Someone showed up before she had the chance. Smiley was back and he had another passenger with him. A man dragging a carry-on bag, worn blue jeans and a crushed white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He spoke Mandarin, or maybe it was the local dialect to the official. He didn’t seem happy. Neither of them acknowledged her.
“Excuse me. Do you have an invalid visa too?” she said.
The man turned. He had thick, dirty blond hair and deep ocean blue eyes. Thirty-something, six foot-ish, muscular, a knockabout rumpled look to him.
“Yeah, you too?” he said with a laugh, and an Australian accent.
“Were you on QF129?
“You?” He had sandy eyebrows and a crooked nose that looked like it might have been broken a time or two.
“Yeah. Do you know what’s going on?”
“What kind of game are you in?”
“I’m a journalist, with the Sydney Herald.”
“Right, well that accounts for you then. Sometimes they make you sweat.”
“Are you a journo too?”
Quick head shake, slow blink. “No. I have a business here.”
“This has happened to you before? How worried should I be?”
He held up a hand, a give me a minute gesture. He turned to Smiley and rattled something off. Smiley responded with head nods, exited and closed the door on them.
Darcy figured her expression must have bled annoyed. Her fellow detainee was apologetic, as though it was his fault. “Don’t worry. This is all about the inconvenience. They’ll likely hold you for a few hours, and then let you go as if nothing happened.”
“They didn’t take my passport.”
“Right. Like I said, it’s all about the inconvenience.” He dragged his wheelie bag further into the room and tucked an e-reader deeper into a zip pocket. “I ordered us dinner.”
“You ordered us dinner. How many times have you been detained?”
He shrugged, noncommittal. “I hope you like Chinese food.”
“I’m starving. I’ll eat anything. Does your influence extend to getting the air-con adjusted to somewhere north of South Pole?”
He glanced around, grimaced. He had the white line of a scar under his chin. “You’re right, it is a bit chilly. Wait till the dentist’s dream comes back and I’ll see what I can do.”
Darcy smiled. He’d noticed the teeth. He’d ordered food. He seemed to know the drill, and he was someone to talk to. Detention was looking up. If he could get the air fixed, the evening might not be a complete loss. She watched as he sat at the table. He didn’t appear to be the least bothered by all this.
“Where are you from?”
“Small town in Queensland. Tara. Population of about eight hundred on pension cheque day. You?” He had a slow drawl, a country town cadence when he spoke in English. His Chinese was rapid fire.
“Sydney. Small suburb, Dover Heights. The daggy cousin sandwiched between funky Bondi and toffee-nosed Rose Bay.”
She got a full mouthed smile. It transformed him from pleasant looking to ruggedly attractive. “I would never call you daggy.”
“Thank you. I’ve tried to rise above. You’re a long way from Tara.”
“And I regularly thank whatever deity made that possible.”
“What kind of business do you have?”
He flicked a hand dismissively. “Export.”
“Were you speaking Mandarin? Where did you learn?”
“That was Shanghainese. I learned it here.”
“Impressive for a boy from Tara.”
She thought he might smile again, but he played it straight. “It was essential.”
“So why have they detained us?”
He leant forward, put his forehead on the table; his voice was muffled, “Because they can.” It made her chuckle. The man from Tara could be funny.
“I thought things had loosened up towards foreigners.”
“They have. I’ve lived here for ten years now. It’s vastly more accommodating. The city is almost unrecognisable from when I arrived; entirely modernised. Still, sometimes things get a little confusing.”
“I’m lucky they got you too. I was ready to break-out, make a run for it. You make it sound like a speed bump. I was gearing up for an international incident my editor could make a headline out of.” Darcy opened her arms to simulate something big. “‘Sydney Journalist Detained by Chinese Government. Subhead—Freezes to Death’.”
“Sorry to disappoint your editor.”
“Disappointment is currently his middle name. He wanted to be here instead of me.”
“Why are you here?”
“To interview Will Parker. Do you know him?”
“Bit of a recluse I hear.”
“I guess he doesn’t show up at expat barbies. How long do you think they’ll keep us? We can make an international incident from not very much you know.”
“To think I trusted the Australian media.”
Darcy gave him an arched eyebrow and a shrugged shoulder and he laughed, the sound coming from low in his broad chest; a warm rumble, before he answered her question. “They’ll keep us long enough to be annoying. Worst case midnight.”
That was five hours away. Five hours in a small cold room with nothing to do except pass the time with the attractive man from Tara.
3. Five Hours
“No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading, or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance.” — Confucius
She was a knockout.
Was that still the word for it? Pete would say she was a babe. She was wasted on print journalism. Should’ve been on the TV news, fronting her own current affairs program. And that was just her face. He couldn’t see the rest of her. She was on the couch huddled into a blue scarf thing. She had huge round doll eyes and golden hair, tied loose at the back of her neck. Smooth, rosy skin, cheekbones sharp enough to shave on, no makeup, simple gold studs in her ears. No artifice. Classy.
She was obviously anxious, appropriately so, but she wasn’t panicked. He could imagine her in the hallway shouting until someone came and sorted things out. He could see her flexing her intellect in a busy newsroom. She’d have determination and focus. She’d have quick elbows and a tough hide, despite the dewy skin.
She was freezing. He’d have to do something about the air-con. Meanwhile she could have his jacket. He dug it out of his carry-on. “Put this on.”
“Oh, no thank you, it’s okay. I’d have packed thermals if I’d have known it’d be like this in the middle of summer.”
“You won’t need thermals when you get outside.”
“Good to know.”
“Please, take my jacket. You’re shivering.”
“That’s very gallant of you, but I’m fine.”
“I’m not cold.”
She gave him that big-eyed look, one eyebrow raised. This time it said either ‘you’re kidding me’ or ‘you’re an idiot’.
“I’m not cold. Look if I get cold, I’ll, er, I’ll flap my arms, do push-ups.”
That eyebrow stayed raised. His left thumb itched to trace over it, to understand what it meant. He wasn’t supposed to feel like that. He studied her face; those pale green eyes were twin danger signs. Okay, that look definitely said ‘you’re an idiot’. Might as well conform to expectations.
He dropped to the floor and slammed through quick push-ups, counting them out loud. At five, he almost abandoned ship, but she started laughing. Not at him, hard or brittle, but with him, soft and generous.
“Okay, you win. I’ll take your jacket.”
He did two more for the sheer show of it, then tossed her his jacket, and busied himself zipping his carry-on. What the fuck was that about? He wasn’t just warm now, he was burning up. One pretty face had reduced him to a teenage macho blockhead in about fifteen minutes, what were the next five hours going to be like?
Five hours with nothing to do except listen to her pepper him with questions and appraise him
with those ethereal eyes. Last time he’d spent five obligation free hours with a beautiful woman was...? Yeah, that’s about right. Not in living memory. He’d need to keep his inner dickhead under control to make it manageable.
While he fiddled with his carry-on, she’d worn his jacket over her shoulders. But now she was skipping respectful of other people’s property, and launching straight into practical. She was on her feet shoving her arms into the sleeves. She was curvy in all the right places, in blue jeans and a soft, pale blue, short-sleeved t-shirt. Not one of those women afraid to eat. Not that it mattered. What she looked like was irrelevant. But he’d always been a sucker for a naturally pretty face, and a good laugh. Not that it mattered, but that body didn’t disappoint. Now she had the scarf wound around her neck and the jacket zipped, the cuffs turned back. It hung down to her mid thigh—looked ridiculous. Made him feel like laughing, but not at her.
She clocked him watching her. “Thank you. Maybe we can take it in turns,” she said.
“What, you can do push-ups?”
She laughed, notes of music. “I’m more of a yoga girl, but sure, if I have to, I’ll have a go.”
“Yoga. Been practising long?”
“New to it. It’s good for my brain.”
“I guess you work in a stressful environment.”
“Yes. It can be stressful, deadline driven, but I love it. Is stress a big deal for an exporter?”
“It can be.”
“How do you cope?”
Pete would say, not well. That he was an uptight, way too buttoned down, blowhard with an increasingly limited comfort zone, way too much filthy water on his chest, and a short fuse. Fuck Pete. Pete’d think he’d popped a brain cell if he’d seen the push-ups.
Bo would have a quote. It’d be one of those ones he was never sure was real or made up to suit the moment.
The door opened, saving him from further introspection. Dinner. Smelled good. Dentist boy brought it in on a trolley: soup, rice, a chicken dish, vegetables, tea. No banquet but it would do.
He asked about the air-con while she set out plates and poured tea into cups. No deal. It was controlled somewhere else, and meant for a large space. This room was a wasteland where sensible temperature control came to die. Crap. He’d have packed thermals too.
When he sat she said, “Truth or dare?”
“It’s tongzi—young chicken. Safe to eat. Though the English translation is, ‘this chicken has no sexual experience’.”
She laughed. “No, I meant we have hours to fill. Are you up for some truth or dare?”
“Oh hell.” She wasn’t boring, you had to give her that. She was bright and amusing. It’d been a long time since he’d had dinner with a beautiful woman who wanted to play games that didn’t involve money and his eventual loss of it.
“Well, is there anything you’d rather talk about?” she said.
“Life—the meaning of.”
“I think I know the answer.”
“What?”
“Heat.”
It’d been a long time since he’d been with a woman who met his eyes and didn’t want anything. “Very cute. Let’s skip the dare part. I’m a wimp at heart. I’ll start. Truth—what did you want to be when you grew up?”
“I wanted to be a journalist like my Dad.” She served them both rice. “I still want to be like my Dad. He made me do it the hard way. No favours, no leg-up. He actually suggested I use a different surname.”
“Hardcore.” And impressive. She wasn’t giving him wistful or put upon, she was proud of doing it tough.
“I’m a better journalist than I might’ve been if I’d taken shortcuts. I’m still my father’s daughter though. He casts a long shadow.”
“And if you were your father’s son?”
“I’d be my brother, Andy.” She paused, chopsticks raised. “He’s a journo too, foreign correspondent. Award winner. What about you?”
“I always wanted to be an exporter.”
“You. Did. Not!”
He had to laugh. Not that he’d expected her to take that answer seriously. “I can’t remember.”
She was all cheekbones and spikes of sunshine. “Yes you can, you’re embarrassed. What does it matter if you tell me?”
“You’re a journalist.”
“Not in this room. I’m a fellow detainee.”
Good, that was established. “Okay, I’m—what do you call it—‘off the record’.”
She leant forward, dropped her voice lower. “Tell you a secret. There really isn’t any off the record, there’s only what’s negotiated. But for you, my fellow detainee,” she was laughing at him, “whatever you tell me in here is forever off the record.”
She stuck out a hand, and they shook across the virgin chicken and green peppers. “I’m honoured.” He was relieved. “I wanted to be rich.”
“What’s embarrassing about that?”
“It’s mercenary.”
“It’s practical. Did you make it?”
He reached for the teapot. “Would you like more tea?”
She held her cup out. “I take it that’s a no?”
He poured, watching the cup, knowing she was studying him with those big doll eyes. When he lifted the spout and met her gaze she was grinning.
“It’s not a ‘no’ is it? Good for you.” She’d sussed him right out, even when he’d been conscious of trying not to look smug. “My turn. Truth. Is there anything unusual about you?”
“I speak Shanghainese.”
“Apart from that. And not the small town boy makes good story either. Something I don’t know.”
“Bossy.”
He must’ve pulled a face because she leant back from the table, “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you. We don’t have to do this.”
They sure didn’t. But it would be interesting to see what it would take to shock her. “I didn’t learn to read until after I learned to drive a car.”
She looked bemused. She’d been watching him closely, she’d seen the Kindle.
“Visual dyslexia and teachers who didn’t know what to do about it, when I bothered to show up at school. I caught up, but not till my late teens.”
“Where were your parents?”
“I was a foster kid. Moved around so much no one picked it up, and I was good at hiding it.”
“That’s incredible. You have come a long way from Tara.” She said that like a caress, and damn if it didn’t make him feel relaxed, even though he was starting to get cold. “My turn. Truth. Why do you want to interview Parker?”
“Hah. Too easy. You wasted a good question. It’s a career-making interview. You know that long parental shadow? If I can get the definitive interview, I get to step out from under it. If I can get Parker to spill secrets, particularly about why he’s started buying up shares in Avalon mining, it’ll be a genuine breaking story. Parker doesn’t do media interviews. But all of a sudden he’s available. His people think we’re tame, that we’ll fall over our own feet to write a puff piece. That’s not my intention.”
“You’re right. I wasted a question. Who cares about bloody Will Parker?”
“I do. There has to be a reason he’s so deliberate about avoiding the spotlight and I wonder if it’s the same reason he appears to have built his empire out of nothing.”
“Maybe he has a terrible physical affliction—he’s a hunchback or a vampire.”
She laughed. “If he’s a hunchback, I promise I won’t be mean to him. But if he’s got fangs, I’m going to do whatever I can to stick a stake in his intentions to soft soap the Australian public.”
“I’m glad I’m just a boy from Tara and you’re just my fellow detainee.” Though she was so inspired and engaging, he was beginning to want to define detainee a different way.
“My go. Truth. Any scars?” she said. She touched her chin. She wanted the story.
Let’s see if this got her. “Hell yeah. You sure you want to know? We could be here all night.”
“I thought that was the detention plan.”
“Funny. You ready for this?”
“Only if it’s show and tell.”
“You asked for it.” It had to be said. He gestured to the back of his neck, but kept his eyes on hers. “There’s a scar here from where they removed the hunch.”
He’d hardly got the words out before she shoved the table so it butted against his gut, plates skidding, chopsticks scattering. She was choking on her laugher. “I get one dare for that. You are so going down.”
“No, no dares. Truth.” He pushed his sleeve up, displaying a burn scar. “Petrol fire.” He ran a finger under his chin, “Fight. Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tapped his nose, “Got this broken to go with it.” He pulled the neck of his shirt to the side, showing his pec and the faded line of stitches. “Knife.”
Her mouth dropped open. She had a freshly poured cup of tea in her hand, held aloft, forgotten.
“There’s more.” She shook her head, frowning. She’d heard enough. “Hey, it was a tough neighbourhood. What about you?”
“Nothing to speak of compared to you. Fifteen stitches from a badly split knee. I fell out of a tree.”
“Show and tell.”
She smiled, looked down at the waistband of her jeans. Her momentary loss of composure over. “Nice try. No way.”
“My question then. Most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”
“Death knocks.”
“That sounds bad, what is it?”
“When you knock on someone’s door and tell them their family member is dead so you can get their reaction, get the scoop; make the headline.”
“Shit.”
“It’s unbearable. They hate you. Sometimes they’re in such a daze, you’re inside on the family sofa drinking their tea before they even realise you’re a vulture. I’ll squeegee windscreens at traffic lights before I do that again. And you?”
He should’ve thought more about that question before he spat it out. “Hard to pick one. So many special times to choose from. A standout is putting my brother in hospital.” Those doll eyes gave nothing away, made him want to explain. “When you can’t read, the fist really is mightier than...well you get what I mean.”
Detained Page 2