Tom gets up. ‘Do you want another – do you want to clean up?’
‘I’m fine. Sit down.’ I’ve wipes in my bag and do what I can with them. ‘Thanks,’ I say to Shona, and she rejoins her friends.
‘We know Lori was teaching that weekend,’ I say to Tom, ‘up to the Sunday evening. If she’s talking about making a start in that text, perhaps that’s where she goes on Monday. And it also sounds like she intends to be in Chengdu until at least the Wednesday.’ Another pinch, on my neck this time, and I hear the high-pitched whine for a fraction of a second.
‘Making a start’s not definitely seeing someone,’ he says.
‘No, but she says you’re next to Shona. That sounds like she has someone else lined up first. And her camera’s not at the flat.’
The back of my legs and my torso are sticky with sweat when I stand up and go over to the others.
‘Did Lori talk to any of you about a photo project she wanted to do, on hobbies in Chengdu?’
‘She was going to shoot me,’ Bradley says. ‘I’m doing up a motorbike, an old Chiang Jiang 750.’
‘But she didn’t?’ Tom says, beside me.
‘No.’ Bradley shakes his head.
‘And Oliver too,’ says Rosemary. ‘He keeps…’ She says a word to Bradley.
‘Pigeons,’ Bradley translates.
‘Pigeons, racing pigeons,’ Rosemary says.
We try calling Oliver, but his voicemail is on.
We thank them all, confirm arrangements for the leafleting, arrange with Shona to visit the university on Monday afternoon, and get ready to leave.
‘Have you eaten?’ Shona asks Bradley.
‘Not yet. I thought I’d grab something now. What about you guys?’ He turns to Tom and me. ‘Will you join us?’
We agree. Dawn says she has to get home.
On the walkway, a new group arrives, two boys, two girls. One stops to talk to Bradley and another greets Rosemary: ‘How’s it going?’
Their conversations flow around me.
‘You tired? You look tired.’
‘How was Singapore?’
‘Cool.’
‘You finished?’
‘Just my dissertation.’
‘No pressure, then.’
Bradley explains who we are and there’s a brief gap of silence before the newcomers respond. Only one knew Lori to talk to, the one who’s been away.
‘We’re running a missing-person campaign,’ Tom says. ‘Anything you can do to spread the word would be great.’
They all agree, eager to help. The young people exchange fist bumps, pats on the shoulder and hugs, and swap promises to meet up, all muted by the spectre of Lori, who should be here with us and is not.
Above, the heavens are fading, violet, no stars or moon, not even the flashing of aeroplane lights in the gloom.
