chairs outside on the balcony, a palm tree in a brass planter. Eighteen floors up and the city swims below in the teeming rain.

  ‘Lovely flat,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. I was lucky to get it.’

  ‘Lots of space. Time for a tour?’ I say.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry. Like I said, I really have to head out now.’ He’s sitting down, pulling on shoes.

  I ignore him, walk back and turn towards the bedrooms. ‘Only take two ticks. Is it two beds or three?’

  ‘Hey.’ There’s a sharp edge to his voice as he stands up. ‘The place is a tip.’ He laughs. ‘Come another time, we’ll do dinner. I’ll give you the full tour then. But now . . .’ he claps his hands ‘. . . we’re outta here.’ He picks up his phone and wallet, puts them in a small rucksack and grabs his keys.

  ‘Dinner’d be lovely.’ I don’t know why I’m not raging. How can I still pretend? My head is buzzing, my face feels brittle – I can’t get enough air.

  ‘Still raining?’ he says.

  ‘Cats and dogs,’ I say.

  Tom hasn’t spoken. He gets to his feet and we follow Bradley, who picks up a black waterproof cape from hooks by the main door.

  Bradley locks the door behind us.

  There’s a burst of noise from along the hallway – it sounds like a pneumatic drill, deafening. Perhaps the one I heard below. It cuts out as we reach the lifts.

  I’m desperate to keep the chit-chat going, to stop him getting suspicious. ‘Big storm in the night.’

  ‘We get them a lot,’ Bradley says. He presses the button for the lift. ‘Back home we have twisters.’

  ‘Tornadoes?’ I say.

  ‘That’s right. Those things can be scary. One time my uncle’s car was picked up and thrown right across the yard.’

  I watch the lights that indicate the pro
gress of the lift. They change painfully slowly. Keep talking.

  ‘You have to stay indoors?’

  ‘Yes, we get warnings and most people know the drill, these days, like staying away from the windows.’

  The lift arrives. We get in and Bradley presses buttons for the ground floor, marked as 1 in China, and for the basement.

  ‘So your scooter,’ I say, ‘it uses a battery?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How do you charge it?’

  ‘There are charging points in the garage downstairs,’ Bradley says.

  ‘How long does it take?’ How can you stand here and lie to me? Lie about my daughter?

  ‘A few hours’ll give me maybe a hundred klicks,’ he says. ‘If you do want to try the veggie place, just head for the back of the grounds, past all the halls.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Tom still hasn’t said a word.

  ‘Dawn said you still might have a press conference,’ he says. Does Dawn know you’ve been lying?

  ‘We hope so. The consulate are trying to rearrange.’

  ‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Hey – I should be around on Sunday for leafleting.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be great.’

  I wait until we reach the second floor, then say, ‘Oh, no! I’ve left my phone upstairs.’

  His face falls. ‘OK, you wait—’

  ‘No, no,’ I say, ‘you’ll be late. You get your scooter and I’ll nip back up. I’ll meet you and Tom at the entrance.’ I speak briskly, assured, like I’m telling Finn or Isaac what to do. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s hard to think straight with everything that’s going on . . . Is it just the one key?’ I don’t dare look at Tom.

  The lift stops. The doors open.

  ‘No,’ Bradley says. He jabs at the buttons and the lift heads upwards again.

  I feel so light-headed I think I might really faint, but I fight to make conversation and fill the silence. ‘I’m sorry, my concentration’s rubbish. I think it’s the stress, you know? I keep losing things, don’t I, Tom?’