Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  But she’d been a surprising reward, and he’d taken every risk to be with her, and now he’d lost the main prize.

  He looked at Pete. “And Darcy?”

  “What do you care what happens to that bitch?”

  Avalon was gone. Darcy had played him brilliantly at his own game. What did he care about her now? Tomorrow was what mattered. Regrouping so he could put Avalon back in his sights. Retreating so he could attack again.

  He took a sip of the Lagavulin and savoured its smooth burn. “What’s the plan?”

  “I really think you should get out, go to Hong Kong or Singapore or even Europe, Will. How long is it since you’ve taken a holiday? You could take one now,” said Aileen.

  Will bit back the desire to shout at her. A holiday—a back seat, at the very moment he should be on the front foot. “Why?”

  “The story is too hot. They’re going to chase you until they get more pictures, a comment, anything to keep it alive while it sells newspapers. If you disappear for a while it will get old quicker.”

  “You want me to run?”

  “We want you out of the firing line, that’s all,” said Pete.

  “What if we give them a free shot instead?”

  Pete looked from him to Aileen and back again. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “A press conference, a statement, a photo call. I’ll go play basketball with a bunch of Peony orphans and let them see I’m not such a monster.”

  Pete laughed. “The very opposite of what you really want to do.”

  “I really don’t want to be in this fix. I’ll do anything to get out of it.”

  “Even let them all take your picture and write what they want.”

  “If that’ll work.”

  Pete looked at Aileen. She shook her head. “If I thought it would I’d say let’s do it, but they’re baying for your blood. You won’t get a fair hearing, and we’d keep the story pumped full of air.”

  “So, what? I’m supposed to slink off to a remote island and get a tan?”

  “Is that such a bad thing?” said Pete.

  Will stood, walked around Pete’s home office. “Why can’t I go to the Julu Road house? I can work from there.”

  “Will, we can’t be sure they don’t know where all your properties are. They have the apartment, they could just as easy have the mansion house, and the villa in Jinqiao. It’s only a matter of time till they figure out you’re here.”

  He leant against the glass wall, his back to the river, to the office where the media pack were probably still hanging out waiting to rub his nose in his ego.

  “What are you thinking?” said Pete.

  He was thinking of the expression on Darcy’s face just before he leaned into her punch. She’d truly hated him. He heard the sound of beads pinging off glass, and saw the heat in her eyes. But she’d wanted him too, even in his anger and frustration, even while he scared her.

  “I don’t want to go after Darcy personally. As an employee of the Herald, with the protection of the paper, fine. But if she quits, if they sack her, we call the dogs off her.”

  Pete grunted his assent. It wouldn’t have been the way he’d play it.

  “I’m not leaving China, but I’ll get out of the city.”

  “You can’t go to any of our sites,” said Aileen.

  “I’ll go bush with Bo. A week, ten days, but that’s it. Whatever’s happening then, I’m coming back to work.”

  Aileen looked relieved, and Pete was pacified. Will pulled his phone out and called Bo. They’d go visit Bo’s village, like he’d always wanted him to do. It was remote, difficult to get to, and the last place anyone with a camera or a recording device would look for him. It would give him time to think, clear his head properly of distractions and get his focus back on. Because when the dust settled there’d be a new plan, and there’d be no running.

  20. Captured

  “Never give a sword to a man who can't dance.” — Confucius

  Bo brought the four-wheel drive and a face full of little boy on a big adventure to the parking garage under Pete’s apartment at 4am. He’d packed it with camping gear, groceries and a bag full of Will’s knockabout clothing. Will spied a fishing rod and Bo’s harp, and in the face of the older man’s excitement, felt his anxiety start to settle like the silk over the steel of a harp string.

  He ditched Pete’s dressing gown for jeans with the knees ripped out of them, a t-shirt and hiking boots.

  Let the hacks stand in the sun all day waiting to see if he’d show. He’d be kilometres away, working the kinks out of his neck, the flex out of his business strategy, and the girl out of his senses.

  “Fifteen minutes at the temple and then out of here,” he said, as Bo slammed the tailgate shut.

  Bo looked momentarily unhappy about that. “I’ll keep the engine running.”

  Will grinned. “Deal.”

  The temple on Wen Miao Street was the closest thing Will had to a spiritual home. Yet strictly speaking it wasn’t even a temple because Confucius was a secular leader, not a god. But his philosophy of personal and government morality, correctness in relationships, justice and sincerity appealed to the pragmatist in Will. Since basing himself in Shanghai he’d started coming here to be still, to reflect and to think. Something about the quiet, the contained purposefulness of the people who visited, and the sheer oriental novelty of it helped him stay focused.

  He only wanted a quick visit before they kicked the city. To light a stick of incense, to watch the favours tied to the big rubber plant flutter in the pre-dawn light. He liked to think people who left their wishes, written on paper inked with Confucius’ image and tied in red ribbon to the tree, got what they needed in life. Good marks in an exam, a promotion at work, a financial windfall, a much wished for pregnancy.

  He’d been blessed with so much more than he needed, and on a day when that fact was clouded by trouble, he needed the reminder. He wasn’t religious, but Confucius was a cool dude, a scholar and a businessman, and Will could relate to his philosophy of order and peace, compassion and loving others. That, and he’d read Confucius copped a beating as a kid, so the bearded one felt like his people.

  He watched the favours flutter in the breeze. He breathed in the sweet incense, and kept an eye on his watch. Bo would do more than quote real and made up Confucianism’s at him if he was late.

  At 4.30am, exactly fifteen minutes after Bo dropped him outside the big red doors of the Da Cheng gate with their bronze dragon knockers, he made his way back to the street. But no Bo, no dragon sized car with its throaty purr. He looked about. This was odd, but maybe Bo had forgotten something he thought they needed. There was no one about and the light was still grey so it wasn’t a problem to wait. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled. Bo’s phone rang out.

  Will had known Bo for ten years. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d not picked up before the fourth ring. Even in the middle of the night. Even when it was least expected. A prickle of doubt made him clench his jaw. But the man would jump off the Lupu Bridge before he’d do anything to inconvenience Will.

  He shook his head. Bo was probably scouring the city for somewhere to get good coffee at his hour. He turned to go back into the temple and a man appeared on his right. He gave a polite nod and the man nodded back, but instead of keeping a respectful distance, the man started towards him.

  It’d taken Will a while to get used to the difference in the concept of personal space in Asia. Back home arms-length away was crowding. In Shanghai, someone would try to build an apartment block in that space. Still, it was annoying to find the only other person on the street wanted to walk right beside him.

  At the gate he hesitated, dropped back to let the other man go ahead. The man hesitated too. He had busy eyes, darting around. He had one hand shoved inside a coat it was too warm to be wearing.

  Will sensed the danger when it was almost too late to do anything about it. This bloke was a pickpocket
or a standover man, and Will was his designated victim. Ironic. He looked like a bum this morning. He hadn’t shaved. He wasn’t carrying a wallet or wearing jewellery. Not even a Shanghai cutthroat would be interested in his old Tag.

  He put both hands up to show he wasn’t a threat. To show he was onto the game. He said, “What do you want? I don’t have any money,” in Shanghainese, repeating it in Cantonese.

  He was aware of a movement behind him. Another man, more than one? This was a beat down. Where the fuck was Bo?

  The first man revealed the shortened wooden Kung Fu practice sword he was carrying. The Chinese urban equivalent of a sawn-off shotgun. At least it wasn’t a blade. There were definitely three men. Was this random, or did they know who he was? All he needed was a TV news crew to pull up and yesterday’s scandal would be the warm-up to today’s disaster.

  He had a decision to make. Buying his way out of trouble wasn’t possible unless Bo showed up in the next ten seconds. Talking himself out of trouble was even less likely when it was three to one. He hadn’t been in a physical fight for years. The smart thing to do would be to take the beating and hope they got bored quickly or Bo arrived to scare them off. But if they’d gotten to Bo first, he could end up being thoroughly hurt here. There were two other options. Make a run for it, and hope he was faster, or take the fight to them.

  He was fit and they might not expect him to attack first. The odds weren’t great but his adrenaline was pumping, and he’d never been a fan of running from trouble. Thug number one had the sword, he had no idea what weapons thugs two and three had, but it was time to find out.

  He turned his lifted hands into closed fists in front of his face and spun about. He got in several quick punches but copped a solid kick to the ribs. One man was down, holding his jaw, blood streaming from his nose. That evened things up considerably. But still no Bo.

  Will shifted till he had the temple doors at his back, no more surprises. Whatever they were going to throw, he’d see it coming. He’d managed to catch them out by attacking first but he’d spent the advantage, now it was a matter of trying to defend himself from serious injury.

  When he saw the van pull up, saw two more men get out, he had time to think Hong Kong might not have been such a bad idea before they had him on his knees. He felt the rib flex, heard the crack, lost his breath, no pain yet, but it would come; one eye was bloodied shut but he still saw the black hood before they bagged his head.

  He had another decision to make. They hadn’t beaten him badly enough to lose consciousness, but there was nothing stopping them, and they’d been smart enough not to talk. He had no idea where they were going to take him, or what they wanted, but remaining conscious was the only asset he had left. He went limp, sagging forward till his forehead rested on the concrete, and he stayed that way, concentrating on keeping his breathing slow and shallow until they lifted him at knees and underarms and threw him on the floor in the back of the van.

  They bound his wrists and ankles. They drove; his captors talking too softly to make out more than a word or two over the drone of the engine, but they were speaking a dialect he didn’t know. The pain came, and with it the sense of suffocation. He suspected his nose was broken again. He could only breathe through his mouth. He lay on his side and calculated the odds of surviving this. He was conscious. He wasn’t hurt too much. This was a highly organised attack, not a random mugging. They had to know who he was, and he’d be worth more alive than dead.

  Sometime later the van stopped moving. He went limp again and let them carry him. He heard traffic. He smelled the rot of garbage. He felt sunshine briefly before the warmth disappeared, and he was taken inside and dumped on a narrow bed. They removed the hood, but left his hands and feet bound. No one spoke, and he kept his eyes shut till he heard feet retreat and a door close. He was in a room with no windows, one door and only the bed with a stained foam mattress and a single plastic garden chair as furnishing.

  It was impossible to get comfortable. His hands were numb. He couldn’t move his fingers. He was worried sick about Bo. It seemed unlikely he’d simply driven off on an errand now. They might not realise he’d pay whatever price they named and more to make sure Bo was safe. Assuming it was money they wanted. Neither of them would be missed for days. Pete would be pissed he didn’t call in, but it wouldn’t be out of character, so it wouldn’t tip him off. He’d be more pissed when he realised no legal manoeuvre was going to fix this problem.

  Will had known fear like this before. The fear that comes from being overpowered and losing control, having your options close out. But the last time he’d felt fear like this, like a claw tearing at his guts, he’d been a kid and Norman Vessy had beaten him till he saw stars and couldn’t stand up, and then started in on Pete. Pete who was two years younger, weaker, and too scared to fight back or defend himself against his own father. Will had huddled on the floor bleeding while Pete’s father knocked him unconscious.

  He’d had very few options then, but he’d sworn Norman Vessy would never hurt either of them again, and he hadn’t lived to. He had very few options now, but doing nothing wasn’t one of them. There was nothing he could do other than yell the place down.

  He started yelling.

  21. Proof of Death

  “Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.” — Confucius

  It was clear from Mark’s body language, and from Gerry’s inability to meet her eyes, something was very wrong.

  Mark was standing, moving about, and since she mostly saw him sitting it was a shock to recall how tall he was. He’d be able to go eye to eye with Spiderman. He closed the door. “Take a seat, Darce.”

  She sat beside Gerry, uncharacteristically quiet, unnervingly still.

  “Parker Corp is suing over the photos,” said Mark.

  She sighed audibly. That was bad, but not out of the ordinary or unexpected. The legal team had said it was borderline when Mark decided to run it. And when she’d finally spoken to her father, days after the story broke, when Will Parker’s infamy was well cemented in the public conscience, and his threatening image had become an internet meme, Brian told her it was a gimme the lawyers would salivate over the fallout from the Avalon deal going sour.

  “They’re suing the paper, the publisher and all three of us personally.”

  Darcy almost swallowed her tongue. She’d never been sued before. And unless you were a brand name investigative reporter, whose job was to stir up trouble, it didn’t look good on your unofficial rap sheet.

  And she hadn’t broken with Peter Parker’s demands. Yes, she’d crashed the function. Yes, she’d created the circumstances that showed Will in such a bad light, but she hadn’t admitted to meeting him separately, and she hadn’t used anything she knew about him or, by extension, Peter. She’d kept her end of the deal, and they were still going to screw her.

  Now she wished she’d sent the dress back instead of smuggling it home. Better, taken the scissors to it and cut it to pieces. She could do still that. Take it out of her wardrobe and slice it to ribbons, post it back to Will in distressed clumps, a proof-of-death of the relationship they’d privately shared.

  Beside her Gerry lit a cigarette. The surprise was Mark didn’t tell him to put it out.

  Gerry coughed, the sound curling wetly in his throat. “We’re restructuring the business finance team. We’re making your role redundant.”

  She looked at Mark, still standing. There was no denial in his expression. She looked at Gerry. He was a lousy boss, a bully and a bore, but she’d known him for five years and he’d never faulted her work, because she’d always made him look good. He’d only just fought to have her reassigned to his pages from the science desk. And now he was restructuring.

  “You’re sacking me because Parker is suing.”

  “No, Darce. Gerry is restructuring,” said Mark. No trace of the iffiness of this in his eyes.

  “That’s because it’s illegal to sack me,” sh
e said. Screw Gerry, he’d do anything to save his own hide, but Mark? She’d always respected Mark, as a writer, an editor and a human being.

  “I don’t deserve this.”

  Neither man made a sound. Cowards.

  “When is this restructure?”

  “Gerry blew out a stream of smoke. “Effective immediately.”

  Darcy looked from Gerry to Mark. She felt her anger as a cold shock, as a block of ice settling on her shoulders, crushing her. “I gave this paper a world-breaking story on Will Parker, and you guys can’t find a way to keep me employed.”

  Gerry stubbed his cigarette out on his cheap rubber soled shoe, particles of fiery ash rained down on Mark’s carpet. “You just blew the big story and sold us a legally questionable replacement for it.”

  Deep inside Darcy’s chest, a scream built, conceived from outrage, nurtured by unfairness, and bred on a wave of indignity, but it jammed up behind her teeth, stillborn. Screaming wouldn’t change anything. Having a tantrum would prove her femaleness, her weakness, her inability to take this like a man.

  She understood what they’d done. Set her up as the fall guy. Called her judgement into question and trashed her reputation. They’d offer her ignominious dismissal up to Parker as a sacrifice, and hope it acted as a bargaining chip to soften the blow for the rest of them.

  The scream changed form. It bubbled up inside her and burst forth as laughter. Darcy laughed so hard she had to bend forward to try to contain her inexplicable mirth.

  Will Parker had struck again. It wasn’t enough he had to detain her, ambush, compromise, and betray her personally and professionally, now he’d gotten her sacked.

  Will Parker, her once big break, her headline story, was now her career demise. She hated him with a pain that might never be soothed away. Now she regretted every single moment she’d spent feeling sorry for the destruction she’d wrought on his reputation and his takeover deal. Now she was chilled that she’d been touched he’d reached out to her through the dress. She hoped he choked on crystal beads, was poisoned by pearls and his every ambition turned to threads.