He put his hand out to shake. “I’m Bo.”
She clasped his hand, feeling something like hope wriggling in her fingertips.
“Why are you here?” he demanded, no longer unreadable—pissed off.
“Because I did wrong by Will. I want to help.”
“You caused his pain. How can you help?”
It was the question she’d been asking herself since she boarded the plane and landed in Pudong. Who was she to think she could face down the Chinese legal system? She didn’t speak the language. She was being sued by Parker Corp. She didn’t even have a job, or enough money to keep her life together for more than a few months. She’d come halfway around the world fuelled on guilt and fairytale.
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can try.”
Bo took off his sunglasses. He had a purple bruise around one eye and a nasty scab on his cheek. “I try too. Come inside. We talk to Pete.”
Inside. Bo could get her inside. In front of Peter. It was too good to be true. She and Bo were already moving when Robert arrived. She did a hasty introduction, and Robert shot her a look that said impressive and holy shit in one quick eyebrow bounce.
Bo swept through the cool, designer interior of Parker’s executive reception, headed straight to Peter’s office.
“Bo. Who? Ah. You can’t go in there,” said the receptionist.
Bo ignored her and that was a cue for Darcy. She and Robert sat on his heels as he went down the corridor. Peter’s door was open, Bo marched through it.
“Bo, how are you feeling?” said Peter, but his weary smile fell away when he saw Darcy. “What? No. Bo, they can’t be here.”
Bo planted himself in front of Peter’s desk. “She can help. We will go to Feng’s village. We will find out the truth. Will did not kill Feng.”
Peter sighed. “I’ve already done that. It’s not going to help.”
“You sent the wrong people. You don’t ask the right questions.”
“And you think this bitch and that scumbag photographer who started this whole thing can do better?” Peter was glaring at them. “Bo, they’re the reason he was hunted down in the first place. The reason you were beaten and left for dead.”
Peter stood. “I know you want to help. But you’ve already done enough. You need to rest.” He came around his desk and pointed at Darcy. “Leave now, and if I find you anywhere near Parker premises again I’ll have the paper pull you out and up the damages bill.”
“I don’t work for them anymore. You’ve already seen to that. And there isn’t anything more you can threaten me with.” At least that was true. Peter Parker might have power to hurt her but it wasn’t infinite.
“Interesting.” Peter’s smile was the flavour of vindication. “Then you’re even more deluded than I could’ve imagined. What could you possibly do to help, and why would I even think about letting you?”
“Because Will means something to me.”
Peter reached for his desk phone, held the handset, about to call security, she guessed.
“Yes, your big career break, your walk on the wild-side, your million dollar chequebook journalism kiss and tell. You’ve done enough damage. I cannot understand what Will saw in you. Leave now, before I have you escorted all the way back to the airport.”
Darcy looked at Bo. He was facing away from Peter. He’d put his sunglasses on. Unreadable. But Peter was perfectly clear. This was the end of the line.
“Will would not want her hurt,” said Bo.
“Will is not in control here anymore,” snapped Peter.
24. Steamed
“When we see men of contrary character we should turn inward and examine ourselves.” — Confucius
Will was one of ninety-two foreigners at Quingpu Prison. But since the others were being held for minor offences on short sentences, like theft or fraud, they were kept separate from the main prison population.
Will was a dangerous murderer so despite his white-devil blue eyes and his ability to buy himself out of almost anything—or maybe because of those two things—he was placed in the general population. The Australian consulate tried reasoning and shouting but in the light of the charges he was facing there was very little they could do, unless he copped another beating, and then they could act. And that wasn’t exactly a remote possibility.
After that first night in a cell on his own he was moved. He now had four cellmates. All of them awaiting sentencing like he was. Two of them were gang members, judging by their tattoos—the bigger of the two had lost an eye and his lid was sewn crudely shut, the other hardly had any teeth. Cellmate number three had lost all but the thumb off his left hand and number four had puckered, contorted scars on his face and body which made Will’s look like they weren’t trying hard enough.
The gang members spoke a Han dialect and patchy Cantonese, Lefty spoke some of their dialect and Scarface didn’t talk. Will didn’t think they’d be exchanging life stories or plotting escape together, huddled happily around a purloined set of Chinese Checkers, any time soon.
On his first day in the group cell the guards offered him a steam bun for breakfast in addition to a root vegetable porridge they all got. He almost had it in his mouth before he realised the trap. Five men, one steam bun. He broke it into four pieces and offered his new besties the treat. He could live without bun, but he wasn’t keen on coping another beating quite so soon.
He didn’t sleep that first night, partly because they kept the lights on—it was never night time at Quingpu—but also from fear of being jumped when he was least able to protect himself. It made him a zombie the next day which was dangerous in itself and freaked Pete out. Pete who thought he’d given up, and who was tearing himself inside out trying to find a way out of this. Trying to avoid what might be the simple answer. Occam’s razor. That Will was guilty.
The second night he had no choice but to sleep though fitfully. He kept waking with a start as if it was possible to forget where he was. And every time he woke, Scarface was watching him.
So a new routine was born. Every morning, Will would break a steamed bun into four and share it around. Outside their cell he would exercise gently, trying to repair, and keep to himself, or spend time with Pete, who came as often as they’d let him. At first every day, and then less and less often.
Every evening he’d lay in his place on the sleeping platform, and let his mind take him somewhere more pleasant. Invariably the Palace Suite at the Pen, often by detour of another cell-like room in the bowls of Pudong airport where he’d first entrapped an ink-stained princess in his web of deceit.
On the evenings where icy cold rooms, bold dares and the surprise of gorgeous satin skin featured, he was restless, tossing and turning as he reviewed the moment he’d become the engineer of his own decline. There were a dozen things he could’ve done differently to change the course of that evening, the course of his life since then.
He could’ve omitted nothing, confessed more or walked away, though he knew no matter how sensible that last path was, he’d never have taken it. Not even if he’d guessed he might end up in the Shanghai Prison Administration Bureau’s model restitution facility for law-breakers.
At the end of the first week, Lefty returned his portion of steamed bun to Will. An offering, a trap; was hard to tell. Three and a half sets of eyes watched him. He said thank you, popped it in his mouth and swallowed it. He got smiles all round. They were bonding over steamed buns. That was the day it was announced publicly he’d been jailed for murder so being amused by a steam bun exchange seemed a frivolous matter. Still, he’d told Pete. He meant it to reassure him he was getting on all right, but it had the opposite effect. It convinced Pete he’d given up.
Next morning Will offered the whole steamed bun to Lefty. There was a quick exchange of looks all around, an understanding was had, and Lefty ate the whole bun, rolling his eyes at the simple pleasure. By week’s end they’d each had a whole steam bun of their own and Scarface no longer watched Will try to slee
p.
This was his life now. Using his privilege as a foreigner to share steam buns with his cellmates, keeping his head down, exercising to rebuild his strength, trying to help Pete come to terms with the fact he’d have to run Parker from now, and spending his nights with Darcy. Until the day the steam bun didn’t arrive and the interrogations started.
That was the day Scarface spoke in broken English. He’d known what was about to happen when the bun didn’t come. He grunted at Will, two words, “Tell nothing.” It was good advice, the same as Pete’s, as it turned out.
Now each day they’d take Will from his cell to an even more brightly lit room where the furniture was bloodstained—deliberately, theatrically; probably both. There wasn’t much preamble. They told him he was going to die for killing Feng, and he should confess so he’d have a clear conscience. They told him this over and over again in multiple languages. They varied the details but the end result was always the same. He’d forfeit his life because he was a foreign capitalist pig, a thieving, murdering scum who didn’t deserve to live. It was kind of like making up words to Green Day songs, except nowhere near as much fun.
The first interrogation made him feel oddly buoyant, because the abuse was only verbal. Verbal abuse he could block out. It was physical abuse he was terrified of. While he’d had medical attention, it’d been basic. He doubted he’d ever be able to breathe through his nose again, and he was glad there were no mirrors around. Pete’s expression had been enough to judge by. His ribs pained constantly, and there was something wrong with his shoulder. If he got beaten again he might end up with severe injuries that never healed.
Being physically weak in a place like this was its own death sentence, and no matter how many superficial friends he made with steamed buns, he was and always would be on his own.
But as the interrogations wore on, they became harder to handle. Will recognised them for the brainwashing technique they were, but it didn’t make it easier to stay mute through each ninety minute harangue. And now he barely saw Pete. He would come to the prison and be turned away by this problem or that, by one lie after another. They were torturing Pete too.
There was one unexpected bright spot. Movie night. Movie night was a monthly privilege for foreign prisoners. Chinese prisoners got to watch four movies a year. Will was told he could watch a movie of his choice from a narrow catalogue of material approved by the prison authorities. It would cost him five yuan, the equivalent of seventy Australian cents. The movie would screen in a partitioned part of the main dining hall in the presence of the other prisoners on that dinner shift, but only Will would be entitled to watch it.
He considered declining. It was simply asking for trouble to go through such a demonstration of his privilege in front of the prison population, which is why of course it was offered. Until he realised movie night was an opportunity to make friends and influence people.
Instead of choosing a movie from the catalogue for foreigners, he chose one from the local catalogue. Bruce Lee’s classic, Enter the Dragon. Then, through a multilingual round robin, he told his cellmates. All they had to do was see that the partitions didn’t stay up. And that’s how it happened; courtesy of Will Parker, eleven hundred prisoners in the dining hall were treated to a 1970s view of crime lords, opium rings, corruption, and Kung Fu.
Will watched the opening credits roll, saw the consternation on the faces of the guards and heard the cheer go up. He waited long enough to see he hadn’t inadvertently caused a riot and went to his cell. It was the first chance he’d had to be alone since the night he was brought in. He didn’t think opportunities to be alone were going to come along often.
He lay on the sleeping platform and thought about Feng Kee. He’d known Feng was a gangster. He’d known he was a thief and a cheat, but it was only by working amongst the gangsters, cheats and thieves, officially sanctioned and otherwise petty, that a twenty-four year old from Australia with patchy schooling, an untried mechanical engineering certificate and more ambition than sense, could get a start.
He had the tail end of Norman Vessy’s inheritance, the bit they hadn’t used to get Pete through boarding school, uni and on to London, and he had a plan. He needed big balls and luck.
He had the patent for the production of farm machinery parts he’d won in a poker game off a broken down engineer in a pub in Brisbane. He needed steel, factory capacity and introductions. He needed markets, shipping, sales and forecasting.
He lived in a one room hovel to preserve his cash. He hired Bo, who was a taxi driver at the time, to teach him Shanghainese, and discovered he had an ear for language. He read everything about business he could get his hands on. Pete was constantly sending him parcels of books and complaining about the cost of it.
He talked a big game and he chased introductions. He fudged about his experience and hustled for connections. He slept with the daughter of a steel mill manager, and got a fancy office, and a decent suit.
He got his first parts order made and shipped back to Australia. He discovered Confucius. He got his second order made and shipped. He broke up with the girl, but his production contract with her father survived her heartbreak. He picked up new orders based on long stretches of the truth and short memories. He made money, but it was never quite enough. He got more orders. He hired an agent and opened markets. He modified the patent. He worked twenty hour days, and got used to not sleeping much. He told Pete to learn Mandarin and study import export laws, and not to get too attached to England.
And then he had trouble with cash flow and paying the rent. Such a small problem in comparison to the world he was building. So he did a deal with his gangster landlord, so his newly constructed house of enterprise wouldn’t fold down around him like a pack of cards, just when it was all starting to hang together.
And he kept his word on the deal and paid up what was agreed. But he baulked at paying more, and he’d underestimated the prize he’d become and left himself wide open.
Will had never taken Feng’s threats seriously. He didn’t take them seriously that night outside his upgraded hovel with attached bathroom either. He’d watched the knife, heard the kill word and seen red. He didn’t have to think about it. He only had one standard response for physical threats. He’d learned it nineteen years ago, under the heel of Norman Vessy’s boot, under the cut of his belt buckle and the burn of a fence post across his ribs. Neutralise them.
He’d killed Feng Kee with his punches just as sure as he’d watched Norman Vessy die. Both men were weasels, the only difference was Norman deserved his end. Kee just picked on the wrong guy, on the wrong dark night.
By the time his cellmates got back, full of smiles, broken words and pantomimed bits of movie action, he knew what he needed to do.
He could save Parker Corp, save Pete, if he took back control. That meant the next time he was hauled in for interrogation he’d confess. Not that it would be legally binding but it would speed things up. It would force Pete to face the facts, he was a murderer and after years of freedom he was finally where he was supposed to be.
25. Road Trip
“He who knows all the answers has not been asked all the questions.” — Confucius
Bo pulled up in a car that’d seen better days. Much better. It was missing an entire front fender, one rear window wouldn’t close, and the air-conditioning no longer worked. Apparently it was mechanically sound. Darcy had no idea and no option but to take Bo’s word for it. He refused to take Will’s Audi, or any of the other cars in the Parker garage.
After three days planning this, Robert freaked out and very nearly reneged on coming. He kept muttering, “Death trap, how is this car even on the road? Death trap,” until Bo explained the only way they’d get people in Feng’s village to talk to them was if they didn’t blow into town looking like capitalist pigs.
“But I am a capitalist pig,” Robert said, “and she,” he pointed at Darcy, “is a dead giveaway we aren’t ordinary tourists. So what’s the plan, Stan?�
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“We go there. We make a small noise, not a big one. We listen more than we talk and we find out what we need to know to help Will.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Robert said with mock gravity and rolling eyes, but he got in the car.
To get to Tengtou village they had to drive for two days in this hot, uncomfortable car, but Bo was right, it could do good speed on the open highways out of Shanghai.
They stayed overnight at a modest hotel, ate at roadside stalls and made good time. Still, Darcy felt exhausted by the journey, if not by the task ahead. She was grateful to Bo and Robert; doing this alone wasn’t viable. Not the travel, or the part where she was supposed to look trustworthy, and least of all the part where she understood what was going on.
And what was going on was a fight for Will’s freedom. Perhaps even his life, one his Spiderman brother didn’t seem to understand well enough to accept their help.
The morning they hit the road, Darcy’s first freelance story ran. She’d sold a profile on Will Parker to an international news agency service. It covered his small town Australia origins, his difficult childhood as a foster kid, his struggle to overcome dyslexia. She had paragraphs on his early years in China, his success engineering farm equipment, then car parts, and eventual expansion into steel production and construction. She talked about his cultural and sporting sponsorships, his private charity. She mentioned he was an eligible bachelor, proficient in several languages and enjoyed reading.
She wrote it from what Will had told her, and from Bo’s firsthand descriptions and information he dug up for her. She didn’t mention that he grew up in a shipping container, or his mistress, his temper, his scars or tattoos. She left out the scurrilous details of his first sexual encounter and his preference for Spiderman. There was certainly no detail on how he could tantalise with a touch, and make a person believe she’d found and lost something rare and wonderful in the space of a weekend.
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