Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  “Friggin’ idiots,” said Robert.

  Peter was watching her intently. “Go on.”

  “What we know is Feng returned to the village around January fifteenth. He attended a wedding on February fourteen.” She tossed the wedding picture on the table and Peter picked it up and peered at it, Aileen leaning over his shoulder to look too.

  “He looks drunk but not at death’s door.”

  “And he donated a basketball court to the village before our witness says he died in a fire after a fight in the Golden Lotus restaurant on February twenty. That’s six weeks after Will is supposed to have killed him. The story about him dying in his bed from injuries sustained in a fight with a business partner surfaced immediately after the fire. It was meant to be a more honourable way to die than in what was effectively a bar fight.”

  “So, Will has been accused of beating a man to death who immediately after the said beating, attended a wedding looking like a handsome bastard, spent big for the kids of Tengtou, then got toasted in a fire,” said Peter.

  Darcy nodded. “Is it enough?”

  “It’s enough.” Peter still managed to look hesitant, but then he must have been worried about what it was still going to take to get Will freed.

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Write the story.”

  “I will. It’ll go out tomorrow. It should start syndicating almost immediately, with internet, radio and TV taking it up first.”

  “And come with me to tell Will.”

  Darcy started, “Me?” See Will? God, through all of this she’d not paused to think she’d ever see Will again. It was enough to know she’d done something to right the wrong she’d set in motion.

  Peter got up from the table and walked across to a sideboard with coffee, tea and milk laid out on it. He poured a coffee. He spoke to the reflection of the room in the window.

  “Will is convinced he killed Feng. He thinks I’d do anything to get him out, including fabricate evidence and lie to him. He’s already resigned to staying in jail or worse. He’s tried to hand control of Parker to me permanently, and he’s even had a new last will and testament drawn up.”

  Darcy could see a distorted version of Peter’s face in the window, but the agony of what he’d said was distinct on Aileen’s face and made Bo mutter inaudibly.

  “He went so far as to admit to killing Feng in an interrogation session.”

  “Holy shit, they interrogated him,” said Robert.

  “Every day in a bloodstained room. Sometimes twice a day. Two goons. They tell him he’s guilty and he’s going to die, and he should cleanse his conscience by confessing.”

  Darcy put her hand over her mouth and tasted bile in the back of her throat as the horror of what Will was experiencing washed over her. She’d been so busy focusing on her crusade to find information to help him she’d not stopped to think about how he was coping with the terror of what his life had become.

  The weight of Peter’s words blanketed them in silence until he spoke again. “They’ve put him in with the general population: with gang members, rapists, murderers, drug traffickers and child molesters. He hasn’t recovered from the beating he took from the kidnappers, and I haven’t been able to get him proper medical attention. He doesn’t sleep, he gives his food ration away. He thinks he’s guilty and he’s given up on trying to prove otherwise.”

  Peter turned back to face them, his features showing the ravages of dealing with this nightmare. “You told me Will meant something to you. I think you mean something to Will too, Darcy. There’s a chance he’ll listen if this news comes from you. A chance we can reach him, shake him out of this. It’s going to take a lot to clear this through the legal system. I need him to be ready to fight, to be mentally on board. Will you help?”

  She’d do anything. For Will Parker, she’d do anything at all.

  “Of course, what else are we missing?”

  “We’re missing Will,” said Peter. “We need to go and get him.”

  27. Trouble

  “Behind every smile there’s teeth.” — Confucius

  Something was different about today’s interrogation. It started far earlier than normal and went on far longer.

  Will felt like he’d only closed his eyes and they were dragging him from the sleeping platform. He was so groggy he could hardly stand, which earned him a kick in the shins. Amazing how quickly a well-aimed kick in the shins could get your faculties functioning.

  The interrogations had changed subtly since he’d confessed, so he shouldn’t have been surprised by this one. He’d been naive to think giving them what they wanted would end the process. It’d seemed to excite them further. It wasn’t enough to say he’d killed Feng; they wanted details. So this morning he told them.

  It was dark, it was late, it was wintertime. Will remembered he’d been cold walking from the office, remembered thinking he should’ve accepted Bo’s offer to wait and drive him home after working late. It’d caught him by surprise. At first he hadn’t understood who it was threatening him, thought it was random. Then he’d heard the voice, seen the knife and attacked. He beat Feng till he lay on the ground and didn’t move again. He’d left him on the street and gone inside to go to bed.

  But none of that was enough for them. They said there was no knife. That Feng came to see Will out of friendship, and Will attacked without provocation, that he’d wanted to avoid paying his debt by killing Feng, who was his only friend and supporter in Shanghai.

  They said it didn’t happen the way Will remembered it. They bombarded him with questions, and they twisted the scene until it resembled something Will didn’t recognise as remotely like the truth.

  By the time they released him breakfast was over, and it would be a long time till lunch. He went back to his cell, if he was lucky he might get to doze a little while. He figured it would be better when he was given a work detail, then he’d sleep from sheer physical fatigue. Quingpu was a farm prison. It would be like being a kid again working on the land. Assuming they didn’t have him especially assigned to breaking rocks for the fun of it.

  Only Scarface was in the cell. Somehow Scarface knew he’d confessed that first time. That day, when Will got back, the man got in his face, pushing him around a little. “You weak,” he’d said. But it wasn’t weakness, it was justice, and it was doing right by Pete.

  Will had been avoiding Scarface, as much as is possible in a small cell, since then. Scarface was not a man you wanted to disappoint, and since Will was in a disappointing mood, this being alone together was not an ideal situation. The man stood when he came in. He fronted Will, getting up in his space. Will stood his ground. There was a difference between avoidance and outright cowardice.

  “Trouble come today,” said Scarface. He put his hand on Will’s back. “Watch.”

  Watch his back—that was a warning. Will would have asked what it meant, what kind of trouble was coming but Scarface was gone. He went to his mattress and lay down. But sleep wasn’t coming either. There was a guard, he had visitors. Pete or someone from the consulate. He was going to miss lunch as well. He followed the guard to the interview rooms and there was Pete with someone else. He could see them through the window as he approached. A woman in a navy pinstripe suit. Not Aileen, he’d said no, she wasn’t to come in here. He didn’t want her anywhere near this foul place.

  The guard opened the door. Pete was standing. They hugged. They’d started hugging now. They’d never even hugged as kids. It still felt awkward, but Pete seemed to need it. When Pete stepped back he could see the woman. It was like she’d stepped out of his dream into his nightmare.

  “Fuck,” he said. The shock of it. Of her being here. “Darcy, what?” He couldn’t think of one good reason why she’d be here. She said his name, so she was real, not a hallucination from hunger or lack of sleep.

  “Sit down,” said Pete. “We have big news. Good news. Amazing news.”

  He felt his way across the tabletop to a
chair opposite and sat, an old man, uncertain on his feet. Uncertain of why the fuck she’d be here.

  “Will, are you all right?” The look on her face told him he wasn’t. She reached a hand across the table and he stared at it a moment. If he touched her she might disappear.

  “Will?” said Pete.

  He took Darcy’s hand, threaded his fingers through hers and held tight. “I must look dreadful.” He still had tape on his nose, he’d be bruised. He hadn’t been allowed to shave since the night he arrived, but they’d razored his hair off. “I’ve given you a shock. No mirrors in here. Believe it or not, I’m still prettier than most of my fellow inmates.”

  She smiled, but couldn’t find words. She moved her foot to the inside of his and he bracketed it, his feet trapping hers, knees grazing. They locked eyes.

  “You look beautiful. Did Pete buy you that suit?” He glanced across at Pete who was grinning like a kid at Christmas. “Armani?”

  “Of course,” said Pete.

  He still had Darcy’s hand, and there was no reason yet to let it go. He might never get to hold a woman’s hand again. Never, outside his dreams, did he think he’d get to touch this woman again.

  He’d have sat there all day just looking at her, but they were brutal with visiting, could cut it off any time it pleased them. He looked at Pete. “At interrogation this morning they wanted details. I told them everything about killing Feng I remembered.” Darcy flinched when he said the word interrogation and squeezed his hand on “killing”. He realised he’d announced he killed a man like you might say, ‘at work today’ and go on to talk about something innocuous like jamming the photocopier.

  “It doesn’t matter, Will, we have—”

  The deafening blast of a siren sounding over the intercom cut Pete off. He let go Darcy’s hand so she could plug her ears. They all came to their feet. The guard flung the door open, mouthed something then locked them in. A group of prisoners came passed the window, they had weapons. Will watched as they surrounded the guard and beat him with chair legs and metal food trays. Blood sprayed in an arch across the window. Pete swore. Darcy cried out.

  Trouble had come.

  He grabbed for Darcy and pulled her down to the floor, out of view of the window. A woman in a prison during a riot. His woman. It was unthinkable. He had to get her out of here. Get her to safety. That glass, that door, they wouldn’t hold long if a mob tried to break in. There were three thousand men in this prison, most of them long-term, hardened criminals. She was the sweet prize that could interrupt the best intentions of a riot. She was the unlooked for spoils of war. They’d turn on each other to get to her. For a moment he wanted to deck Pete for bringing her here and putting her in such danger.

  She sat on the floor against the half wall with the window, her legs drawn up beside her, hands over her ears and eyes wide with fright. She’d already have figured her chances of coming out of here without being raped repeatedly were poor.

  He went down on his knees and spoke in her ear. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll keep you safe.”

  When he stood again, his head ringing from the deliberately deafening siren, there were four guards at the door and the corridor was clear. The cavalry had arrived. They burst in.

  The first guard came at him with a baton. He twisted to avoid the blow and copped it across his back, going down on one knee. He’d forgotten that he was the enemy. When he looked up, two guards had flanked Pete and were walking him out. Thank God. Pete was yelling, twisting around to look back at him. The other two guards were helping Darcy to stand. He was on his own from here, but they’d both be protected. He might be able to lock himself back in, sit on the floor and wait it out. Not a great day to have missed meals. Who knew how long this would all take. He might be permanently deaf when it was all over.

  He remained on his knee. He didn’t want to attract attention by moving and draw a guard away from Darcy’s side, so he didn’t see them coming until they were in the room. Two gang-tattooed prisoners. They did a comedy double take, a look back and forth at each other when they saw Darcy. She screamed, the guards lashed out, a fight started, and Will saw his chance.

  He stayed low, came around the table and up behind Darcy, pulled her against him and eased her back around the table, keeping her behind him, skirting the fighting, moving quickly towards the door. The guards could see this but were too busy to do anything about it, the prisoners had their backs to Will; there was lots of shouting, mouths opening, but no one could hear anything over the wail of the siren.

  He was almost at the door when the sprinkler system turned on. Sudden indoor rain caused a pause in the fighting. One of the prisoners saw them and lunged. Will stepped back, blocked the punch, grabbed the man’s kick and upended him.

  He went for the door, pulling Darcy behind him, skidding into the corridor, slamming the door, locking the fight in so they could kill each other with privacy and no interruptions.

  The corridor was thankfully empty, except for the prone body of the guard. He was alive, eyes open, but not a well boy. There were doors left and right. He had no idea where they led to, or if there’d be worse happening on the other side of them. He needed somewhere, close, secure, boring—and fast.

  He kept Darcy behind him and the wall behind her, and moved them to the first door. Locked. The second, locked. The third door opened under his hand. He took a breath and turned to peer inside. An office, a desk, a filing cabinet. Empty. Dry. He went through the door pulling Darcy in behind him. Slammed it, locked it. Braced his back against it, took another breath and shut his eyes. His heart was hammering in his throat. The siren suddenly stopped, the silence exquisitely deafening.

  “Will!”

  She was backed up against the desk, her face shock-white, her hair coming out of its up do. She was drowned, she was shaking. She was his. He took two strides towards her and wrapped her in his arms, lifting her off her feet. He was shaking too. He couldn’t hold her close enough. She smelled of wet wool and fear and hope. He stroked her back until he could feel her breathing settle, sat her on the desk, and brushed the hair out of her eyes.

  He had to clear his throat to get it working. “Darcy, baby, what are you doing here?”

  “I came for you.”

  “That’s madness. Madness. You shouldn’t be here.” He felt like he needed to walk around, move about to digest what was happening, but he wasn’t leaving her side for a single second.

  She had her head tipped up to look at him, her face so pale, her pale eyes so big. He might never kiss another woman again. His woman. He cupped her head and touched his lips to hers, felt her sigh as she brought her hands to his shoulders then his head. He deepened the kiss, and her fingers dug into his scalp. He touched her tongue; her mouth sweet. The kiss got harder, more intense, and he was losing himself in her, like he did in his dreams.

  Noise in the corridor was slow to register, and when it did he was shocked he’d put them in danger again.

  “Fuck, woman you...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, too many directions to take with it—shouldn’t be here, have to get out of here, are essential to me. And this wasn’t any office, it was a doctor’s consulting room. There was a gurney by the wall, there’d be drugs or the possibility of them. They weren’t safe here. He had to find somewhere else to hole up.

  He put his knuckles against her cheek, and she leaned into his hand. “Darcy, I want you to wait here. I need to find somewhere safer. You lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for any reason other than me. Don’t leave this room for any reason. If you hear noise in the corridor, lock yourself in Doc’s bathroom. I’m coming back for you.”

  “Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.”

  “It’s not safe. They’ll come here looking for drugs, medical records, weapons. We can’t stay here.”

  She was trying not to panic. Trying hard to hold on. He pulled her to his chest again, put his lips in her hair. “I’m comin
g back for you.”

  At the door he stopped to listen, turned the latch, cracked the seal so he could put one eye in the gap. All quiet. No movement. The sprinklers still running. She was behind him, her hands on his back. He said, “Lock the door, Darcy,” and slipped through it, waited until he heard the tumblers click, surveying the corridor.

  The injured guard was gone. The interview room door was lying in the corridor. He went in the opposite direction, to the next closest door, locked, the next one locked. He could break in but a hidey-hole without a lock was more or less defeating the point. He was running out of options, this end of the corridor a dead end. He’d have to go back. Find another part of the admin wing to hide in. He spied that last door. Jammed against the wall, it was more cupboard than office. It opened. A uniform supply closet. Floor to ceiling shelving, space on the floor to sit. It was dry and there was a key on the inside. He’d found their safety.

  He sloshed back up the corridor and called Darcy through the door. She had bottles of electrolyte wrapped in a towel. Takeaway—prison riot style. He put her behind him and walked them down the corridor to their bolthole.

  Locked inside it was soothingly dark. He leaned against the wall, not out of breath, but needing to catch it anyway. When his eyes adjusted, he realised water was seeping under the door. Wouldn’t do to drown in their new home. He wedged the towel against the gap in the bottom of the door. Then there was only one more thing he could do for them.

  He felt his way along the shelving. Uniforms for guards, cooks, administrative staff, not the prisoners. He found medical scrubs, elastic waist pants and tunic tops. They’d do.

  “We should get out of our wet gear. We might be here for a while.”

  They rumbled about finding stuff that felt like the right size and he went back to the door to change, throwing his wet gear on the floor in the corner. He could hear Darcy, at the other end of the aisle, the slide of wet fabric, the soft thud as she ditched her shoes, the splat as she dropped the jacket or the skirt. She must have been scared out of her head. He was for her.