Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  He laughed. “Yes. And Pete’s is Peter.”

  She traced her hand lightly over his ribs and down his side where the burn scar ran. “Someone hurt you didn’t they? When you were a kid and you couldn’t fight back.”

  “That was a long time ago.” And too bound up in his guilt and innocence.

  “But it’s part of you today. It makes you, you.”

  “Must be my turn?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t dodge me. I’m not playing, and I only have one more question for now.”

  She had to be traumatised and this horror was a long way from over. “I’ll get us out of here. I promise you. I’ll get you out of here safe, and I’ll stay safe till I’m released. We’re not finished with each other, you and me.”

  She shook her head again. “That’s not it.”

  “It’s not?” She should be curled in the corner comatose with fear. She was frowning at him as if he’d made up a word in Scrabble.

  “Do you believe in forever?”

  It was a question he’d asked her that first night. When he’d learnt she was single and she’d said she’d not found anyone to be with in a forever sense. Did he believe in forever? She’d said “some forevers”, that “some couples got lucky”.

  He folded her back into his embrace. He’d had more than his share of lucky, not including some sticky wickets like this one. But that kind of lucky, the forever kind of lucky? It wouldn’t have seemed real before now, and the irony of thinking about luck and love while its opposites raged behind the walls wasn’t lost on him.

  He held Darcy in his arms and closed his eyes. Assuming he could find a way out of this mess, forever wasn’t such a remote concept now. Didn’t seem so outlandish or out of reach. Forever was a place with sunshine and warmth, cooling breezes and stars like diamonds scattered on velvet skies. Forever smelled like a rainforest at dawn and jasmine blossom at night. Forever was the sound of Darcy’s laugh, the challenge of her wit, the swell of her curves under his hands, and the gaze of her doll eyes. He could believe in forever if she was in it.

  He pressed his lips against her temple, thought about how to respond. They weren’t finished with each other yet, but their lives, the things they wanted, were very different. She didn’t want family, and he wasn’t a man for half measures.

  Her eyes were closed, her body soft, he twisted his head to look at her face. She was sleeping, exhausted from stress, from the overload of fear. The floor was damn hard under his butt, and the tinny pop on the intercom was grating, it was getting hotter in here; the air-conditioning was probably off. But if forever could start here, he’d take the discomfort, the need for vigilance, and the desperate hope he could get them out of here safe—and believe.

  It must have been an hour or more later when she stirred. The silence woke her. There was only a crackle now over the intercom. Something had changed. They needed to be ready. He broke out the electrolyte drinks, made sure she drank at least half a bottle, and guzzled the other.

  “Darcy, gorgeous, I want you to put your suit back on. I want to be ready if we have to move quickly. I don’t want any mistakes. In those scrubs there’s a chance they might think you work here. If you look like a lawyer, well, it’s all I’ve got right now.”

  She was awake instantly, scrambled to her feet making him wince as the blood flowed properly in his legs and arms again. A delicious kind of pain, made from sheltering her. He hauled himself up, using the wall for support.

  They both stilled when they heard the shouting outside, several voices and thumping against the walls. They were breaking the doors in. Prisoners then, not guards. This was the nightmare awoken after a dream respite.

  He’d had time to think this scenario through. Getting trapped defending Darcy in this room wasn’t an appealing option. It would leave her far more vulnerable if he was taken out. In the open where she was seen by more people there was a chance they’d fight amongst themselves, a chance he might still get her to safety, or worst case, assuming they still functioned, she’d be seen on the security cameras and the outside world would know she was here.

  But before he was ready to risk leaving this sanctuary he wanted the corridor empty. As Darcy dressed he started pulling clothing off the shelves, making a pile near the door, creating a jumble that might pass for this room having already been turned over. There was a corner at the back of the aisle where the shelving didn’t meet the wall, a narrow nib of space. Enough room for the two of them to stand and not be seen if the door wasn’t pushed fully open. It meant unlocking the door, fixing it so it was wedged and hoping like hell it looked like nothing anyone would be interested in exploring further.

  There was another option. He could leave her, join the raiding party and hope to steer them away. Come back for her when it was safe to. But it made him sick with the thought of leaving her exposed that way. He’d rather die defending her, and he knew without a flicker of doubt that’s how high the stakes were.

  She was dressed now and there was one more thing he needed to do. She had to look like she was his prize, like he’d already raped her and would kill any man who came near.

  He explained it all while outside the sounds of mayhem and looting grew closer. He was looking at her shirt and jacket. Not as easy to rip as the beaded silk dress had been; double stitching and lining, French seams. He went to his knees and tore the lining from the skirt then broke the stitching in the side seam and tore it apart till her thigh flashed. It was easy to rip the pocket from the jacket, leave it half attached. He got a slash worked in the shoulder seam as well. Then he turned to her blouse and the crystalline tears beading her lashes stopped his breath. She was terrified.

  “You’re hazardous to my wardrobe, Will Parker,” she said, but her voice, a whisper, broke on his name.

  He pulled her roughly into his arms and kissed her softly. He was burning inside, acid in his veins from the fear of what he had to do. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he kept his eyes on hers. His hands went to the neck of her shirt. She knew what he was going to do and nodded. In one quick movement, he ripped the buttons off. He’d have held her again then, but the sounds outside were louder, closer.

  He positioned her in the nib behind the shelf and went to the door to unlock it, praying no one on the other side would hear the tumblers slide. He had to climb over the mountain of clothing to get to the door, it would take time for someone to shift it, to get in, time that he could use to attack first.

  She had her arms open when he came back and he walked into them, crowding them into the narrow space, feeling her whole body shake against his. He tucked her head down on his shoulder and listened to the shouting. He could make out words now, over the sibilance of the intercom, over the sounds of things breaking. They were so close. They were right outside. They were at the door, arguing.

  Then a shoulder charge against it, the latch held, a harsh laugh, and through the rows of shelving he saw the handle depress, a tattooed head poke in, a foot kick at the pile of clothing. More words, a push against the door, it opened a hand span further, the clothing mountain sliding, bunching on the floor. Darcy’s head came up. Her eyes were huge with fear, wide with shock. Will kissed her open mouth, readied himself to move. The door wedged, another shove and it bounced, but didn’t open any further. A curse, the smell of smoke, strong enough for him to recognise, then noise further off. They were gone.

  Darcy sagged in his arms, her knees gone to jelly. He held her upright. They were not safe. She had to be able to stand, to run. He’d be too slow, couldn’t defend her, if he had to carry her, and he would not leave her.

  “Come on, Lois, this is the story of your career. ‘How I survived a prison riot and rescued the notorious murder suspect, Will Parker’.” She smiled weakly, put her hand to her forehead. She was gasping for breath. He gave her a little shake, he needed her to focus.

  “You’ll have the pick of any job, any salary you want after a story like this. I’ll even give you firsthand quotes.
That’ll show your old man and that brother of yours, right?”

  Her eyes were everywhere, she was thoroughly panicked now. “Look at me, Darcy.” He bracketed her face in his hands. “I love you and I won’t leave you till you’re safe. It’s going to be okay. Pete is out there waiting for you. He’ll get you a new suit.” Her eyes were closed, she was sobbing quietly. He wasn’t getting through to her. There was an almighty crash outside and they both started.

  He kissed her. It was the softest, gentlest kiss he’d ever given a woman. It tasted of her salt tears and their shared dread. And she responded, melting to him, returning the kiss, opening to it, wrapping her arms around his chest.

  He broke off when the smell of smoke got stronger still. No sprinklers so it hadn’t been detected yet or they’d been damaged. He couldn’t wait to find out. Fire would kill them as surely as the mob might tear them apart.

  “You don’t let go of me. Until you see a guard in a uniform, you don’t let go.”

  She nodded and he made her wait while he cleared the doorway. He could hear voices, but they were a way off, and he could hear the fire. They had to go now.

  “Come on, baby, we have a riot to attend.” He held out his hand to her. He sounded like an action figure from a B-grade movie, but he wanted to see her smile, one last time.

  She grasped his hand, her short nails digging in, pinned him with those big doll eyes. “I hate you, Will Parker. Now get me out of here.”

  At the door he checked the corridor. Clear. The fire was coming from the doctor’s office, heat and black smoke pouring into the air. He could already feel it in the back of his throat and pricking his eyes. He rummaged on the floor for his wet prison uniform, handed her the top, kept the pants. “Keep this over your mouth and nose. We’re going down the way you came in with Pete. We’re going to find a guard, or somewhere else safe to wait.”

  She had her mouth and nose covered, she was ready. He closed his eyes a moment and tried not to think about what could go wrong. Then he stepped out and pulled her with him.

  Despite the wet masks they both started coughing almost immediately. The fire was building quickly. They’d have died of smoke inhalation if he’d delayed much longer. They cleared the corridor, and at the junction of two more, one heading towards the visitor entrance, and the other to the main dining hall and the cells, Will paused. It was a coin toss. He tried to distinguish where various sound were coming from, but it was hopeless and they couldn’t stand here. Some action figure he was. Even the B-graders didn’t stand around looking useless like this.

  They dropped the wet clothing and he chose. Left towards the visitor’s entrance. It was closer to the outside world than the cell blocks. They’d gone less than twenty metres when he knew he’d done the right thing. Relief almost made him cheer when he saw the guards, a group of six or seven, armed. He pulled Darcy close to him and held his other hand up. He was a prisoner—the enemy, and he didn’t want to be shot at. He started telling them who she was, and that they needed to take her to safety.

  There was a moment where he knew something wasn’t right, before he heard the words “Bruce Lee”, before the gun was raised and a shot fired. He hit the ground, pulling Darcy down with him, screaming at them not to shoot. Threatening, promising, swearing. He got laughter and movie dialogue.

  He’d come the wrong way.

  There was movement behind them now too, running, many feet, shouting in various languages and more shots fired over their heads. He snuck a look over his shoulder, a group of prisoners advancing on the guards. They were in the middle of a war zone. He rolled, bringing Darcy’s body under his. They’d have to kill him first to get to her.

  He felt a kick in his ribs. Pain turned his vision white. Hands reefed them apart. Will came up swinging and took someone down, a prisoner, a guard; he could hardly see, but he could hear Darcy screaming. He swung again and his punch was blocked. Scarface.

  “They kill you for Bruce Lee. I take her out.”

  He looked for Darcy. She was on the floor on her knees. “Go, go with him.” Scarface tackled him back to the floor as a volley of shots rang out. He looked for her again and she was gone. He’d lost her. Red-hot pain in his shoulder. Blood. Screaming. And underneath it, taunts of Bruce Lee.

  Scarface was yelling. He scrambled to stand, slipping in blood. Will tried to follow. He couldn’t see Darcy. He couldn’t use his right arm. The guards were on him, too many of them. He got to his feet so he could see death coming. He held on to the sound of her voice screaming his name. They pistol-whipped him, they kicked him. They broke more ribs. They were slipping in his blood too.

  He defended himself as long as he could stand. When they took his knee out, and he heard the bone break, his consciousness became the sound of her voice. He sucked it in like air and filled his body with it, because as long as she was screaming she was alive.

  30. Obit Writer

  “I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand.” — Confucius

  Peter insisted on hospital, but Darcy wasn’t hurt. Bruised, in shock, heartsick, numb, but her legs stood her up; her hands could hold a cup of tea. There was nothing physically wrong with her. He wouldn’t hear of her going back to her hotel and offered her one of Will’s homes to stay in, but that felt wrong. She wanted to be somewhere her memory of him would be solid and not filled with his absence or tainted by the colours of pain.

  They compromised on the Palace Suite at the Peninsula.

  Peter insisted a doctor examine her anyway, and she was too tired, too wrecked to resist. The doc gave her sedatives. She said the nightmares might be bad and the sedatives would help her sleep, but Darcy didn’t need to be asleep to be in the nightmare.

  The sounds of men’s fists and boots, screaming, laughing. The smell of sulphur, cold sweat, and hot metal. Too many men: running, fighting, roaring. The big man with the scarred face trying to pull her away, shouting, “No look. Come.” The blood, so much red blood. Will’s blood—coating the floor. He slipped in it. He told her to go, but she would not leave him. So much blood, so much laughter, so much red.

  Angry men pulled her away. She screamed till she had no voice. Till she couldn’t see him anymore. Till they killed him.

  And then nothing.

  Peter told her the man with the scarred face brought her to the prison gate and laid her on the roadway where the riot police could get to her and bring her out. They revived her in an ambulance on-site.

  There was no word about Will. Even now, hours after the revolt had been quelled. She couldn’t believe he was dead, but she couldn’t understand how he could be alive either. So much red pain.

  Peter said Will was alive. He knew how to take a beating, how to protect himself. But Peter didn’t hear the guns, or see the hate on the faces of the men who attacked Will. Men who should have protected him. Too many of them to count their fists and boots.

  Peter stayed at Quingpu. Bo and Aileen stayed with her. No one wanted to be alone and they wouldn’t sleep tonight. The butler brought food they picked at, and copious amounts of coffee. Aileen made phone calls. Bo got drunk on Australian wine and stayed out on the balcony in the dark.

  Darcy couldn’t settle. Couldn’t shut her eyes without seeing Will’s face, beaten and broken. She wrote the first draft of her story. She wrote about Feng Kee, the landlord and gangster who extorted, threatened and pulled a knife on Will Parker, nine years ago on a cold winter night.

  She wrote about Will defending himself, leaving Feng on the street injured, but alive. She described how Feng went back to his village, picked up his life and died six weeks later in restaurant fire. She explained how the Feng family had seen the newspaper coverage of Will, remembered a debt they wanted him to pay, and orchestrated his kidnapping. She listed the family members implicated and the names of the kidnappers, all criminals for hire, now in jail.

  She detailed how the police rescued Will only to jail him for murder.

  She wrote about Bo, the
Shanghai taxi driver who taught Will the local language. How he was kidnapped and bashed alongside his employer, but became his saviour, affecting his initial rescue by going to the police, and his final exoneration by discovering Feng’s real cause of death.

  She left Robert out of the story. She didn’t think he’d mind. She left herself out as well. It was easier to write if she thought about it as an experience someone else went through.

  She didn’t write about fear, pain, guilt or blood. There was no emotion in the story, no ‘colour’ like feature story writers added, just the facts. As a news reporter that was her job, to tell what happened and why.

  The background covered, she went on to write about how before he could be freed, Will Parker was caught up in a prisoner led revolt at Quingpu prison.

  And then she couldn’t write any more. Her brain couldn’t form the sentences, her fingers couldn’t find the keys, couldn’t type the words. She sat at her laptop at the beautiful desk in the Palace Suite and her eyes couldn’t see.

  She knew her lead paragraph was wrong. The story needed to open up with Will. Needed to describe his current state. It should say, ‘Will Parker was declared innocent of the murder of Feng Kee and freed from Quingpu prison today’. That’s what it should say.

  The alternative—that Will Parker died in a prison riot defending the woman who defamed him and brought him to the attention of people who would hurt him—was beyond her ability to set down on the page.

  She wasn’t aware she was sobbing until Aileen came for her. She didn’t want the woman’s comfort. She wanted to work.

  Obituary writers did it all the time. They took someone’s death and turned it into simple words so other people could know about them. Gave the facts, date, age, cause, contribution, survived by, legacy. Some papers had the first drafts for well-known people already on file. Already set up for a plug and play of the ending when it happened. Later, if the person was famous enough, they wrote larger stories, adding in details, opinion, speculation and reflection.