‘Sorry. Sorry.’
We leave the table in the car while we get some lunch at a place Anthony knows. He guides us through the choices: the menu up on the wall is all in Chinese. We settle for noodle soup, medium-size.
It’s spicy but not as hot as last night’s food. There are slices of ginger and dark greens in it. Again, it makes me sweat, but it’s refreshing in the way that hot tea can be.
On the street corner, a grizzled man sits by a rush mat, which is piled with bunches of herbs that are wilting in the heat, and clips his toenails. Horns punctuate the drone of traffic and Chinese singing comes from somewhere nearby.
Anthony asks about our hotel and I tell him I’ve been meaning to ask them to fix the water cooler. The water’s tepid.
‘Tepid?’ he says.
‘Lukewarm, not really cold.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Anthony says. ‘This is the custom. Very cold drinks are not good in this climate. We don’t have it too cold, don’t have ice.’
A flock of young people, white shirts, black trousers, ties and lanyards, are milling about outside the shop opposite.
‘Estate agents?’ Tom turns to check and Anthony agrees.
The boom years.
I don’t like going into Lori’s flat. It makes me want to weep. That she is still not here, that this is her space with her things, and she is missing.
But I’m brisk, business-like, as I stack the stools for Tom to carry and take the chance to use the toilet and wash my face before we head back out.
The sky is clouding over again, trapping the heat, and the afternoon is sweltering. Not one of the people we approach with leaflets recognizes Lori or can help us.
I tell myself this doesn’t matter: all we need is to get them talking, that the ripples will spread and eventually someone somewhere will ring up with those magic words: I know where she is. I know where you can find her.
That evening Tom and I manage to retrace our steps to the bus and find our way to the bar. Shona and Bradley meet us there. I’m troubled that there’s still no word from Oliver and ask them if they’ve heard from him today. But they haven’t.
‘It’s just we wanted to talk to him but he’s not returned our calls,’ I say.
Shona shrugs, looking awkward. Doesn’t she understand that this might be important? That we’re desperate for leads as to where Lori has gone and Oliver might be able to help?
‘Do you want me to try?’ Bradley offers.
I say yes, and he calls Oliver, listens, then gives a shake of his head when the voicemail announcement starts. Bradley leaves a message in Chinese. How can Oliver ignore us, given what’s happened? Why would he do that?
