Half the World Away - страница 46

A double bed with a black tubular steel frame almost fills the bedroom. The duvet cover is patterned with chrysanthemums, perhaps once vibrant yellow and red but now faded to pale lemon and pink. Chrysanthemums are a lucky flower for the Chinese. There was an article in the in-flight magazine. Chrysanthemums and goldfish, the colour red, the numbers six, eight and nine, the Laughing Buddha.

Lori’s clothes are on an open rail opposite the end of the bed next to three stacking plastic boxes. Most are things she brought with her.

‘Wouldn’t she have taken more if it was a holiday?’ Tom says.

I look through the boxes: vest tops, pants, T-shirts, shorts, socks and a bra. Under the bed her purple Docs and some Converse.

‘Her backpack’s not here.’ Then I call to Dawn: ‘Did she have any other clothes that you can remember?’

Dawn comes in and looks at the rail, frowning. ‘Most of them are there. I can’t think of anything particular.’

‘Shoes?’ Tom says, pointing to them.

‘Her sandals. She wore them all the time.’

In Lori’s bedside drawer I find a small plastic envelope with a photocopy of her passport, a booklet with her vaccinations listed, and a paper with contact numbers. Nick persuaded her to sort this out before she set off.

Two washing lines, made of nylon rope, are strung across the tiny balcony. A small plastic whirligig with pegs hangs from one. On it are Lori’s blouse, the crinkly red and lilac one, two camisoles, underwear. All stiff and dusty.

‘She’d have taken that blouse,’ I say, ‘because it’s light and dries in no time, if she’d gone on-’ My throat catches. I swallow and look across to the taller blocks opposite. Three towers to the left are still concrete shells with a thousand blind eyes to be filled and brought to life, partly wrapped in green mesh and clad in scaffolding, cranes dipping and swinging above. Portakabins, where the migrant construction workers must live, are stacked two or three high around the edges of the site. Shirts and trousers are hanging out to dry. The towers straight ahead are completed, occupied, hundreds of windows, dozens of balconies festooned with laundry and vertical rows of air-conditioning units. To the right, at eye level more or less, runs the elevated ring road, part of the skeleton of the city. Someone is bouncing a ball, a basketball perhaps – it’s heavy enough for the sound to travel over the horns, engines and bird calls. I hear a baby crying, a reedy wail.

Fear twists in my veins. Tom touches my shoulder. ‘She’d have taken this,’ I say again.

Tom and I begin to search the lounge, looking for any valuables, her phone or purse. Her passport, even, in case the police weren’t thorough enough.

‘Please,’ I say to Anthony, ‘sit down.’

‘It’s OK.’ He smiles.

I don’t know if I should insist, if he’s being polite or if he’s averse to sitting on the grubby couch, with its threadbare red and green checked cover, mottled with stains. Everything is sanded with dust, despite the frequent rain. Along with the pollution from the traffic, there must be millions of particles of cement and earth and brick dust from all the building work.

Some notes lie on one of the low stools. I sift through them – her plans for teaching. Apple Balloon Cat Dog Elephant. How are you today? What is your name? Copies of a weekly timetable. I show it to Dawn.

‘Her students,’ she says. ‘She keeps a record of what they covered. Well, that was the plan.’ Dawn’s voice goes squeaky and she tugs at her hair with one hand. I have a glimpse into the life the two of them shared, Lori letting her paperwork slide. Did Dawn chide her? Dawn seems more settled, conscientious. I look at the paper: there are names and addresses blocked in with space below each entry to make notes. I work out Lori’s routine. ‘So, she’d be off Mondays and Tuesdays?’

‘That’s right.’

I put a copy of the schedule into our file.

A little bamboo bowl holds hair slides and elastic bands, scissors and pens, a friendship bracelet. ‘Phone charger,’ I say, holding up the cable, ‘but no phone.’