Detained (25 page)

“Are you all right?”

She moved into him. Pressing full-length against him, tucking her head into his neck, wrapping her arms around his back. He gripped her equally as hard. If he died today or tomorrow or in five years, he’d have this last moment to take with him, and to sustain him in the endless day that was night in Quingpu.

She spoke into the crook of his neck. “What have they done to you, Will?”

“I’m okay. I’m doing okay. I’m going to be all right here.”

“It’s my fault. This is all my fault. I should never...”

She was sobbing hard. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s not your fault. Do you really think that?” He moved her away so he could see her face. She wouldn’t look at him. He put a finger under her chin to lift her head. “This is my fault. I did this to myself a long time ago. There’s no one to blame.”

“No, no, no. If I hadn’t run the pictures...”

“Lois, this has nothing to do with your damn pictures. I knew what you were doing, well, not entirely, but I should have. Made me angry, so angry, but I did a dreadful thing to you, and I should’ve known you weren’t a woman to take it lying down.”

“What did you do to me, except try to protect yourself?”

He grinned at her in this restful half-light. This miracle in scrubs in a prison closet in his arms. “I made you love me.”

She made a sound like a cat’s trill, half purr, half whimper, all glorious, and dug her fingers hard into his back. “I hate you so much for that.”

This time she kissed him, hands on his face, lips, lush, hot, wet, moving with his, with hunger to match him.

He was a soon to be death row prisoner and he was making out with his girl in a supply cupboard while hell on earth staged a dress rehearsal outside.

“To see what is right, and not do it, is want of courage or of principle.” — Confucius

This was Will, alive, safe, touching her with enough feeling to permanently impress his fingerprint on her skin. They were kissing in the middle of a prison riot, and if one of them didn’t cool it in a moment, they’d be doing more than that.

She might get hurt today. She might get raped or worse. She’d never been so frightened, but she didn’t care, because he was here and she could touch him. Feel the tiny prickle of new hair on his scalp, his poor misshapen nose, the scruff of his beard. He twitched if she pressed his ribs too hard, and she knew he was carrying one shoulder higher than the other. He’d had trouble pulling his wet prison top off, moving awkwardly. She didn’t care. He hadn’t said it, but he loved her too. There was so much to say, but he needed this physical contact more right now—and so did she.

He broke the kiss, his breath stuttering. “Last time we did this, at least we talked first.”

She laughed softly, kept his eyes in hers, pressed her hands on his face. “We have an irrational attraction to confined spaces.” She had an unstoppable attraction to this man.

He tipped her head back and sucked against her neck. He was needy and edgy, fighting it.

“Let go, Will. We’re safe for now.”

He groaned against her ear, tightened his hold. He wanted to be fooled by that, wanted to let go, take, but he wouldn’t put her in that position. She’d have to push him.

“It’s hot in here and you’re right, these scrubs are too tight.” She crossed her arms, put her hands to the hem, and went to pull the top over her head.

He caught her arms and pinned them. “No.” The panic in his eyes alone stopped her. She nuzzled the skin at his neck exposed by the V of his tunic, and he rocked back against the wall, taking her with him, sliding down, until they were on the floor, and she was in his lap, her legs around his waist.

“Darcy, no. It’s too dangerous.” His voice was cracked and broken, and his hands were shaking.

It was too dangerous and she didn’t care. They could both die today. “Don’t fight me.”

“I can’t hurt you again.”

“You didn’t, Will. I hurt myself.”

He let go then, dragging her body tight against him, rocking them so the friction against clothing, against each other, undid her. The world outside this room had turned to hate and violence, but in this narrow space they were chained together by more than fear and circumstance.

Time stalled, rationality ceased, the heat in the closed room, the jangly beat of the pop music, and the need for each other overrode the fear and fight response they should’ve felt, and delivered sex and freedom instead.

Darcy stood to rid herself of the scrubs, Will following her upright, his hands and lips never leaving her body. She stripped him too, the bruises on his shoulder visible in the dimness. He backed her against the wall, pulled her leg around his hip and brought them together with a low growl of release that vibrated through her in ever widening circles of pleasure, echoing in her sob.

Will stopped her mouth with his, saying, “Shh, shh,” between gasps. He was shuddering still, his fingers digging in to her thigh and hip. He let go her leg abruptly and wrapped around her, his head dropping down to her shoulder. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. And then she realised he was crying.

“It’s okay,” she said, her own heart fraying from the emotion of his silent sobs. But he wasn’t listening. He’d gone somewhere else, deep inside, to mourn, to grieve.

She stroked his back, caressed his neck and held him. This was his real release for all the fear and pain and uncertainty, the darkness and intimidation. He clutched her to him and his tears wet her collarbone, and he showed no shame for them.

They dressed the same way they’d undressed; helping each other, stopping to stroke and kiss and fumble. Darcy traced the tear lines on Will’s face and he kissed her fingers. They sat on the floor wrapped in each other’s arms.

“I can die happy now,” he said, finally, closing his eyes, his body more relaxed.

She smiled at his humour until she understood he was serious. They’d not talked. He didn’t know he was free.

“Oh God! I’m an idiot. Will, you’re going to be free. That’s why I’m here. We came to tell you.”

He set her back a little so he could see her face. “You’ve been listening to Pete. It’s not going to be happen, Darcy. If you want to help me you have to help Pete understand that.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“I’m resigned to it. I’ve had an incredible life. I’ve done more than I ever dreamed possible and this, this now. I can’t tell you how happy you made me. How fucking scared I am for you, and how much I want to kiss Pete, and bash his head in, for bringing you here.”

She moved, she straddled his outstretched legs, so she could hold his face and look in his eyes. “You didn’t kill Feng.”

“We all want to believe that.”

“You didn’t kill him because he was alive six weeks after the fight.”

“What?”

“I went to Feng’s village with Bo and Robert, the photographer.”

“With Bo?” Will was confused and suddenly agitated. Disbelief was a haze in his expression, but his muscles coiled with tension

“Yes and we have witnesses Feng was alive six weeks after your fight. We have evidence you didn’t kill him.”

“But injuries?”

“You didn’t kill him, Will. He died in a fire.”

“A fire?”

“He went home to his village. He went to his great nephew’s wedding. He donated a basketball court to a youth group, and he started a fight in a restaurant. He caused a fire and died in it.”

Will looked at her as though he was deaf and couldn’t understand a word she was saying.

“You’re innocent, Will. You’re going home.”

He put a hand to his head. “That can’t be.”

“I have photographs. We’ll have witness statements. Pete has a briefing for the Ministry of Justice, and a team of doctors ready to consult on this. You didn’t kill Feng.”

Will was silent. Processing. Pete was right, he’d convinced himself of his guilt. Watching him she got anxious he’d retreat inside his head again, into that place where his most base suspicions and doubts lived.

“Why are you so convinced you killed him?”

He looked at her as though she was a stranger to him, not the woman he’d risked discovery and disaster with, not the woman he’d let see him cry.

“Because I couldn’t know for sure I didn’t.”

“For most people, that would be a reasonable expectation of innocence. Why not for you?”

In the strange symmetry of their relationship, in a new detention, in another moment where they were entirely, raw and open to each other, Darcy knew where they were in space and time. It was a truth or dare moment.

“Will, truth or dare?”

He refocused, said, “Truth,” like she knew he would.

“Why don’t you think you’re innocent?”

He looked away into the spreading darkness of the room. “I’ll take a dare.”

She used a hand to bring his face back. “What happened to you, Will Parker, to make you think you’re unworthy of innocence?”

He sighed, removed her hand from his face and held it. “I don’t want to lie to you.”

“Then don’t.”

“Everything has changed now. I could get my life back, if we get out of here.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust me. That’s the whole problem. I could never trust me.”

“I don’t know what you did, Will. I don’t care. You did make me love you. And I won’t love you any less no matter what you say.”

“God, gorgeous. You’re dangerous to me.”

Darcy started to laugh. There were three thousand hardened criminals in control of the prison, and who knows how many of them would try to take her. She had no doubt this man, holding her in his arms would fight to the death to protect her, and yet he was more afraid of her than them.

He put his hand against her mouth, “Shh, shh. I want to hear that laugh again without having to shush you, but not now. We don’t know what’s going on out there.”

She needed a change in tactic. She resettled against his chest. “Your turn. Ask me anything.” He must’ve had a million questions, about the trip to Tengtou, about getting out.

“Did it fit?”

“Sorry?”

“I sent you a new dress. I had to guess the size. Did it fit?”

He was going to make her cry again. “You’re asking about a silly dress?”

“It was a very nice dress, on a very beautiful woman. I liked it better than these scrubs.”

“You haven’t tried to tear these off me yet.”

“Give it time. We might be here for hours.”

She smiled. Will was back from wherever he’d had to go. “Are you going to talk to me?”

He sighed. “I’d rather go and face that mob. I’d almost rather agree to stay in prison than talk to you about this.”

“Pete knows?”

“Pete knows everything.”

“You’re not really brothers, are you?”

“Not blood brothers.”

“You’re surname isn’t Parker, is it?”

He rocked her into his body and gave a snort of laughter. “I said I’d take a dare.”

“Will.”

“No it’s not. We chose it.”

“Because you liked Spiderman?”

“Hey.” He was mock indignant. “I let Pete choose. He was a nerdy fourteen year old kid. He thought it would be cool to have the same name as a superhero. He still does—the big dag.”

“That’s why I couldn’t find you in Tara.”

“I gather that means you went looking.”

She nodded into his chest. “Before we went to Feng’s village I wrote a profile on you. I broke Peter’s agreement. I used everything you told me, but nothing that might hurt you. I wanted to tell the world you’re a good man with no reason to kill anyone.”

“I’m not such a good man.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’d change your mind.”

“Try me. I dare you.”

“Have no friends not equal to yourself.” — Confucius

Will groaned. “You have no sense of fairness, Lois.”

She sat so her knees were either side of his, her weight on his thighs. “You’re not exactly easy to get along with either,” she said, her eyes flashes of brilliance in the low light.

She could strip his soul with those eyes, with that way of burrowing under his skin. He was so frightened for her. For what she’d let them do in here. For what still needed to unfold before she was safe. She was reckless, more reckless than he was by far. She hadn’t yet learned what that could earn you. A lifetime of looking over your shoulder. A fear you could never build enough, go far enough, climb high enough, to get away from what you really were.

This sudden reprieve, this new shot at life, it was a freedom he didn’t deserve. He could accept he hadn’t killed Feng. He’d never been sure, just knew the worst was in his skill set. He had form, as Norman used to say.

He’d meant form as an idiot who couldn’t read, who would never finish school, never leave Tara, never have anything of his own. Form as a hothead and a troublemaker, and a waste of space. Form as a punching bag.

He could tell Darcy and then she’d understand. He could tell her and watch the death of what she felt for him fall away in increments, in disappointed lumps. They were madness and magic together, and he’d not had his fill of her, and he wasn’t ready to risk losing her yet. He hadn’t even told her what she meant to him.

He stroked both hands down her arms, till he was holding her hands. “When those bastards grabbed me, I knew there was a chance I wouldn’t make it out in one piece.” She blinked at him, holding her body rigid as if braced for ruin. “But I knew I had to keep fighting too. Not let them know I was scared witless. I thought about you. About how you let me touch you in Pudong, about how you let me come to you at the hotel. You were fearless. So I sang.”

She shook her head, confused. “Sang?”

“Yeah, Green Day, like you did in the bath. I sang till my voice gave out.”

She squeezed his hands.

“And in here, when I thought...when I thought I wasn’t getting out, and I might not make it through to a trial without getting beaten to death, I daydreamed about you. You were so deep in my head I thought I could smell your skin, feel your hair between my fingers.”

She moved forward, rested her forehead on his. He sensed she’d smell of sweat and sex and the floral perfume of her shampoo.