Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  “It’s a fractured fairytale, Darcy. Stranger than fiction, and hard to believe.” Liarne changed her body position, effectively finishing the interview on a note of disbelief, on a reinforcement of the story’s hidden certainty. “We’ll go to a break, and when we come back, prescription drugs and alcohol. What happens when they mix and how they destroy innocent lives.”

  “Out,” called the floor manager.

  Liarne ripped her earpiece out. “That was a shit interview, Darcy. You could’ve given me something more than that fucking sanitised version of events. That was a PR pimp for Will Parker. You have no idea how badly you just messed up.”

  She had an inkling. She’d seen Alan’s face shift from delighted to dumbstruck. He was responsible for the segment and yep it sucked. No passionate declarations of love, no juicy details, no wait for the wedding sequel. After the first few minutes, channel-hoppers would’ve been annoyed enough exercise their fingers. Meanwhile she had a quick wardrobe change and a show to present.

  An hour and a half later, Darcy was ready to leave the studio. She’d gone from Channel Five’s hottest new celebrity to blackboard special disappointment of the day. Liarne sulked. Alan demanded. He wanted a Will Parker exclusive interview. She owed it to the network, the program, herself and Parker. Alan wasn’t entertaining a no. She had six weeks to deliver it. The ‘or else’ part was that she’d find herself in a breach of contract for not performing her duties to the best of her abilities, and the network would tangle her up in a damages suit for a lot more than they’d paid her to date.

  She wasn’t even sure they could legitimately do more than simply sack her. She had to talk to her lawyer. Her feet were sore, her head was ringing, and her phone was full of messages from journalists offering interviews the network had forbidden her to take. Not that they’d needed to do that. More attention was the last thing she wanted. What she needed was to be alone. What she got was a security escort to her car to avoid the media who’d set up camp to wait for her outside the studios.

  She almost walked past Bo because she had her head down, and thought he was another journalist. She almost walked past him when she realised he wasn’t. Will Parker had cost her enough for one day, maybe for a lifetime.

  39. Home

  “It is not the failure of others to appreciate your abilities that should trouble you, but rather your failure to appreciate theirs.” — Confucius

  In Will’s suite at the Sheraton, Ted Barstow poured two Scotches. Not Will’s beloved Lagavulin, but he was beyond caring. He needed a drink before he watched Darcy rightfully dismember him on the national nightly news.

  He didn’t know if she’d worked out he’d lied about not remembering her, or if she thought remembering her was the cause of his apparent meltdown. That paled into insignificance beside the fact he’d embarrassed her professionally in front of pretty much her entire industry. If she didn’t try to take him out by painting him all sorts of wrong on her show, he’d be oddly disappointed.

  God he wanted to talk to her.

  There was still a posse of reporters and cameras staking out the hotel. He was stuck, and sneaking out was out of the question anyway because he’d endured an hour of righteous indignation and incoherent yelling on the phone with Pete, and promised to stay put, and to leave Darcy alone. It seemed the fairest thing to do for both of them.

  Pete he could handle. Pete got over his outrage at being duped and outmanoeuvred because Will delivered Parker its continued freedom. Of course not the way he’d expected, but a win is a win no matter how you fall over the line.

  Ted Barstow agreed to enter into a joint venture with Parker instead of pushing the outright takeover. But he’d only done so after Will cracked up.

  When Ted stepped in, stopped the impromptu press conference, and dragged Will back inside the hotel, he’d only gotten as far as the lounge setting in front of the reception desk and had to sit.

  In his head there was red fire and hot blood, black smoke and gunmetal. He smelled sulphur. He’d put his hand up to his shoulder, feeling again the searing pain of the bullet tearing into his skin.

  Ted was there. “Will, son, are you okay there?”

  There was pain in his ribs and he couldn’t breathe. His ears were ringing.

  Ted said, “Someone get him water.”

  She was screaming and screaming, torn from his grip. He tried to protect himself, too many of them, they wanted to kill him like Norman did. He went down and couldn’t get up, too much blood.

  “Give him some air.”

  There was a hand on his back, he flinched, shrugged it off. He put his head down and sweat dripped off his chin onto the fancy floor. There was a glass in his hand, he gulped the water down.

  Ted asked if he wanted a doctor.

  He shook his head, “No,” looked up into Ted Barstow’s big flushed face. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine, son.”

  He’d sat back in the seat, still straining to breathe. Ted passed him a handkerchief and he wiped his face. “I’m fine now.”

  “What the fuck, Will? Are you sick?”

  “No, no. I just...there was a reason I shouldn’t have checked myself out of hospital. I was back in the jail, back in the riot. I’d blocked all that out. I knew it happened, but I stopped myself thinking about it. Figured it’d be better not to go there. But being ambushed like that, the questions, seeing Darcy, I wasn’t ready.”

  Ted’s hand on his shoulder. “We never are, son. You had me going there for a minute. Looked like you were going to pass out. That would’ve been a new one for that mob. They make us captains of industry squirm, but we don’t generally pass out.”

  “It would’ve added to my list of failures. It must be un-Australian for a business leader to faint.”

  Ted had laughed. “You’ve guts, son. Coming here, fighting for your business, after what you went through. I like that. My old man was a mean cuss, whopped me around some. Always said it was for my own good. Gave me nightmares for years.”

  That was when Will knew the tide in their discussions had turned. At the very moment he was showing almost every weakness he owned, his arch rival was seeing something in Will he respected. The ability to get knocked down, and to get up again and fight.

  They’d spent the afternoon scoping out the broad brushstrokes of a new deal, more palatable to Avalon shareholders and allowing Will to retain control of Parker, so when he finally returned Pete’s call, he had victory from the jaws of defeat news to soften the blow of his sleight of hand.

  Now he and Ted waited for Darcy’s program to start. He was grateful to the older man for sticking around; though Ted claimed he liked a good stoush and just wanted to see Will caught on the wire, he thought there was something more to it. There was at least thirty years between them but they spoke the same language, and when Ted should’ve used Will’s crack-up to crack down, he’d done the opposite. Who did that? It made Will even more wary of him.

  Ted handed him a glass. “Time to tell me how badly they hurt you, son.”

  They’d avoided getting personal, though Ted must’ve been itching for the details. Will held up both hands. “These I did myself. Problems with anger.” He waited to see what Ted’s reaction would be before continuing, but the older man merely nodded impassively. When he rollcalled his injuries, Ted’s eyes widened and he grunted his sympathy.

  “Tell me about her then,” he said, gesturing with his glass at the TV with the sound muted. “Big star now, off the back of that batch of stories she did on you.”

  Will sipped the Scotch. “I didn’t know that.” He should’ve found out, but he’d been too busy hiding.

  “She looked surprised to see you. I mean, more than the rest of them were.”

  “She came to see me in hospital. I told her I didn’t remember her.”

  Ted settled deeper in the chair and toed a shoe off. “Something definitely wrong with you son, if you don’t remember a woman like that.”

  “
She was with me in the riot.”

  Ted paused, one shoe off, one in the process of being offed. “A woman like that, in an all male prison, with the lunatics in charge. Bugger me.”

  “She might’ve been...” Will couldn’t finish.

  “I’m with you, son. You got hurt protecting her?”

  Will nodded. He fidgeted with the edge of the tape over his stitched hand.

  “Then you pretended not to know who she was to you.”

  “I’m toxic for her. And after what I did to her today I proved it.”

  Ted had a surprising cackle for a big man. He used it now. “Son, you’ve got bigger problems than keeping your company intact. You just declared your love for a woman who’s the face of a muck raking TV show in front of, in front of, well everyone.”

  That’s exactly what he’d done. Will got a piece of the tape lose and pulled, ripping it from his knuckles with a satisfying sting and a few spots of blood. “Any advice?”

  Ted cackled again, slapped the arm of the leather chair he was sitting on. “Run, lad, run.”

  When the broadcast started, and Darcy appeared on screen, Will realised he could look at her without his heart lodged somewhere under his tongue, without his senses going into lockdown and making him want to hit something again.

  She didn’t look real. And it wasn’t just because TV still made his head swim. She was so thin, and they’d done something to her hair to make it stiff, not a wisp out of place. She wore an expression somewhere between going to the dentist and ‘no, really I’m having a great time’. But her voice was clear and strong, and the way she managed the other woman’s attempts to try and rattle her was slick. He watched with detachment, as though this was happening to someone else and he was a disinterested party. It was supposed to be painful, a deserved retribution—it was oddly lacking in drama.

  “That woman did good by you, Will. She didn’t play their game.”

  Ted had it in one. Darcy had steered the interview out of ‘romance of the month club’ territory into ‘its all a big misunderstanding’ and started the rehabilitated of his reputation along the way. He’d been prepared for more of the Australia’s most unwanted treatment, he’d copped over the photos. He didn’t know what to think about how smooth she’d made something so rough. Now more than ever he owed it to her to stay the hell out of her life.

  Ted was putting his shoes on. “I’ll have those papers over to you by lunchtime tomorrow.”

  Will got to his feet on legs that protested. “This is where I hand over to Peter. He’s your guy on the detail.”

  “I’m just fine dealing with you, son.”

  Will ran a newly unencumbered hand through freshly trimmed hair. “This is where I have to admit another failing. I’m dyslexic, I can’t read. It’s a hangover from the trauma of being kicked in the head. I had a bout of it as a kid and got over it. I’m hoping I’ll get over it again, but from here, I’m just in the way.”

  Ted slung his coat over his shoulder. He stood in the entrance way to the suite and studied Will, making him feel like a kid trying not to look guilty in front of the headmaster. He never much worried about what people thought of him, but he respected Ted and felt unaccountably as though with that one admission he’d let him down.

  Anger issues, coping a beating, false accusations, reputation damage, trouble with women, they were the stuff men understood, but not being able to read, it was somehow more shameful in this moment than being jailed on a murder rap.

  “What do the docs say about that?”

  “It’s not physical, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to, but it’s all just random squiggles and shapes.”

  “Got a plan?”

  So far the plan had been to hide from it, and hope it resolved itself like his issue with language. “Not a good one.”

  Ted stuck out a hand. “Look after yourself, son. I’m looking forward to making lots of money with you, but you’re going to need to be on your best behaviour. You better see you’re up to it.”

  When Ted was gone and this bitch of a day was almost done, Will felt wrung out like a limp dishrag. He had to call Aileen and report in, but he didn’t have the energy to pick up his phone and relive the interview again. He should talk to Pete again too. He’d need to step in on the deal execution.

  He went to the window and looked out over the city. He’d made a bunch of bad decisions, starting with denying Darcy, and checking out of hospital early and topping it off with getting on the jet to Sydney, thinking he could sweet-talk Ted into a more efficient deal structure, without telling Pete.

  The only thing saving that decision from being the disaster it might’ve been was the fact Ted Barstow was a risk taker and had taken a shine to him. Will’s legendary luck might not have been beaten out of him, but it was time to quit leaning so heavily on it.

  And if the way he’d folded in half because a few journalists did their jobs by asking a bunch of questions was any indication of his mental state, it was a sign his first impression was right—he wasn’t ready for the world.

  Pete would agree. He’d probably aged Pete ten years in the last day, on top of all the stress he’d given him over the last year. That was a bitter regret.

  And Darcy. It was hard to think about Darcy. He’d looked out over the sea of faces, hearing his name echo off plate glass walls and parked cars and felt anxiety clump in his stomach. He’d been aware of the other men retreating back inside the hotel, but he’d been lead footed, unable to move. Then he’d seen her face, her gorgeous face, among the rabble; concern and fear for him in her eyes, and felt himself unravelling as image after image of what happened in Quingpu shuttered his sight, until he was back there smelling smoke and terror, trading punches for hope, pain for slim chances and oblivion for her freedom.

  He watched the city closing for the night, getting ready for bed, and knew he needed a new plan. One that didn’t involve fooling himself that because he had a better handle on his anger, he could bluff his way to wellness.

  When his phone rang he thought it would be Aileen or Bo.

  “Will, are you all right?”

  Not Aileen, not Bo, not Pete. The one voice he’d not expected. “Darcy, I...”

  “I asked if you were all right.”

  He closed his eyes and leant his forehead against the cool windowpane. No, he was desperately screwed up by his own arrogance, and he’d made her a victim again. “Yes, I’m okay.”

  “Did you remember who I was when you saw me today?”

  “I...”

  “Try not to lie to me more than is strictly necessary, Will.” Her voice was so clipped, a serrated edge.

  “I remembered you before today.”

  “When did you remember?”

  He straightened up, watched the lights in an office block turn out, imagined them as the lights in her eyes. “I never forgot you, Darcy.” He heard her sharp intake of breath as she registered that.

  “So when you insulted me at the hospital you knew who I was.”

  He’d walked into her punch, now it was time to walk into her blade. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the definition of unstable. You witnessed that, along with a good portion of your industry today. You need to be free of me.”

  “So you don’t love me?”

  He curled his fist, braced it against the window. “I love the idea of you and me, but that’s gone, I’m not the same. When I saw you today I forgot. I...” He’d wanted to push his way through to her and hold her till his heart stopped trying to carve a path out of his body and all his fears were reduced to ash. He pressed his fist into the glass. “I made your life a car crash, Darcy. I’ve developed a talent for it.”

  “Did you get memories of Quingpu back today?”

  “I’ve always known what happened. I just can’t talk about it. Seeing you, being asked about it like that, well, you saw me panic.”

  “Do I remind you of what happened?”

  Yes,
but so did the twinge in his ribs, the stiffness in his knee, the headaches, the way parts of the world wouldn’t hold still and wavered in his vision. He should let her go. He had let her go before, pushed her away. Why was it so hard to do again?

  “Yes.” The one word that would hurt most. She absorbed it without a sound. “I’m sorry.” Lame, meaningless words to fill the silence. Like the ones he’d put on the card when he’d sent her the grey dress.

  “Me too.” Her voice silk soft, all the sharpness gone.

  “Darcy, I—”

  “Goodbye, Will.”

  Disengagement. The thud of nothing in his ear. The resonance of reaping what he’d sown.

  He threw the phone on the bed with a force that made it bounce, changed out of his suit into jeans and a shirt and repacked the things he’d unpacked a few hours ago. When Bo called he arranged to meet him in the hotel driveway. He needed peace. He needed serenity. He had somewhere he wanted to be more than anywhere in the world.

  A much reduced media pack was still loitering. When Bo pulled up, he walked a straight line from the hotel door to the car, but they were ready for him.

  “Will, what about Darcy?”

  “Will, are you selling Parker?”

  “Will, do you love Darcy?”

  “Will, what did you think of Darcy’s interview?”

  He ignored them, threw his bag in the back seat.

  “Will, where are you going?”

  He opened the front passenger door, said the one word in his head, “Home.”

  40. Headline

  “They who know the truth are not equal to those who love it, and they who love it are not equal to those who delight in it.” — Confucius

  Darcy didn’t participate in the stories, but it didn’t stop them running. Long lenses caught her dashing from her car to buy milk and the story headlined as “Darcy Runs from Love”. A shot of her with Russ, Loud and Merrit, preparing for an interview on the steps of the Opera House ran alongside a shot of Will dressed casually with an overnight bag in his hand. Its headline was “Darcy Works while Will Plays”.