Some transcripts from the trial are made available. The most damning section released by the court demonstrates his total lack of empathy. Carlson was asked why he had kidnapped Bai Lijuan and his reply shocked all present. He wanted to celebrate the holiday in style.
‘You went to the North Railway Station with the intention of abducting a woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And why did you select Bai Lijuan?’
‘She was small,’ Carlson said, ‘easy to handle.’
‘And Lorelei Maddox?’
‘The same.’
‘Miss Maddox was your friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would you attack your friend?’
‘It wasn’t personal,’ Carlson said. ‘It wasn’t about her.’
‘It was about you? About your perverted desires?’
‘Yes.’
‘You took pleasure from this – the kidnaps, the rapes, the murder?’
‘Why else would I do it?’
I feel the thrum of hatred for him in the beat of my blood, acid in my heart.
There are short biographies about him online, removed from his birth family for his own safety and adopted as a two-year-old. Raised by a fundamentalist preacher, a strict disciplinarian, and his wife. Bradley Carlson’s adoptive mother had died of ovarian cancer when he was eleven years old. He had left the US after graduating in international development. No family members attended the trial and his adoptive father told reporters that Bradley was no longer his son.
Before I close the computer I check for the latest news on the Nigerian schoolgirls who were kidnapped back in April. There’s talk of a ceasefire to enable their return but the whole situation sounds chaotic, the government inept. All those families waiting for word, all those girls, those daughters.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Nick refuses point blank to discuss his drinking with me when he comes back to the house, three days after he walked out.
He’s packing a bag.
‘We can get through this,’ I say. ‘Look at everything we’ve coped with so far. If we stick together, if you get some help—’
‘I don’t need help,’ he says.
‘You need to accept you’ve got a problem.’
He pauses, a pile of T-shirts in his hands, and stares at me, his eyes cold, his face shadowed with stubble. ‘I do accept that,’ he says, ‘and you’re the problem.’
‘Oh, come on . . .’
‘All this whining at me to stop drinking,’ he says, ‘it’s just a distraction.’
‘From what?’ I say.
‘I’m not the one who’s unfaithful,’ he says.
I feel a wave of heat and the pinch of anxiety. ‘I told you, I did not sleep with Tom.’
‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ he says.
‘Nick, can we just—’
‘No,’ he says, throwing the clothes onto the bed, ‘we can’t just do anything.’
‘What about Lori?’ I say.
He snorts as he opens another drawer. ‘That’s rich, coming from you. What would she make of it, eh?’
My guts clench. Would he do that? I’ve no idea how Lori would react but how can he even contemplate hurting her to get back at me when she is so weak and damaged?
‘She needs us,’ I say, ‘and I’m not the one who’s pissed all the time.’
He glares at me, a bitter smile on his face. Bends to fill his bag.
‘Where are you going?’ I say.
‘Ivan’s.’ Ivan is divorced. He lives in Chester, about forty-five miles away.
‘What are you going to do?’ I say.
‘Fuck knows.’
I give up. He’s no good to Lori angry and drunk.
Or to me.
I can’t stay in the room any longer. My throat aches with unshed tears as I leave him to his packing.
He doesn’t say goodbye before he goes.
The boys miss Nick. I do, too, the way he was before. It’s hard to pinpoint when he started to change but I know we were arguing before I went to China. And the redundancy really didn’t help.
He rings every week or so to talk to Isaac and Finn. Lori won’t speak to him.
He calls me, too, in the early hours, sometimes drunk and contrite, his words laboured between long pauses, painful and pointless, at other times drunk and abusive. Now I’ve taken to muting my ring tone when I’m going to bed. Sometimes he leaves rambling messages. It seems clear that, so far, he hasn’t addressed the issue, hasn’t done anything about it.
The boys think he’s gone away to work. Lori knows the situation.
‘It’s not fair,’ she said, when I told her. ‘Why is he being so stupid?’
‘People say it’s a disease. It’s complicated,’ I try to offer some insight, ‘but the only person who can do anything about it is Nick himself and for that to happen he has to admit there’s a problem.’ And if he did, I’m not sure I’d want him back.
* * *
It’s the first week in September when we hear from Peter Dunne again. ‘We’ve just come from court,’ he says. ‘We were called there for the verdict. They’ve found him guilty on all counts. And they’ve handed down the death sentence.’ My stomach plummets but at the same time there’s a rush of dizzying relief. Guilty. Guilty. The word we’ve been waiting for.
‘He has the right to appeal, so that process will begin now,’ Peter Dunne says. ‘Two separate appeals in different courts, the Higher People’s Court first and then the Supreme People’s Court. His lawyer will be arguing for clemency, to reflect the fact that Carlson made a full confession and co-operated with the police.’
‘What happens if he wins the appeal?’ I say.
‘The death sentence may be commuted to what they call life with two years’ reprieve. In effect it’s a life sentence in prison. Realistically, that’s the best he could hope for. However, Carlson showed no remorse or humility in court. He acted as though it was simply bad luck that he was caught. That won’t play well with the appeal judges.’
‘I’d like them to lock him up for the rest of his life,’ I say. It seems fitting after what he did to Bai Lijuan and Lori. To see him incarcerated, at the mercy of his captors, to have no control over his movements, over any aspect of his life, to be powerless. ‘How long will it take? When will we know?’
Peter Dunne can’t be sure.
He says goodbye, and I’m aware that the wait for news will go on. The spectre of the case is there all the time at the back of my mind, a shadow, a place of darkness.
The final appeal in the case of American Bradley Carlson, found guilty of intentional homicide, rape and kidnap of Bai Lijuan and the abduction and rape of Briton Lorelei Maddox with intent to kill, has been denied. Wang Hongtang, the defendant’s lawyer, argued for clemency on grounds that Carlson had co-operated and made a full confession. However, the procurator-general said, ‘We have seen no evidence of contrition or remorse from the defendant. This sentence sends a clear message. These crimes were the most serious. They were planned and carried out with clear intention to murder. There were no extenuating circumstances whatsoever.’
Something buckles in my chest. So he will die. My head fizzes and my vision fractures. The state will kill him. Is he afraid? Surely he must be. I study that notion. See him craven and gibbering, dragged to the place of execution. What if he is indifferent? Or gets some sick thrill at the notoriety this brings. If he is a psychopath, as they say, does he have the capacity to experience terror? Does he understand now what it was like for Lori as he trussed her up, drugged her and raped her? Does he see how monstrous his acts were? I want him to suffer, I acknowledge, but if he is executed next year or the year after then his suffering will end. I would rather he be left alive, rotting slowly, devoid of hope and dignity and freedom.
Still I cannot equate this man, who bought caustic soda and plastic ties, took pictures of his victims unconscious and naked, with the young man who ordered our food at the hotpot restaurant and con
soled Dawn when she cried about Lori. The man pictured smiling on Lori’s blog, his arm around her shoulders. Had he chosen her then? Marked her out as his next victim?
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.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
We are making dough, the four of us, for Christmas decorations to hang on the tree. Reindeer and penguins to be baked, then iced. Benji patrols around the table for bits of raw pastry. Isaac keeps sneaking bits for him.
I had expected Isaac to be even more unsettled in the wake of everything that’s happened but he’s actually much better. We’ve gone a whole term without any concerns about his behaviour. Sebastian moved schools and Isaac has a new best friend, Imogen. They spend hours drawing and making things together. He can still be gloomy and petulant, quick to take offence and slow to rally, but I think that’s just his personality. I dread his teenage years, especially if I’ve to deal with him on my own, but that is a way off – God knows what might happen between now and then. Because you never really know what’s round the corner, do you?
Lori is back to her normal weight, still skinny, but she has lost that awful gaunt look. In the aftermath of the trial she was interviewed for a feature in the Guardian magazine. Isabelle identified other opportunities but Lori was clear she wanted to limit what she did. Lori said the interviewer was really easy to talk to and Lori trusted her not to misrepresent anything. It was hard to read that feature. Lori has never talked to me in any detail about that time: most of what I knew was from the police statement she gave. One thing she’s said since then has stuck with me: that the worst thing was the helplessness, the total loss of control.
Finn is singing along to the radio and Isaac clamps his hands over his ears and says, ‘Too loud, tell him, Mummy.’
‘You’ve got floury hair, now,’ Lori says to Isaac.
‘What flowers?’ Isaac frowns.
‘Not flowers – flour.’ Lori pats the bag and a puff of white escapes. ‘You’re going white, like a ghost.’
‘Scooby Doo,’ Finn says.
Isaac plunges his hands into the flour and pats it over his head and face. I feel a flash of irritation at the prospect of even more mess to clear up, then Lori laughs, that yelp of pleasure I cherish so, and the mess just doesn’t matter any more.
Finn chuckles. ‘Make me a ghost, too, then. Go on.’
Isaac obliges, leaving Finn dusted white and sneezing.
‘OK, enough,’ I say, before they go any further.
‘Take a picture,’ Isaac says.
‘Wait, then.’ Lori goes upstairs. She comes back with two bed sheets and her new camera, bought with the money she’s been saving up.
She wraps the sheets around the boys and gets them to pose. ‘Spooky faces,’ she says, and reels off a sequence of snaps.
‘Shower,’ I say, ‘both of you.’
‘What about the decorations?’ Isaac says.
‘They can go in the oven now and we’ll do the icing in the morning. Are you at work?’ I check with Lori. She’s been working for Tom, doing admin for tenancy agreements and filing, and more recently taking viewings, showing people properties in Manchester.
‘Yes, ten till four. You two can show me what you’ve done when I get home,’ she says.
The boys trudge off, trailing puffs of flour.
Lori and I put the trays into the oven.
‘Aphrodite’s moving in with Dad,’ Lori says, taking the cookie cutters to the sink.
I feel a pang of dismay but chastise myself. What did I expect? For Tom to carry on rootless, restless, unattached for ever? ‘Really?’ I say. ‘Wow. What’s she like?’
‘She’s nice, actually, really nice. She’s doing business studies at Manchester Met.’
‘I thought she was a model,’ I say. A hand model. The time we had in China, Tom and I, seems like a mirage now, rippling in the haze. Unreal. And that night, that precious night, when we found sanctuary together amid t
he horror, it feels like it happened to other people, in a parallel universe.
Losing Lori, looking for her, threw us together and forced us to move beyond the confines of our past. Brought us to a new understanding. Did I ever wish it might be more than that? At times, if I’m honest. I cannot speak for Tom. He never gave me cause to hope. And, realistically, I think we’re still too different, and that those differences would rankle and chafe and soon corrupt any shared future we might have together. Better to cherish the memory: desire in his eyes, the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin. That love, as if we would call her back to us.
Lori runs the water, squirts in some washing-up liquid. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘but she wants to do the other stuff and help Dad build his empire.’
I laugh. ‘When I met your dad I never for one minute imagined he’d become a property developer.’
Lori closes the tap. She turns. The smile fades from her face. ‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
She looks so serious. I don’t know what’s coming. She rubs at her shoulder. She’s had a tattoo done there, a Chinese phoenix.
‘I’m going back one day,’ she says.
My heart turns over. ‘Right.’
‘Not yet. I know I’m not ready yet,’ she says. ‘And I’ll need to save up. I could probably stay with Shona. I’m sure I could get a job with one of the English schools eventually, and Rosemary would help me apply. It might be hard, bad days, but that’d be the same wherever I was. And there must be some therapists there.’
Half the World Away Page 30
