Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  She should be able to do this. Write that lead paragraph. No more than twenty-five to fifty words. But she didn’t think obit writers wrote about people they’d fallen in love with and watched die to save them from the same fate.

  Aileen was talking to Peter. She relayed the news. The police taskforce had interviewed the man with the scars. He confirmed Will was trying to protect Darcy and was shot and beaten by the guards. Peter had seen what the security cameras that weren’t damaged recorded. He was no longer so certain Will was alive. He was staying at Quingpu until there was news.

  “Peter would like to talk to you,” said Aileen, holding out her phone.

  She took it. Peter’s voice was flat and hollow. “Darcy, are you all right?”

  He sounded like a different person. Like his own grandfather might sound, a hundred years old and weary of life. It made Darcy’s eyes burn. “I’m writing the story. It’s what he wanted.”

  “Of all the things for him to want. Everything he’d once run a mile from. Write it good, Darcy. His cellmates told me the guards beat him because he was brave and honourable. They’re the ones that helped get you out. I’m not sure I understand it, but Will organised for half the prison to see some old Kung Fu movie.”

  “Bruce Lee. The guards were calling him Bruce Lee.”

  “They were angry with him because the movie was supposed to be a foreigner’s privilege. Stupid bastard gave it away like steamed buns.”

  Now Darcy was confused, steamed buns? But so much about this day, this long night was confusing. “Where is he, Peter?”

  “It’s chaotic here. But I’ll find him. There are bodies...” Peter’s voice failed. Darcy waited for him to come back on the line. “Some can’t be identified yet. They’re badly beaten or burned. We have to wait. I’m bringing him home. Tell Aileen and Bo, I’m bringing him home.”

  Around 3am, Darcy crawled into the big bed. She lay on the edge near the window where she could watch the city wake. She heard Aileen tell Bo she was going home to change her clothes. She heard Bo talking to the butler.

  They must know something soon.

  When she closed her eyes the room swam, the bed floating, unanchored. She could feel hands grabbing her, pulling her from Will, dragging her away from the fighting. She could see him struggling to stand, blood dripping from his elbow. If she squeezed her eyes tight she could almost imagine his arms around her, feel him nuzzle the back of her neck, stroke her hair, thread his fingers through hers.

  There was no point lying in bed. She was not going to sleep and she didn’t want to take a sedative. She got up, showered and dressed. Bo’s open-mouthed snores from the lounge room were an odd comfort. She took her laptop back to the bedroom. She’d finish the story the only way she could.

  She pulled up the document and put her curser in front of the first line. She typed: Billionaire industrialist, Will Parker is presumed dead after being attacked by guards in Quingpu prison during an inmate led revolt.

  If confirmed, his death happened only hours after evidence to prove his innocence on the charge of murder was presented to the Ministry of Justice.

  She read back the whole story, logged on to the hotel Wi-Fi, opened email and filed the story with her wire service contact. It would make the early international news bulletins. When Bo woke she’d ask him to take her back to Quingpu.

  Looking at her inbox, she noticed a queue of email messages. The usual junk her filter never managed to catch, her subscriptions, an invitation to Penny’s baby shower. A note from her real estate agent telling her the rent was going up. And a ‘how are you’ from Col Furrows, which demonstrated how numb she was feeling. He deserved an acid reply; she trashed his note instead.

  There was an email from Andy and one from Brian. She opened Brian’s. A snipe about not telling him she was going to Shanghai. Another about her choice of wire service and how he’d have selected differently, followed by a strong suggestion she share her sources with Andy, and a reminder to be nice.

  She binned that one too.

  Andy’s message was less parentally judgemental but more annoying. What was she doing in Shanghai? Why didn’t she tell him she was coming? Where was she staying? They should meet up. His expense account could buy her dinner. What he didn’t say was ‘I’ll trade you one Peking Duck for your contacts inside Parker’. But that’s what he meant. Wait till he read the latest.

  At 6am, a crash in the lounge room alerted her to the fact Bo was awake. He’d knocked a vase of flowers over. He looked at her with bleary eyes. “I’ll go home, wash. Then we go to Quingpu.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  She had breakfast and waited. Her existence was this, waiting. When her phone rang, she was scared to answer it. Presumed dead was one step removed from dead for real, but it was Andy, not Peter.

  “Darce, sister, little buddy. Who’s your source? Ministry of Justice is denying both the riot and Parker’s death. Where are you getting this from? Whoever it is don’t trust them. Why don’t you let me help you out? I’ve got contacts inside Parker, maybe I can—”

  “Shut up, Andy. I don’t need your help.”

  “You do. You don’t have a job, you’re freelancing for a wire service, and you’re off playing amateur detective in some dusty village. This isn’t a game you know. This is a man’s life, you can’t go crusading—”

  “Shut up, Andy.”

  “And you can’t annoy the Ministry of Justice if you want information out of them. They’ll never talk to you now.”

  She pushed the balcony door open and stepped outside, the day’s heat already building. “I don’t need them.”

  “I guess I can share my source there.” Andy had the temerity to sound conflicted about that, about tossing her a bone. It was like childhood all over again. Andy saying, “I guess you can borrow my skateboard”, then making sure it was never out of his sight so she could claim a turn.

  “You’re not listening. I don’t need your help. I don’t need your source.”

  “Darce, I know you think this is the way to get a good job offer—trust me, it’s not.”

  She sighed and looked out at the outrageously pink globe of the Pearl Tower. “Yesterday I watched Will Parker get beaten by six armed prison guards.”

  “What do you mean watched, you’ve seen tape? Geez girl, how did you get it? That’s explosive stuff, I can get it to air.”

  “I didn’t see a recording. I was there.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was in Quingpu with Peter Parker.”

  Andy’s voice was raised and tight. “No fucking way.”

  “We met with Will to tell him what we found out in Tengtou. To tell him he was innocent.”

  “What? You…what?”

  “I was in that riot, Andy. I got sprayed with Will’s blood when they shot him.

  “They shot him?”

  “And they beat him. And I fainted and another prisoner carried me outside.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “So I don’t need your help, Andy.”

  “But you’ll share your sources. Get me in with Peter Parker.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean no? I’ll get you a story consultant’s fee, a producer’s fee if you like. A bloody job interview. Does Dad know this? Hell, why don’t I interview you, a firsthand source? Why didn’t you call me in on this?”

  Darcy leaned on the balcony railing and looked down at the street below. If she dropped the phone Andy would shut up. He hadn’t asked if she was okay. Her post- traumatic stress suffering brother, the only one in her life who knew what being in a war zone was like, hadn’t thought to ask if she was hurt, if she needed help.

  And she was the one who was supposed to play nice.

  If they’d ever been close she might’ve told him how she couldn’t shut her eyes without seeing flashbacks, how any sudden noise, like a silly vase getting knocked over, made her freeze with terror. She could’ve told him how Will used his body to protect
her and died trying, and how she didn’t understand how she could walk and talk with her heart stopped dead in her chest.

  She held her hand out over the railing.

  “Darce, Darce, are you there?”

  She could get a new phone, but not a new brother. He wasn’t well. She was better than that. “I’m here.”

  “I’m coming to you.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Jesus, where are you staying?”

  “I mean good luck with the story.”

  There was a silence at Andy’s end now while he worked out she wasn’t mucking around. Then he growled. “You’re going to be a silly little twit and keep me out?”

  “I’m going to do my job as a freelancer and get the story before you do.”

  “I never thought you’d be so cutthroat.”

  “No. You just never thought I was any good at this.”

  “So, if I see you in the press pack, we what, pretend we don’t know each other?”

  She sighed. “Something like that.” This was one story where she’d never have to stand with the press pack to hear about a lead but Andy hadn’t worked that out. And her strongest lead just entered the room, looking dishevelled and haggard but smiling.

  “I have to go.”

  “Un-fucking-believable.”

  She hung up on Andy. Yes it was.

  31. Lost

  “The superior man thinks always of virtue; the common man thinks of comfort.” — Confucius

  Bright, bright. Pain. Pain like fire. Burning. Oh God.

  Will opened his eyes, he was being held down, strapped down. A gag in his mouth he couldn’t spit out. The kidnappers had him. They wore white. He was so tired. His throat hurt. His head felt like a balloon. Then he remembered, they had her too. He tried to get up, he had to get up, go to her, but he was so tired, so tired.

  Bright. Pain. Burning.

  Who were these people? White uniforms. Chinese. He couldn’t understand what they were saying. They seemed pleased to see him. They were fussing about. They took the gag out. He nearly choked, vomited. Where was he? Who were these people? What did they want from him?

  Bright. Daylight. Where am I?

  Something in his hand. A voice told him to squeeze and it would make the pain go away, help him sleep. The pain was bad. That’s all he knew. He squeezed.

  Where am I? Oh God.

  It hurt to open his eyes. He was in a very clean room. In a bed. He needed to get up and look for her. He was late. She was lost. He tried to sit up but he was too weak. He looked at his hand, there was a syringe plunger taped to his palm. He pressed it.

  This was a hospital. Why? What happened?

  He could feel warmth on his face. Sunlight through a window. He opened his eyes. Tried to sit up. A horrible beeping. Like a siren. He’d go deaf. A woman came running. She made it quiet. She told him to rest. He didn’t know who she was. Not a nurse. Black suit, Chinese. She said his family were waiting. She lied. He didn’t have any family. They were all dead. He closed his eyes. There was no point being awake.

  Try to wake up.

  Someone was holding his hand. He didn’t know who she was. He tried to speak but the words in his head wouldn’t come to his tongue. He moved his hand and she opened her eyes and smiled. Blonde, pretty, eyes like a doll. Who was she? Why was she holding his hand? He had a terrible headache. She was crying. He wished she’d go away. He had to find someone important. Someone who was lost. He couldn’t stay here. He closed his eyes.

  Awake. What the fuck happened? Who the fuck am I?

  The man said he owed him a harp. He didn’t know who this man was. He closed his eyes. He remembered what a harp was. Made weird sounds. Silk and steel. He knew about grey silk dresses with crystals and pearls. He knew about steel too, but it was hard to remember.

  Earlier they’d poked and prodded him, asked him questions. Doctors, that’s what they were. This was a hospital. He’d been here for a while. They kept asking him for his name. He had no idea. But he knew what a harp was and he knew about silk and steel. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t stay awake.

  “Who?”

  The man said, “Jesus, God, Will,” then he started shouting, “He’s awake, he spoke,” and the nurse came. The man was smiling, rubbing his eyes. He looked familiar. “Do you know who I am?”

  He did know this man. Not Chinese, finally someone who wasn’t Chinese. He had a terrible headache, and it was too bright in this room. It was hard to make words come. “Why?”

  “You’re in the hospital, Will. Do you know who I am?”

  The man’s clothes were crushed. He had a fancy watch. What was his name?

  The woman in white said, “Don’t worry. It’s a good start.” This upset the man. He walked away from the bed. He was very tall. He was familiar.

  “Peter.”

  The man turned, he smiled. “God, Will. It’s good to have you back.”

  “Vessy.”

  The man leaned over the bed, he looked worried. “You always call me Pete and I’m not Vessy anymore. My name is Peter Parker. Do you know who I am to you?”

  “School.”

  “Yes, we went to school together. Can you remember anything else?”

  “Steel.”

  “Yes, we have a business together. We make things with steel. Do you know your name?”

  He shook his head. He was tired now. It was too hard to talk. He closed his eyes.

  He heard them, they were worried about him. The man, Peter, and a Chinese woman in a black suit. They seemed to care about him. He had bandages everywhere and he couldn’t roll over. He was so tired. He had a syringe taped to his hand. He pressed it.

  His name was Will Brown. He was from Tara and something bad happened there. He didn’t understand why he was in China, such a long way from Queensland, or why Peter Vessy was so concerned about him.

  They gave him a mirror but a stranger looked back. So many cuts and bruises. An old scar, healed white, under his chin. He ran his finger over it, trying to remember how it got there.

  They said he’d been attacked. He had a broken knee, four broken ribs, a broken collarbone, two broken fingers. He got shot in the shoulder and they broke his cheekbone, eye socket and nose. They damaged his brain and now he had trouble remembering. He had trouble talking as well. All he was good for was sleep.

  Apart from the pain and having no memory, he was worried about what he should be doing instead of lying here. He felt anxious all the time. Peter said his only job was to get well, to rest and recover and then he’d start to remember. But he knew he needed to be somewhere, find someone, protect them, stay with them. He just didn’t know who that was or why he felt a pain he couldn’t locate in his body when he had that feeling. It was like a part of him was missing altogether, got left behind, left off the catalogue of his injuries, or cut out in surgery. It worried him more than the fact he had no balance and no feeling in his right hand.

  He was in a new place now. A different hospital. Food still tasted bad, no matter what they fed him. He was allowed out of bed. But he couldn’t go far. He was so weak. He’d tried to read, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. They were just scribble. Today he’d gotten so angry he smashed a cup and plate. He felt angry all the time.

  They told him to try to talk, but the words wouldn’t come out in the right order, so he made no sense. They told him he could speak several languages but now he couldn’t find the words of one.

  Peter Vessy visited often. He’d changed a lot since school. He could look you in the face and he didn’t try to hide his height in a stoop. The man called Bo visited every day. He didn’t remember Bo. Bo said he was his driver, but he didn’t understand why he’d need a Chinese driver. He preferred it when Bo came. The man was quiet and didn’t expect anything from him. Peter was disappointed and frustrated all the time, though he tried not to show it.

  Every day he had physiotherapy. He could walk and swim in a warm pool. He did stretches and strengthening exer
cises. He could feel his body getting slowly stronger. They told him he had remarkable healing properties, that his fitness before the attack was an asset to his recovery.

  They couldn’t tell him anything about how long it would take to be able to talk, or remember or read.

  Now when he slept he had vivid dreams of a gorgeous woman, blonde hair, lush, curvy body, big frightened eyes. There was water, fear and black smoke, men with guns and blood everywhere. Over and over she screamed his name. She was terrified. He always woke in a sweat after that dream, more disoriented than ever.

  “Why come?” he asked Bo.

  “Because you are my friend.” Was this grey-haired man with the calm expression his friend? It seemed unlikely, but Bo came every day, and even when Will barely acknowledged him, he stayed, sat quietly and didn’t demand anything.

  “How?”

  “I drove a taxi. One day, a freezing cold day, you got in. You had no coat. I thought you were a stupid foreigner to be so badly dressed. I pretended I didn’t understand English.”

  “Friends?”

  Bo laughed. “You had a map and you pointed to where you wanted to go. A bad part of town for a foreign man. I pretended I didn’t understand. I wasn’t going to take you there. I thought you’d get out of the car, but you offered to pay me whatever fee I named. Then I knew you were crazy. If you were dumb enough to throw money away on a taxi instead of a coat you deserved to be cheated.”

  Will groaned. This was not great. He was learning that when he had a memory he was a stupid man.

  Bo smiled. “I named an outrageous price and I drove you to the address. But I was curious about why you wanted to be there so I asked you in English. You laughed and said you lived there. I was amazed. You were a foreigner living in a part of town that was ready to be demolished. I couldn’t understand why you’d want to do that. You said where you lived wasn’t important, because you were going to make a fortune and buy a mansion in the French Concession.”