Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

Lori remembers meeting Bradley as arranged by the North Street bridge over the river. She had called into Wenshu Monastery on the way – she’d not visited it before but had heard a lot about it. She reached Bradley just before half past ten and from the river they walked to his workshop. She stopped, now and then, to take photographs.

Her delivery is flat, almost monotonous, with lots of pauses. As she talks, she strokes the back of her wrist continually where the wound from the hand tie has scabbed over, like a dark, rust-coloured bracelet.

‘We got in the workshop and he gave me a drink, some jasmine tea he’d brought along.’ She falters. We wait. ‘The next thing I remember it was dark and he had gone. I was tied up on the floor. My… I didn’t have any clothes on.’

I sit as still as possible, trying not to react, giving her all the space she needs.

‘There was something around my mouth too, in my mouth, so I couldn’t call out.’

‘How long until you saw him again?’ Detective Lee says.

‘I don’t know. When he came back-’ Lori stops dead and silence fills the room.

Eventually Detective Lee asks, ‘What happened when he came back?’

‘I was so thirsty,’ Lori says, ‘he brought me water and I drank it and I was asking what he was doing. I was begging him to let me go and he put the gag on, then I must have fallen asleep again.’

‘Did he talk to you?’

‘No,’ Lori says.

‘Nothing at all?’ Detective Lee says.

‘No,’ Lori says.

‘When did he come again?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lori says. ‘I could never tell how long I slept.’

‘Did he come every day?’ Detective Lee says.

‘I don’t know. Sometimes perhaps.’

‘Did he bring food?’ Detective Lee says.

‘No.’

‘And when he came, what did he do?’

I press my feet to the floor, grit my teeth.

‘He put the lights on,’ Lori says, ‘and took the gag off, and gave me water. If I ever tried to talk he put the gag back on. Then he would watch me and take pictures on his phone.’

‘How long did he stay?’ Detective Lee says.

‘I don’t know. I always fell asleep.’

‘He never spoke?’

‘No,’ Lori says.

‘Did he touch you?’ Detective Lee says.

‘Only to put the gag on, or to help me drink. And sometimes he used the hose when I’d been sick or when I had diarrhoea.’

‘He hosed you clean?’ Detective Lee says.

I bite my cheek.

Lori nods.

‘Did he assault you sexually?’

‘Not when I was awake,’ Lori says.

My throat clenches tight.

‘When you were sleeping?’ Detective Lee says.

‘I think so. It felt like he had. I think he raped me.’ Her voice breaks.

I taste bile in my throat, feel a wave of grief and pity for my daughter, a blaze of rage at the man who had inflicted such violence on her.

Thirty-three days, thirty-three nights.

‘I am sorry, I know this is very difficult,’ Detective Lee says, ‘but we are nearly finished.’

Detective Lee adds to the written statement and translates for her colleagues. Then she turns back to Lori. ‘When you met Mr Carlson you had your camera with you?’

‘Yes,’ Lori says.

‘Did you carry anything else?’

Lori frowns. ‘Sorry – I keep going blank,’ she says.

‘Did you have your wallet?’ I say. ‘Or your phone?’

‘Yes,’ Lori says.

‘Did you have a bag?’ Detective Lee says.

‘Yes, my red canvas one,’ Lori says.

‘And your keys?’

‘Yes,’ Lori says.

‘Did you have your passport?’ Detective Lee says.

‘No.’

‘Your laptop?’

‘No.’

‘Your backpack?’ Detective Lee says.

‘No.’ Lori frowns.

‘And your toothbrush?’ Detective Lee says.

‘No.’ Lori looks puzzled.

‘They were at your apartment?’

‘Yes,’ Lori says.

All these things are still missing. So Bradley must have been to her apartment and taken her passport and laptop, toothbrush and backpack, making it plausible that she’d gone travelling.

‘Did you ever meet a Chinese girl, called Bai Lijuan?’ Detective Lee says.

‘I don’t think so,’ Lori says.

Detective Lee shows Lori a photograph. A slender girl with a page-boy haircut and a mischievous smile, she has a pair of over-sized sunglasses pushed up on her head. She wears a pink shift dress and a necklace of daisies that look like they’re made of plastic.

‘No.’ Lori shakes her head. ‘Is that her?’

‘Yes, this is the other victim,’ Detective Lee says.

Lori’s eyes are troubled. She lowers her head as if she’ll hide. Tears spill down her face, fall onto her arms, into her lap. She makes no sound; she does not move to wipe them away.

‘Are we finished?’ I ask Detective Lee.

‘Yes. Thank you, Lori,’ Detective Lee says. ‘This is very hard foryou and we are very glad for your assistance and co-operation. This will help us make a very successful prosecution. If you remember anything else, please email me.’ She has a business card and places it on the table next to Lori.

I know that Detective Lee is right and that Lori’s story will be a crucial part of the case against Bradley Carlson but I wish she could have been spared the pain of revisiting her ordeal.

Lori manages to nod and the police scrape back their chairs and prepare to leave. They come to shake hands with me. When it gets to Superintendent Yin’s turn I move away, my face burning. I am still infuriated by his incompetence and arrogance, and this petty gesture seems the only power I have to express it.

When they have left, I say, ‘Come on.’ I touch Lori’s upper arm and release the brakes on the wheelchair. Lori looks at me once, eyes clouded with tears, and then into the distance. Lost again.

Tom wheels Lori into her flat, to the middle of the living room. She looks about and I hear her let go of her breath, a little puff, but I can’t tell what she feels about the place, though she’s clearly terribly shaken after giving her statement.

We have a new wheeled suitcase that we bought from a shop near the hotel, and a roll of bin bags for rubbish.

‘You’re going to have to tell us what to pack,’ Tom says.

‘All your clothes?’ I suggest.

‘Yes,’ she says. I make a start in the bedroom and before long her friends arrive.

There are greetings and enquiries about how she is today. Lori’s replies are brief, muted. I go and say hello to them all.

‘Maybe two of you could do the kitchen and two in here?’ Tom suggests.

They divide up and I go back into the bedroom. I collect her shoes and put them in the case. I bring the clothes in that she’d left drying on the balcony, among them the shirt that I was sure she would have taken if she had been away on holiday.

There isn’t much conversation, but now and again I hear Dawn say, ‘Take or leave?’ and Lori reply, or Lori say to someone, ‘You can chuck that out.’

It doesn’t take long. All of the kitchen equipment is left for the next tenant. Her travel guides and work notes, dictionary and other bits and pieces go into the case.

‘Nearly done,’ I tell them. We will drop the keys at the gatehouse and Dawn will see the landlord to settle the finances. She thinks the deposit will more or less equate to the rent payments Lori missed but will let us know.

Tom takes the photo off the wall and puts it into her case along with the lucky Chinese knot.

I feel a rush of emotion, aware of all the partings that are imminent, but Lori takes it in her stride: telling Oliver to keep in touch; thanking Rosemary for everything and making her promise she’ll visit us in Manchester when she comes to the UK. Shona stoops down and gives Lori a small package: inside is a necklace, glass fragments in cobalt blue and bottle green caught in twisted silver.