Crimson China by Betsy Tobin Read Free Book Online Page A

sofa, his eyes locked onto the news report. Poor bastard. She picks up her handbag and keys, then returns to the sitting room where he is waiting.
    “I’m going out,” she says. “To buy food. To eat. Stay here. I won’t be long.”
    The man’s eyes widen briefly.
    She buys more food than she has eaten in a month. Orange juice, bread, eggs, bacon, potatoes, chicken, cheese. She adds rice and soy sauce as an afterthought. At the till her eyes land on the rack of newspapers: the story is all over the headlines. She picks up two different papers and throws them on the counter. The shop assistant, an older woman with badly hennaed hair, clucks at the headlines.
    “Terrible, what’s happened,” she says. “Someone should’ve warned them. Imagine dying out there in that freezing water!” The woman looks up at her for confirmation. Angie cannot meet her eye. She stares down at the food, a lump forming in her throat. It is all she can do to nod.
    When she opens her front door, she does not know what she will find. Perhaps he has fled, along with half her things. A part of her would be relieved. But he is there, seated on the sofa justas she left him, the TV still on. Where would he go, she wonders? He jumps to his feet as she enters and immediately moves to help her with the bags. She unpacks the food while he watches. She turns to him after a minute.
    “You’re making me nervous,” she says.
    He blinks, uncomprehending. She points to the sofa.
    “Go watch TV,” she orders. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
    “Okay,” he says, retreating quickly.
    She turns back to the food laid out in front of her.
    “Okay,” she mutters to herself.
    He eats ravenously: she thought she had cooked masses but it is not enough. She too is hungry, has not eaten properly in days. They finish the breakfast and then she makes several slices of toast, which she puts on his plate. She hands him a knife, a plate of butter and a jar of honey.
    “Toast,” she says pointedly.
    “ Toe se ,” he repeats.
    “Yeah, something like that,” she says. “I use butter and honey, but you can eat it how you like,” she adds, not really caring whether he has understood.
    He watches her spread butter and honey on her toast, then does the same. After six slices, he finally indicates that he has had enough.
    “For someone so thin, you can’t half eat,” she comments.
    He regards her uncertainly. She sighs.
    “You’re going to have to learn English or I’ll go mad,” she says, picking up both their plates and moving towards the sink. At once he leaps up and crosses to help. She looks at him and laughs.
    “Okay,” she says, indicating the dishes in the sink. “They’re all yours.”
    “Okay,” he replies.
    She goes back to the TV, switching channels to try to find morecoverage, and scanning the newspaper stories. Eighteen men and two women were dragged out of the bay last night. Only two were still alive. It is uncertain how many more are missing. The Chinese had ventured out at dusk so as to work under cover of darkness, because of recent disputes with local cocklers. She has a flash of memory then: a battered white van crawling across the sand. Her stomach lurches. I saw them, she thinks. And I did nothing. But neither did the others, she remembers, those coming in from the beds. So the blame does not sit on her alone. And anyway, she thinks, I saved him. But how many more could she have saved?
    Just then she hears the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen. She jumps to her feet and crosses the room. The Chinese man is staring at the floor where he has dropped a tumbler. He raises his eyes to her and she sees fear in them. At once he drops to his knees and begins to gather up the pieces.
    “ Dui bu qi ,” he says in Mandarin.
    She goes to the cupboard under the sink and takes out a dustpan and broom.
    “It doesn’t matter,” she says. She lays a hand on his arm, and he looks up at her. His jaw is set in a grim line and