Half the World Away Read online

  HALF THE WORLD AWAY

  Also by Cath Staincliffe

  Blink of an Eye

  Split Second

  Witness

  The Kindest Thing

  Towers of Silence

  Stone Cold Red Hot

  Dead Wrong

  Go Not Gently

  Looking for Trouble

  Letters to My Daughter’s Killer

  HALF THE WORLD AWAY

  Cath Staincliffe

  Constable • London

  CONSTABLE

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Constable

  Copyright © Cath Staincliffe, 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-797-7 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-47212-103-5 (trade paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-799-1 (ebook)

  Constable

  is an imprint of

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  For Daniel

  Fēi cháng gǎn xiè.

  Yòng wǒ quánbù de ài.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lorelei is leaving. Tom, my ex, and I drive her to the airport. A bright, blustery September afternoon. The sky a high dome of blue, chalk-marked with jet trails, the trees along the roadside heavy with leaves.

  A cold, jittery feeling in my stomach, my jaw tense.

  ‘You’ve got your passport?’ I turn round from the front seat, an excuse as much as anything to see her, to see more of her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Money?’ Tom says.

  ‘Da-ad.’

  ‘Well, it has been known, babe,’ he says.

  ‘Once,’ she huffs, ‘once I forgot things.’

  ‘Everything,’ he says. ‘Not so hot on the house keys either, as I recall.’

  Lorelei laughs, a sudden peal of delight, then mock-outrage. ‘Like, you’re so organized,’ she says to him.

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Late,’ Lorelei says.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he says. ‘You’ve got plenty of time – your flight’s not till eight.’

  ‘Eight forty-five,’ she says.

  ‘Jo – you said eight.’ He glances at me.

  ‘I lied,’ I say, ‘to account for your pitiful time-keeping.’

  Lori laughs again.

  The short-stay car park is busy; we find space on the very top, open to the elements. Lori insists on carrying her rucksack herself. It is nearly as big as she is. She looks like she’ll topple backwards, be stuck like a turtle. Tom takes her hand luggage.

  ‘Photo,’ I say.

  She poses, hands on the rucksack straps. Her hair chocolate, shoulder length, with shocking-pink tips, choppy fringe. Leather jacket, pink T-shirt, skinny black jeans on skinny legs, purple Doc Marten boots. I take some pictures.

  ‘Tom?’

  He stands beside her, dwarfing her. Hard to believe they’re related. Tom as fair-haired as she is dark, but they both have olive skin that tans easily. Down to some Maltese ancestor of his. I burn and peel at any lick of sunshine. Her dark hair, her petite frame, she’s inherited from me. Though I’m no longer skinny after having three kids and many years in a sedentary occupation.

  ‘Now you, Mum,’ Lori says.

  We swap places. Tom does the honours. I chat away, fighting an urge to weep that makes my cheekbones ache.

  ‘You got your tickets?’ Tom says, in the lift down to the terminal.

  She sticks her tongue out at him.

  I promise myself I will not cry. It isn’t the first time she’s left home, after all: she’s been away at uni for three years. Back every ten weeks with washing and empty pockets and a ravenous appetite. Nocturnal, living in a different time zone from the rest of us.

  But she has never been so far away. Tom is all for it. Big adventure, he says. And he’s lent her the airfare, with no expectation he’ll be getting it back anytime soon. His latest venture is doing well.

  I’d wondered if it might be better for her to try to get some work experience first. Lori wasn’t having it. ‘If I go now, I can travel with Jake and Amy. I don’t want to go on my own later.’

  As we wait at Check-in, the departures hall teems with travellers, queues snaking around the pillars, the clamour of conversation, of crying children and Tannoy announcements. Thailand, her first stop. Then Vietnam and Hong Kong.

  Her phone trills. She reads it. ‘Amy.’ She grins. ‘They’ll meet me at the airport.’

  Her bag is two kilos over.

  ‘Shit,’ she says, looking at me in panic.

  ‘I thought you’d weighed it,’ I say.

  ‘I did. Those scales don’t work.’

  ‘How much?’ Tom asks the check-in clerk.

  ‘That’ll be eighty-eight pounds.’

  ‘God,’ says Lori.

  Tom has the cash. Crisis averted.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lori says.

  ‘Make sure it’s lighter comi
ng back,’ I say.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Yeah, no Christmas presents,’ Tom says.

  ‘We could get a cuppa?’ I nod towards the café, eager to delay our parting.

  Lori screws up her nose. ‘I’ll go through,’ she says.

  The pressure rises in my chest. Don’t go, I want to say. Stay, come home with me, don’t leave. Why can’t I just be pleased for her, excited?

  Tom opens his arms and she walks into them. He bends and kisses the top of her head. ‘It’ll be great, Lollydoll. You’ll kill it, yeah?’

  I look away, swallowing hard, eyes skimming the crowds.

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  He lets her go and she turns to me. I hug her tight. When I try to speak my voice turns husky: ‘Have a wonderful time.’ I want to say more. I love you. Be careful. Keep your money out of sight. Stay safe. But my throat is locked, my head full of tears. So I just hug her tighter, sniffing hard, breathing in the smell of her – orange-blossom shampoo and mint chewing gum and something like salt.

  ‘Bye-bye.’ She does that funny wave, like her hand and arm are rigid, no wrist joint. And all I can do is nod vigorously and smile, lips closed, teeth clamped together.

  We watch her walk away, her tote bag over one shoulder, a quick stride as if she’ll break into a run at any moment.

  She pauses where the ramp leads down to Departures and waves again. I wave back. Tom gives her a thumbs-up and a peace sign.

  Then she is gone.

  ‘Oh, God.’ I let my breath out.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ he says.

  ‘It’s not her I’m worried about,’ I try to joke but it comes out all squeaky. I find a tissue, dab at my eyes.

  ‘Jo?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s OK.’

  Back on the top of the car park, the sky is changing: a red blush tints shreds of cloud to the west. The end of the day is coming. The hotels around the airport are visible, as is the railway station and, further away, the skyline of the city.

  ‘It’s just—’ I get no further. Tears come hot on my cheeks, making my ribs heave.

  Tom puts his arms around me. I stiffen momentarily, the contact unfamiliar. Then I let go. The release helps, easing the heaviness in my chest, leaving me feeling raw and exposed.

  ‘Sorry.’ I blow my nose.

  ‘Home?’

  We drive back into the city, against the flow of commuters leaving after their day’s work, the sunset a blaze of copper, the sky to the east darkening purple.

  Tom drops me at mine, and once he’s gone, I sit on the front step for a moment, readying myself to go in to Nick and the boys.

  Almost dark, and the insects are still busy among the carnations, cosmos and honeysuckle. The perfume from the flowers is sweet above the city smells of stone, exhaust fumes and food cooking. The evening star is rising. Higher above, I see a moving light, white then a flash of red. A plane. Not Lori’s, not yet. She’ll be through security control now, waiting in the departure lounge. Maybe doing some shopping.

  A cat yowls in the back gardens and I hear Benji answer with a bark from inside. Further away there is the sound of glass breaking, then a slam. Someone putting their bottles in the recycling.

  All I want to do is indulge my sadness, get drunk and pine for Lorelei, weep and eat more than I need to, sleep late.

  Fat chance.

  So I go back in to my husband and help get Finn and Isaac settled in bed and answer all their questions about their big sister’s big adventure for the umpteenth time.

  And lie awake all night like an idiot.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lori texts just as I’m starting work. All good. Just got thru Customs. Knacked. Love you L xxx I’m relieved. I can’t imagine Thailand, only images culled from pictures in the weekend magazines or movies like The Beach. All vegetation, palm-fringed sands, endless hills and deep diving pools. What it might be like, the atmosphere, the day-to-day life, the cities, socializing – I’ll be relying on Lori to broaden my horizons.

  This morning I listened to the first jets taking off every few minutes from the airport, growls climbing to a roar, then fading. I’m still bereft. Lori going seems to fuel the grief I’ve been coping with since my mother died in June. The two things are muddled up.

  The alarm went at seven, and Nick got the boys up while I made their packed lunches. The news about chemical weapons being used in Syria made my mood seem like an indulgence. Then came breakfast. No matter how well prepared I try to be, there is always a sense of impending chaos at breakfast time. Finn or Isaac will be missing some crucial item of clothing, their book bag or PE kit. There is a disaster with the food, one of them finishing the milk before the other has any, a cup of juice ruining a precious drawing (usually Finn’s juice and Isaac’s drawing). There is a squabble about toys. Or a sudden inability to reach the toilet in time. Things can get messy so I dress after breakfast, then chivvy the boys into footwear and coats, then herd them out of the door. Benji tries to come with us – he always tries it on even though he knows that Nick will take him for a turn around the park before going into work. And the boys and I will walk him again after school.

  Finn is seven, Isaac two years younger and they both have places at the primary school where I work. It’s a C of E school attached to a parish church, which wouldn’t have been my choice (we’re not religious) if I hadn’t worked there. But sending them to another local school would’ve made all the taking and collecting so much more complicated. And, to be fair, I like the school: the head-teacher, Grace, puts her life and soul into it. She’s a good manager and most of the staff respect her. I’ve been secretary there since Lori was eight when I gave up child-minding. She was already at a secular school and I didn’t like to move her so we managed the hour before and after the school day when I was still at work with a patchwork of arrangements. I relied on other parents, the after-school club, child-minders, my mum and, when I ran out of all other options, Tom. These days, the pressures on parents seem even greater and our school, like many others, has a breakfast club as well as the after-school club where Finn and Isaac go.

  Having Lori so young – I was twenty – put paid to any travel plans back then. While friends of mine were discovering Goa and Machu Picchu, I was by turns bewildered, exhausted and exhilarated in the world of nappies, baby sick and sleep deprivation.

  I discovered I was pregnant partway through my second year but I was determined to complete my degree on time. It seemed important to prove to the world that I could do it all. And I did. Just. It was horrendous.

  Now the phone is ringing with notices of absence, the mail is arriving and I’ve a tray full of work to get going on and a backlog of emails to deal with. It helps being busy: the demands of routine drive a juggernaut through any inclination to dwell on Lori leaving.

  In the staffroom at break people ask me if Lori got off all right – everyone has been sharing in the build-up to her trip. We’re a close team and I know the problems other people are dealing with. Henry’s father has dementia – he’s become restless and agitated and hostile; Zoë had a miscarriage last term; Pam is going through a really acrimonious divorce; and Sunita has just been diagnosed with diabetes. It puts things in perspective.

  As we walk back from school Finn holds my hand, swinging his arm to and fro and singing. He loves to sing but he makes an awful racket.

  Isaac runs ahead and back, like Benji, a sheepdog driving his charges. He stops to examine anything of interest, a sock in the gutter, conkers, a worm stranded on the paving. He always finds something to bring home for his special box (currently the one that our microwave came in). Today it is a throwaway lighter. I check it doesn’t work and is empty of fuel before letting him keep it.

  Even though we have Benji, Isaac is scared of dogs. As we near what he calls the Dog House, he runs back and takes my free hand. The yappy terrier there barks furiously on cue and Isaac flinches, his fingers tightening around mine.

  ‘Wait at the lights,�
� I remind him, once we leave the danger zone and he lets go. He zigzags along the pavement, holding the lighter out as if it’s a lightsaber or a remote control or a magic wand, muttering something I can’t catch. He’s slight and dark-haired, skinny like Lori, pale like me. Both he and Finn have inherited Nick’s deep blue eyes with those flecks of gold. I never tire of staring at them. Mind you, with the lads that depends on them sitting still long enough, which is especially rare for Finn.

  We collect Benji and head straight back out. Stopping for a snack invariably descends into a rerun of the morning’s mission to leave the house intact – things unravel so quickly – so I leave the boys in the drive and fetch the dog and his ball.

  Finn throws the ball over and over, not necessarily in the direction he intends it to go but that doesn’t matter to Benji. We stop at the playground and tie Benji up at the railings while the boys mess about on the slide and swings. Isaac wants to go on the stepping stones but he isn’t quite brave enough to leap from one wooden block to the next so he jumps down onto the mulch between them, then clambers up again.

  ‘See the heron?’ I say. The bird is almost overhead, coming from the pond. Isaac looks up.

  ‘Hey, Finn,’ I call across. He’s on his back, on the roundabout, his feet dangling over the edge onto the ground, slowly walking it around. ‘See the heron?’

  We watch it fly out of sight. ‘Time to go,’ I say.

  ‘It flies high,’ Finn says, as I’m untying Benji.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like Lori in an airplane.’

  ‘Aeroplane. That’s right. And where’s Lori gone?’

  ‘Thailand.’

  ‘Why’s it called Thailand?’ says Isaac. ‘Do they all wear ties?’

  ‘No. Nice idea but it’s a different spelling, a different word.’

  ‘I made a card for her,’ Finn says, ‘with all of us on, me and Daddy and you and Isaac and Lori and Benji.’ He grasps my hand. ‘Did she like it?’

  ‘She will. She’ll open the case and there it will be. And there’s a picture from Isaac, too,’ I say.

  Isaac is crouched at the edge of the path. ‘A feather.’ He holds it out to me. Black with a metallic glint in the light.