Crimson China by Betsy Tobin Read Free Book Online

terrible,” he says quietly. “A terrible tragedy.”
    She looks at the old man. His eyes are slightly yellow; she sees a small stain on the collar of his shirt.
    “Yes,” she whispers. “I know.”

February 2004
    In the morning when Angie wakes, her head is shrouded in pain. She squints at the clock, sees the whisky bottle lying empty on the floor. She peers at it, trying to sift through the events of the preceding night. Shit , she thinks. There is a Chinese man on her sofa. Wearing tracksuit bottoms that belong to her ex-husband. Or maybe not. Maybe the man is already gone. And she will never know if he was real, or a figment of her mind, sent to save her from herself. She rolls over and pulls the quilt over her head.
    There was a moment in the waves when she thought that they would both die. The fear was unlike anything she’d ever known: enormous, powerful and terrifying. It pierced her like a sharp blade and at once she realised death was not her friend, but her enemy. How stupid could she be? And yet she’d saved a man’s life. She is not religious, does not even believe in God. But perhaps something greater than herself sent her to the bay last night.
    Yesterday had been a bad day: the first anniversary of her mother’s death. She’d woken with a sense of dread, and had stumbled through the day feeling oddly out of place and time. She does not remember making a decision to drive to Hest Bank, only that she ended up there. Christ , she thinks now. I have to go out there. And talk to him. It would help if he could speak back. His inability to communicate irritates her. How hard can it be to learn alanguage? Slowly she rises and moves about her room as noiselessly as possible, finding some clothes. She is desperate for the loo. Perhaps he is still asleep and she can get to the bathroom without having to face him first. She turns the key in the lock and eases the door open as quietly as she can, peering out.
    The Chinese man is sitting on her sofa, the bedding she gave him neatly folded in a pile to one side. The TV is on but he has muted the sound. When he sees her, he rises at once to his feet, his eyes filled with uncertainty. She comes out of the room. He nods to her nervously, then glances at the TV and quickly moves to turn it off.
    “Don’t,” she says quickly. “It’s okay.” She sees for the first time the images on the screen. He is watching a local news channel, and the picture is of Morecambe Bay. She walks slowly towards the TV, staring at the images. Police cars, ambulances, yellow tape, a string of bodies laid out upon the sand, covered in pale white cloth. She turns and looks at the man.
    “I’m sorry,” she says. He nods grimly. She reaches over, turns up the volume and sinks down onto the sofa. A reporter is speaking: eighteen bodies have been found, but five more are missing. She listens for a moment, then turns to him.
    “They’re looking for you,” she says. “You,” she repeats, pointing to him.
    He swallows a little nervously, and nods.
    “Do you speak English?” she asks.
    He holds up two fingers close together.
    “Little,” he says.
    “Do you understand me?” He shrugs.
    “Little,” he repeats.
    She takes a deep breath and lets it out, remembering her full bladder. She rises and walks through the kitchen to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
    The bath is full of cold water. She reaches down to pull out theplug, watching the water slowly ebb as she relieves herself. What in God’s name is she meant to do with him? Should she ring the police?
    “Are you hungry?” she asks a moment later.
    His eyes widen, and he nods.
    “Please,” he says.
    She crosses to the refrigerator and looks inside: a sagging grapefruit, a bottle of salad dressing, three tired tomatoes and some out-of-date milk. Dismayed, she realises she will have to go out for food and she can hardly take him with her. So he will have to stay.
    She looks into the sitting room: he is seated on the