Detained (19 page)

She tried to be a normal person coming home from work, thinking about what to have for dinner and rationalising herself out of any need for exercise. Not a woman worried about paying the rent when her two months worth of redundancy money ran out. Or a job candidate having to explain to potential employers that yes, she was responsible for outing the elusive Will Parker, yes, that was her by-line, and yes, it was unfortunate the paper had to let her go. It was virtually code for ‘thanks for coming in but we’ve already filled the position’.

Rounding the corner to her front door she walked through a spider’s web. The sticky, transparent filaments stuck to her eyelashes, clung to her cheek and tickled across her nose. Juggling her door keys, she tried to swipe the itchy trail away, hoping the spider wasn’t in her hair. The stuff clung and wouldn’t come away. Her eyelashes felt clumpy.

The day was just getting better and she still had the evening to get through. Andy was back from the Middle East and Brian was barbequing. She could wimp out, claim a headache, but odds on Brian already knew; his industry radar was so finely tuned. Avoiding him would make things worse in the end.

Inside the cold, dark terrace, she dumped her bag and headed to the bathroom. In the slightly yellow light above the mirror she tried to find the web, to pull it off her skin, out of her life.

Face washed and hair brushed, she looked like an entirely normal person. Someone wondering whether it was okay to have mashed potato tonight, and promising herself she’d go to the gym tomorrow. But the mirror lied, she lied. The web wouldn’t come away, no matter how hard she scrubbed. It wasn’t on her skin, it was on her heart and soul, and until she got over Will Parker, until she could cut up his replacement dress, it always would be.

Brian met her in the hallway of the old family home with a hug and a back slap. He had a faded yellow apron on over his shirt and work pants, and a splatter of marinade on the lens of his glasses. No prize for guessing they’d be having steak.

“Tough day, Darce.” He knew, but how much and from whom?

“Not one of my best, Dad.”

“That Gerry Ives is a dodgy bastard. Never was too keen on you working for him. Hope the severance was decent.”

She handed him a bottle of red wine and he checked the label before tucking it under his arm and heading back towards the kitchen. “Andy is out back. Be nice.”

Darcy followed Brian though to the open plan kitchen and living room of her old family home. It’d been renovated and was light filled and spacious, not vaguely reminiscent of the pokey cottage she’d grown up in.

Andy was in the yard with the latest incarnation of Gonzo. This one was called Rupert, though a girl dog. According to Brian, there simply weren’t any good girl’s names in journalistic mythology, and he wasn’t naming his dog after a primped up TV talking head like Barbara, Katie, Diane or God forbid, Jana.

“Andy, Darce is here,” Brian called from the bi-fold doors to the deck. He said, “Quit tormenting that dog,” and went back to his marinade.

Darcy hadn’t seen Andy for twelve months. He’d been stationed in the Middle East, reporting for ABC TV. He looked tanned but tired. He had less hair and his clothes hung off his frame. He didn’t look like a normal person concerned about his diet or exercise plan. He had a weird look in his eyes. Wired, on edge. She understood Brian’s be nice instruction.

But he hugged like the old Andy, quickly as though he might catch girl germs, and he sounded like him too. “Dad says you screwed up.”

“I didn’t screw up. I got retrenched.”

Andy laughed. “Yeah. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

“So why do you look like crap?”

“Oh you know, watching people get blown up in suicide bombings is not so good for the complexion. At least I have a job to go back to. What’re you going to do?”

Darcy sighed and gave her watch an exaggerated look. “In the two and half hours since it happened I’ve not made any key decisions about my life. If that’s all right by you?”

Andy laughed, a dry, bitter sound, more like a bronchial cough than an expression of humour. “Righto. I was just asking.”

He sat on the edge of the deck and Darcy sat beside him. Not too close. Like everything about her relationship with Andy. Not too close and with her defences up. Brian came out and started grilling the steaks. Birds chirped. The kid next door bounced on his trampoline. Rupert went to sleep on her haunches like a staffie Sphinx. They were three people bonded in blood and by profession without a whole lot to say to each other.

“Darce, make the salad and set the table, will you? Bring us another beer,” said Brian brandishing tongs.

Darcy got up and went to the kitchen, retrieved beers for Brian and Andy, a coke for herself. She found the makings of a garden salad and prepared it, buttered bread and gathered plates, knives and forks and napkins, and set the outdoor table.

Andy sat on at the edge of the deck, and that wasn’t unusual, he was the special guest. Even when he’d been working locally, he was still the special guest. The one that got to sit and enjoy while Darcy fetched and carried.

Once she’d fought it. This expectation she’d do woman’s work, be her dead mother’s drudge. It’d meant moving out at eighteen and long periods of seeing neither Brian nor Andy, except at neutral locations where someone was paid to scrape plates and launder tablecloths.

But if she wanted salad with her slab of meat, she’d have to make it. If she wanted a napkin, she’d have to find a pack in the cupboard. If she wanted peace, she didn’t make a scene about something as silly as not wanting to set the table.

When the steak was done and on the plates, a grilling of another kind began.

“What’d you do, Darce?” said Brian.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Col Furrows says he thinks you and that Will Parker had a thing.”

Darcy shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Col only thinks he knows something.”

Brian pointed his steak knife at her. “Are you saying he’s wrong?”

She put down her knife and fork, no longer able to kid herself she could eat. “Are you saying you believe him over me?”

“Mark Mason doesn’t let good talent go unless they fuck up.”

“This is better than
Match of the Day
,” said Andy.

“They let me go because Parker is suing. I’m supposed to take one for the team.”

“Who’s the suit against?” said Brian, carving off a chunk of his almost rare steak.

“Everyone,” she said, knowing they’d understand the chain of responsibility.

“They cut you loose. But Parker can still come after you.”

“But I was only acting for the paper,” she said, confused. It’d never occurred to her Parker could still come after her. The idea was a shock. He’d be after more than the redundancy payment, more than what was in her savings account. And no employer would want to touch her with that hanging over her. She brushed a hand over her eyes. She could still feel the spider web.

Brian grunted. “Would be unusual, but not without precedent. You really did a number on him. He’s the laughing stock of the business community. No amount he spends on PR is going to help him now. Get us another beer, will you?”

Behavioural conditioning had her standing before her brain kicked into gear. She sat again. “Andy has legs.”

“I said be nice.”

“I’m right here,” said Andy. “And now I’m going in there,” he pointed through the open doors to the kitchen, “to get beers.”

“What did you do, Darce?”

“My job. What’s wrong with Andy?”

Brian sighed. He used a piece of bread to mop up the left over marinade on his plate. “A touch of post-traumatic stress syndrome, but he’s all right. He still has a job, but he’s not going back to the desert.”

Darcy stood, sympathy for Andy warring with her desire to be alone. “Thanks for dinner. I’ve had a crap day. I’m going home.” Brian didn’t try to stop her.

In the kitchen Andy said, “You and Parker. What do you know?”

“You saw the photos. That’s what I know.”

“I’m taking a crew to Shanghai. I’m going to interview him.”

Darcy gasped. “You’ve got it organised?” Nothing new on Parker had run for days; the story was going cold, even if Will’s infamy was still red-hot.

Andy grimaced. “No, on spec. But why not me? Why not the country’s most respected national broadcaster? He needs the interview, and I can convince him to go with us.”

There was so much a younger sister could’ve told an older brother about how to get his interview, how to unsettle his subject to get the best responses. So much she could’ve said about Will’s wit, intelligence and presence, about his incredible journey and his intense ambition. And it would be safe to tell family. Surely no one could sue her for confiding in her family. Except her family couldn’t be trusted to have her back.

She picked up the bottle of red from the counter and shoved it into her bag. She was going to need it more than Brian and Andy. “Good luck.”

Later at home, after the wine, after scrubbing her face till it felt raw, after the longest, hottest shower she could stand, Darcy lay in bed chasing oblivion. But it wouldn’t come. She flicked the radio on. The ABC news, something to distract her from the swirl of thoughts and fears in her head. The announcer droned on reading the Sydney, then national news. She’d missed the top of the broadcast, but when he repeated the lead story she leapt out of bed and went to her knees, dragging out the wheelie bag she’d only recently stowed here and tossing it on the bed.

She filled it with underwear and jeans, t-shirts and walking shoes, her one good suit and heels. She went to the bathroom and raided her toiletries. She cleaned out her wallet and turned on her laptop, logging on to Webjet.

Will Parker had been missing for five days. Along with his driver, he was presumed kidnapped. She was going back to Shanghai.

“Respect yourself and others will respect you.” — Confucius

Will was flat on his back, cuffed to the bed at ankle and wrist. He’d long since gotten used to the nasal quality of his voice, to the inability to breathe through his nose. He belted out the chorus to Green Day’s
Know Your Enemy
for about the sixth time that evening. He didn’t remember all the words but he amused himself by making them up; a different version every time.

He wasn’t amusing his captors though. He was keeping them nicely unsettled, and while that was hardly going to save his bacon, it was better than going out quietly.

All that first day they’d left him alone and tied up, but the next morning they’d come for him. The pain in his hands had been ferocious, and his knees and feet refused to function. He’d ended up on his face on the filthy cement floor. They’d had to haul him to a half constructed bathroom where they stood over him while he cleaned up the best he could with soap, water and his own bloody t-shirt.

And that set the pattern for the next three days. They’d bring him porridge and water. Allow him a bathroom visit and cuff him to the bed. No one spoke. He saw the same three men every day. No one answered any of his questions in English, Shanghainese, Cantonese or his excruciatingly limited Mandarin. He swore at them in three languages and made a promise that if he got out of this he’d learn to swear in Mandarin as well.

And he sang. Almost exclusively Green Day. Starting with
Time of Your Life
and then progressing through the other Green Day songs he remembered.
21 Guns, American Idiot, When I Come Around, Boulevard of Broken Dreams
. And if not Green Day, he sang old Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel songs.

It was the only sign he could give them he wasn’t afraid, wasn’t cowered and wasn’t going to give in. He hoped it annoyed the crap out of them. The day they refused him water he laughed and sang harder.

Something had to give soon though. This couldn’t go on. Payday was approaching. He just wasn’t sure if he would live through the other side of it. He figured Pete would’ve worked out he was missing. There might be a search, a reward; police, military, consulate involvement. Something. He had to trust.

He mourned for Bo, a faithful employee, a trusted friend, the closest thing to a father he’d had. Every morning he asked about Bo. Every morning they ignored him.

Bo had been with him almost from the beginning when he had no language, few connections, and no real clue how he was going to get started. When Shanghai was a city in transition, growing fast, greedy for more. When his daydreams were bigger than his abilities, and his only assets were a quick mind, a slick tongue, and an inability to take no for an answer.

Bo had been his translator when no one else would do it. His cook when he forgot to eat, his bodyguard when things got rough, and his conscience when it was lacking. Bo’s son Keung would want for nothing if he got through this and Bo didn’t.

He passed each day by singing, asking about Bo, taking his one trip to the bathroom and daydreaming about playing truth and dare.

Thinking about Darcy, re-imagining all the moments he’d spent with her, helped him stay anchored to the world in a way the cuffs didn’t. If he got out of here he’d see her again. If it was only to see hate burn in her eyes, and walk into another of her punches.

In his head he saw her as he first had in the airport detention room. She’d checked him out, been pleased to hear his accent, more pleased to think he knew what was going on. She’d interviewed him when he’d been trying to interview her, and he’d fallen for her right then. When he’d amused her with push-ups, when he’d told her things he never talked about, and took her dare and danced with her scarf, and watched her face as he touched her body, taking her somewhere she’d never been while never leaving the room.

Will left the bed, the room, the enforced detention every time he thought about Darcy. Her defiance and her anger; her confusion and her hurt. The way she’d looked in her earnest work suit, in the hotel robe, in the grey silk dress. Her laughter, and the way she gave herself to him without question when she could have been cautious, without fear when she should have backed away. Without regret until he caused it.