‘Why Lori?’ I say.
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. But I can tell you we have heard that the FBI is looking into Carlson.’
‘What for?’ I say.
‘I’m told it’s very rare for someone to act as he has done, at such an extreme, without some history, prior criminal incidents, escalating over time.’
‘There might have been other victims?’ I say.
‘They think it’s worth investigating.’
Oh, God!
‘Please give my best wishes to Mr Maddox and to your husband,’ he says.
‘I will, thank you.’
‘And your son, Isaac, how is he?’
‘Much better, thank you.’
The call unsettles me. I fill Grace in and she tells me to go. ‘We’ve covered the basics,’ she says. ‘See you a week on Monday. It’ll be great to have you back.’
Walking home, I catch a phrase of music and I’m in Chengdu again. The ethereal rise and fall of a flute cut off by a squeal. Then a crashing sound. Concentrating, I hear the phrase repeat and realize, feeling foolish, that it is the recycling lorry collecting glass. Some fluke of metal and friction producing a tune.
Lori is up but not dressed and Nick is out walking the dog. Which may well mean he is at the pub, or sitting on a bench somewhere with a bottle in his pocket.
I did ask him to wait until I got back from school – Lori still doesn’t like to be left alone – but she seems OK so perhaps Isaac’s presence is reassuring enough. He could cope with lessons now but isn’t quite ready for the rough and tumble of the playground. Another couple of days and he’ll be back at school.
Lori wanders into the kitchen where I’m folding the laundry. She sits down. Isaac’s reading book is on the table and she flicks the pages back and forth. Fidgeting.
‘I’ve heard from the consul in Chengdu,’ I say.
Her hand stills. ‘Mr Dunne?’
‘That’s right. Bradley has confessed to all the charges.’
She flinches at the name and I feel an answering prick in my heart. She gets up. ‘I thought you should know,’ I say. She walks away.
Would it have helped if I hadn’t said his name? It’s so hard to know how to behave, what will hurt her and what she can tolerate. The boys are desperate to help. Finn tries singing and chatting. Isaac draws pictures and leaves them on the floor in her room. It’s too much. There are times when she withdraws completely, others when she’s suddenly angry or frightened.
I hear her climb the stairs, still a slow process. She has been given exercises to help build up her muscles again but I don’t think she’s been doing them.
My mind plays nasty tricks, conjures up the bleakest scenarios for the future. As if what I’ve witnessed isn’t horrendous enough. I think of Tom’s mother, Daphne, in and out of hospitals and clinics. Her inability to manage everyday life. Wounded in her soul and never fully healed. Blighted with a chronic condition. Of parents I know at school with poor mental health. Of lives cut short through acts of desperation. We have brought Lori home, Tom and I, but we cannot make her better. She is still so distressed, and there are days like today when I fear the future. Fear for her.
I have an overwhelming longing to see my mum, to share this burden with her, to be someone’s daughter again myself.
It won’t always be like this, I think. Surely it won’t. Nothing stays the same. And I return to the clothes and the business of folding them into our separate piles.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
After Saturday brunch, I’m going to fetch Finn from swimming. Isaac is at Sebastian’s leaving party, Nick is out, God knows where. Penny has eaten with us and I leave her and Lori clearing up together. This is engineered so Penny can talk to Lori without me there.
Whenever I’ve mentioned counselling Lori has dismissed the idea and I’ve confided in Penny: ‘She says she’s fine, which she patently isn’t. Then she says she doesn’t want to think about it, let alone talk to some random stranger about it, which I do understand.’
‘She knows what she can deal with,’ Penny says, ‘but maybe she needs to hear a bit more about what it would involve. How’s she acting?’
‘She’s all over the place. She’s showering three or four times a day. She has flashbacks. She’s hiding from it but it’s not working.’
‘Everyone’s different,’ Penny says. ‘Everyone reacts in different ways. I could have a word with her.’
Penny was raped by an ex-boyfriend when she was in her early twenties. It was several months before she confided in a friend. Penny never reported it to the police. She suffered with insomnia and anxiety, and it had a detrimental effect on her work, her friendships and social life. She told me about it a year or so into our friendship, and she described Rape Crisis as a lifeline.
Ten days later Lori asks if I can give her a lift to their counselling service. I wait in the car outside, listening to the radio, and worry about Nick, wondering how to tackle him on the subject of his drinking. He was out till late again last night and the boys found him asleep on the sofa this morning. That’s not the first time.
It’s a blustery day, unseasonably cold, clouds scudding high and fast. The trees at the edge of the car park whip to and fro. My feet grow numb so I flex my toes and turn my ankles, trying to get the circulation going.
When Lori comes out and gets into the car, her eyes are pink from crying, her nose puffy. She looks completely gutted. All she says is, ‘OK,’ once she’s buckled her seat belt.
Not wanting to intrude, I put a CD on to fill the silence, reggae-dance songs, innocuous enough, I hope.
I’ve been seeking advice online as to how I can help. Let her take control seems to be the most important thing. Be guided by her. It’s easier to say than do.
‘Are you going again?’ I say, as we reach home.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Same time next week.’
‘Good.’
The boys run out to meet us. ‘Daddy says he’ll go for pizza,’ Isaac says.
‘Does he now?’ There’s food in the freezer but he wants to splash out on a takeaway. To curry favour, I assume. Or perhaps because it gives him a chance to leave the house and drink in secret.
‘I want pepperoni,’ Finn says.
‘Let’s get inside and see,’ I say.
‘I want meatballs,’ Isaac says.
Thank God for the children, I think. Their energy, their needs and demands, their zest for life make it impossible to dwell on the dark side for too long. Their presence keeps shifting the perspective.
Nick reaches into the fridge for another bottle of wine, and I say, ‘We need to talk about your drinking.’
He pulls a face, mouth open, eyes darting to the side. Like it’s the most stupid thing he’s ever heard. ‘Just leave it,’ he says.
‘No, listen, it’s affecting us all. The boys find you crashed out on the couch, reeking of booze. God knows what Lori thinks.’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’ He makes a show of twisting open the wine, pouring a glass, full to the brim.
The boys are in bed and Lori is out with Tom. I can feel the animosity sizzling between us, like static.
‘You shouldn’t be driving in that state.’
‘Fuck off,’ he says quietly. His dark eyes are hard, like marbles, as he raises his glass.
There’s heat in my face, tension in a ball at the back of my throat. ‘You need to do something, Nick.’
‘You need to get off my back. Nagging and moaning.’
‘It’s not about me. You need help.’
He shakes his head, gives a bitter laugh.
‘I know things have been difficult,’ I say. ‘They’ve been difficult for us all, most of all for Lori. You getting drunk all the time isn’t helping. You need to stop. To control it.’
‘Don’t keep telling me what I need,’ he says, his voice low.
‘You stop,’ I say firmly, ‘you get help, whatever, or you leave.’
‘I’m going
nowhere,’ he says. ‘This is my house as much as it’s yours.’ He drinks half the wine.
‘Don’t you care? Think about the rest of us, think about Lori. The day after we got home, the very next day, you went off on a binge and told us you were going to your parents. We nearly lost her—’
‘You slept with him, didn’t you?’ he says.
My heart thumps. He’s staring at me. He drinks more wine.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say.
‘You fucked him.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I say. ‘Is that what you’ve been telling yourself? Is that why you’ve not come near me? Or is it because you’re too drunk to get it up?’
‘You bitch.’
My anger drains away swiftly to be replaced by sadness. How did we get here? I cover my eyes, elbows on the table. I will not cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘That wasn’t fair. But I don’t want you here, not acting like this.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t want to be here.’ He hits out at the edge of the table. The wine bottle teeters but doesn’t fall.
He goes to the bowl on the side, looking for his car keys.
‘You can’t drive,’ I say. ‘Nick, please, wait a minute. Sit down and talk to me. We can work something out.’
He spins around. ‘Where are the car keys?’
‘You can’t drive.’
‘Fucking hell, Jo.’ He slams at the table again and the bottle goes over, rolls and smashes on the floor.
‘Mummy? Daddy?’ Isaac is calling from upstairs.
Nick makes a snarling sound, teeth set, eyes glittering.
‘Please?’ I say.
He bolts out of the kitchen. I hear the crash of the front door slamming.
‘Mummy?’
‘I’m coming. It’s OK.’ I take a deep breath but I can’t stop myself shaking. I’m just glad Lori isn’t at home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Bradley Carlson’s trial opens in August. Even though he has confessed, the case is still presented to judges in court. Peter Dunne emails the day before to confirm it is happening. He and the US consul general will be attending.
He emails again at the end of the first day, early in the morning our time, summarizing the evidence. No foreign journalists are allowed in but they wait outside the court and we see a fifteen-second piece about the trial opening on the TV broadcast. I feel sick each time there’s news. Cold to my stomach. Lori gets messages from Shona, Dawn and Rosemary.
Late afternoon, I find her in tears in the kitchen. ‘Oh, Lori.’ I sit beside her, tentatively touch her shoulder.
She twists her fingers about her wrist, to and fro, tracing the scars that are now bands of silvery skin. ‘I thought it was getting easier but . . .’ she shudders ‘. . . it makes me so scared.’
I stroke her back. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’
She cries some more, then says, ‘At least I don’t have to be there, see him.’
‘That’s true. Would it be any better if we asked people not to send any updates?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’d only wonder. They don’t say much, really, not about the details. There’s more online. I’m not going to read all that.’
‘That’s fine. Of course it is.’
‘I just want it to be over.’ She looks at me, her lips wobbling. ‘Feeling like this – what if it’s never over?’
I choose my words with care. ‘You said it had been getting easier. And I think it will again. The trial’s brought it all back, and of course that’s bound to be really, really hard, but once it’s finished, things should start to feel different again. You’re never going to forget what happened but you won’t be thinking about it all the time.’
‘Letting it rule my life – everything . . .’
‘I know.’
‘I think I’ll ring Dad,’ she says.
‘You’d like to see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll have a word too,’ I say.
After Lori’s spoken to Tom, she puts me on the phone and I walk out into the hall. ‘Just to warn you, she’s finding this really tough. She doesn’t want to know all the ins and outs.’
He understands.
Lori seems comforted by Tom’s visit and then, perhaps to distract herself, offers to help the boys get ready for bed. Tom has been following the news online. If Lori doesn’t want to know any details, he’s the polar opposite.
‘His confession’s backed up with solid forensic evidence,’ Tom says.
‘Such as?’ I say.
‘His DNA is everywhere, on the suitcase, inside the suitcase.’ Tom looks away. ‘On Lori.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘The pictures on his laptop. And the prosecution can prove he bought the drugs online, the caustic soda, the plastic ties. It’s comprehensive. It’s completely damning.’
He shows me some of the posts online.
The trial opened today at the Sichuan Chengdu Intermediate People’s Court of American Bradley Carlson (28), accused of intentional homicide, kidnapping and rape. The court heard that the defendant had confessed to his crimes. His lawyer, Wang Hongtang, stated that his client accepted his culpability and was co-operating fully with the procuratorate. The prosecution stated that the evidence is abundant and incontrovertible. Carlson is accused of the intentional murder and rape of Chinese student Bai Lijuan, abducted in 2013. He is also accused of kidnap, rape and intention to murder the British teacher, Lorelei Maddox, abducted on 7 April 2014. Both victims were held by Carlson at a rented unit in the Jinniu district of the city.
In the US Carlson is portrayed as some sort of Tom Ripley character from the Patricia Highsmith novels: a cold, callous, charming psychopath. But Ripley’s murders were acts of self-advancement and self-preservation, while Bradley Carlson’s come solely from a twisted desire to control and dominate, rape and kill.
Worldwide, there is a fascination with the story and the players: the apparently clean-cut American, the innocent Chinese student, the British backpacker. Lori is variously described as quirky, fun-loving and a party animal. I wonder if ‘quirky’ is subtext for ‘gay’.
Tom tells me what he has gleaned so far. Carlson had encountered Bai Lijuan at the Chengdu North Railway Station, chaotic that day as half the people in the country were travelling to their home villages and towns for the holiday. He asked her for help finding his train, offered her a spiked drink by way of thanks, then got her into a cab. He told the driver she was drunk, that the English class had been celebrating and she had been foolish, that he was her teacher and had to take her to her parents. He spoke Chinese to the comatose girl, pretended concern. The taxi dropped them at the end of the alley. Carlson took her to the workshop. She was petite, like Lori, easy to carry.
The prosecution have described how Carlson kept her chained up like a dog and how, after her death, he disposed of her body, taking the skeletal remains to his flat.
Our statements about finding Bai Lijuan have been read out in court.
I stop Tom talking. I’ve heard enough. Tears start in my eyes and he puts his hand on mine. ‘It’ll be OK,’ he says. I look at him. His light blue eyes are steady, clear.
I find it hard to speak but I nod my agreement. It will. It will be OK.
The trial lasts only two days. As Peter Dunne anticipated, the Chinese authorities have been very careful to conduct proceedings in the spirit of fairness and transparency. No one is accusing them of coercion or heavy-handedness. And they could do with the PR: in Hong Kong pro-democracy activists are staging protests, camping out in the city, disrupting the everyday life of the territory. The ghost of Tiananmen Square hovers in the wings.
Carlson has offered no defence as such, so it is simply a question of laying out all the evidence in turn. His lawyer has emphasized that Carlson has been fully co-operative since making his confession, in an effort to mitigate against the most severe of sentences. The verdict is expected in the coming days.
Lori and I watch the news item about the conc
lusion of the trial on the computer together. There are pictures of Bai Lijuan, and her parents, the photograph of Lori, one of Bradley Carlson taken outside the court, cuffed to PSB guards, and an aerial shot of the city wreathed in smog.
She moans quietly as she sees him. Pushes back from the table.
‘Do you want to talk—’ I begin.
‘No, Mum, just leave it. Just . . .’ She’s agitated, her breath uneven, her hands raised and her head twisting from side to side, as though she’s looking to escape. To flee.
‘Lori,’ I say calmly, ‘it’s OK.’
‘It’s not,’ she says, tears breaking in her voice. ‘It’s never going to be OK. How can you say that?’ She turns away.
I get up to go after her. ‘Lori. I’m sorry. Let’s just—’
‘No,’ she chokes, ‘leave me alone.’
I bite my tongue, nod my agreement, watch her go, aching to hug her, to console her.
I wait until I’m on my own and less upset before reading the reports online. There is repeated mention of Bradley Carlson’s attitude in court, describing how he appeared to boast about his crimes and relished explaining how he had planned and carried them out.
There’s been more coverage of the case in America, lots of discussion on websites. Bradley Carlson is not classed as a serial killer because of his low body count. Serial killers have to murder three or more people over a period of at least a month. Some commentators speculate he will eventually be ‘found out’, that there will be more victims.
The Chinese police complied with requests from the authorities in the US to ask Bradley Carlson about any previous victims but he denied any previous rapes or murders. Perhaps in years to come they will match his DNA to unsolved cases. As Peter Dunne said, it’s unlikely he’d progressed from a state of innocence to the appalling attack on, first, Bai Lijuan and then Lori.
Some commentators online have tried to answer questions about his psychopathology. Carlson’s intelligence, his apparent charm, his successful career, all made him seem like a normal person. He was excellent at manipulating people, to gain their trust and friendship, mimicking appropriate emotions when in fact he would be incapable of feeling anything. His crimes were organized, carefully planned and coolly enacted. All these are classic attributes of a psychopathic killer. His prime motivation in the crimes was to exercise power through total control. A comatose victim could offer no resistance whatsoever. Some speculate he may have had necrophiliac tendencies. I almost retch when I read that. There was no mention of such behaviour in the trial accounts and, from what I’ve read, Carlson was frank, arrogant even, in detailing his actions: he bragged about his behaviour. He had no remorse and no shame.
Half the World Away Page 29
