Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  Darcy smiled, the memory of breaking Will’s control, being the reason for him to lose it, was almost a meal of its own to live on.

  “I know about Avalon, Peter.”

  “Shit. Are you telling me as a journalist or as a friend?”

  “I’m both. I’ve always been both.”

  Peter raised his glass, an ironic toast. “To the journalist in you—no fucking comment. To the friend—Will would consider this a hostile takeover, but I’m not so sure. I don’t know if he will ever be able to run Parker again. Whether he will want to. But it’s quite possible there’ll be nothing left by the time he’s ready. It makes sense to sell to Avalon. But for the record, I’m going with no comment.”

  Darcy clinked Peter’s glass. “For the record, I hear you, and since it’s not the kind of story my program does, you’re safe with me.”

  Peter studied her. She thought he was about to make a jibe about journalists not being the most trustworthy people on the planet, but he surprised her with, “Are you happy?”

  “Sure, I have the job, I’m earning brilliant money.”

  “I think that’s your version of no comment. I thought we were being friends tonight.”

  Darcy frowned, caught out. The waiter arrived and gave her thinking time. They ordered, but it was too much to hope Peter was distracted by the business of eating. He gave her a level look, his lawyer look.

  “I’m fine. Today was rough, really rough, but I’m fine,” she said.

  “You’re way too thin. Will would be horrified.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. He thought I was a prostitute.”

  “He thought you were like Jiao. First tier, bao er nai —a mistress. It’s officially still prostitution and illegal, but it’s common practice. If you can get past the fact he was so crude, it’s a compliment.”

  Darcy blinked at him in surprise. “You are kidding.”

  Peter shook his head, grinning. “But I’m also not crazy, so I’m quitting this part of the conversation before you ‘no comment’ me for the rest of the meal.”

  Over scallops and then lamb, they talked about food, politics, fashion, real estate; anything but what brought them together. Will was like a silent participant at the meal: watching them eat, always in their thoughts, making it awkward to ignore him.

  Darcy heard herself chattering away and wondered at her ability to keep up the false cheer. She wanted to run a bath at the hotel, sit in it and cry. She wanted to re-book her flight for tomorrow and go home. There was no point going to see Will again, and no way the effort of doing it wasn’t going to wreck her. And she couldn’t afford to be wrecked. He was in this position so she was free and well, and able to live her life. She couldn’t repay his memory by failing, and if she let her heartbreak take her down—she’d be failing spectacularly.

  “Darcy, hey you’re miles away. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She was continents away, back in Sydney, trying to focus on being new Darcy because there was no old Will left to fixate on. “Are you sure about the pav?”

  “Oh, yeah. We have to have the pav.” Peter did that thing men with room presence could do and got waiter attention with the lift of his chin. He ordered and turned his eyes on her. “You know, there’s a chance Will is foxing?”

  “Foxing? As in being a duplicitous prick!”

  Peter laughed, slamming his hand on the table making their waiting dessert spoons jump. “I wouldn’t have put it like that, but now that you mention it, yes.”

  “How can a man who hasn’t spoken for eight months be running a scam?”

  “Talk to Bo about it. Bo thinks Will has had his memory back for some time, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. Will claims not to remember how this all came about, so not remembering you fits. But he always was a cunning bastard, so it’s not a stretch to think he knows more than he’s letting on.”

  “He looked at me like I was nothing to him. I don’t think that was an act.”

  “Up until four days ago he could only talk in one word sentences. Today he was giving me orders, very succinct and clear ones.”

  Darcy looked away, out over the Huangpu to the lights of Pudong. “Don’t say that to give me hope, Peter.”

  He caught her hand and held it, threading his fingers through hers like Will did. She sucked in a breath to cool the heating coil of anxiety in her chest.

  “Is it so wrong for me to want him to remember you? If he remembers you there’s a chance the old Will is still in there somewhere.”

  She looked at their hands. Peter’s fingers were long and elegant. He was a concert pianist to Will’s manual labourer. “I can’t be an experiment. I can’t be a proving ground for you or Will. I’m not strong enough to do that.”

  Peter turned her hand and pressed it back on the starched white linen tablecloth. He sat back in his chair. “One more visit. One more chance. I’m your friend, but I’m Will’s brother and I need him. It’s the least you can do.”

  35. Sleeping Beauty

  “He who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to make his words good.” — Confucius

  Bo was confident. There was a strong chance Will had been foxing. But he wasn’t sure he was still doing it.

  “He remembers the finest details. The way my wife made xiaolongbao—soup dumplings. That was eight years ago. I don’t see how he could remember that and not remember what happened to him, and not remember you. I think it’s too much for him, too painful. I think he doesn’t want to remember.”

  “Where were you last night, Bo, when Peter strongarmed me into coming here again?” Darcy said.

  Bo gave her a sympathetic look as he parked the Audi at the Double Happiness Rehabilitation Hospital.

  “Oh, I get it. You don’t think he remembers me, but you want me to try again anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, Darcy. Yes, that’s what I want. I’ll wait for you here.”

  Darcy knew she could simply tell Bo to drive her back to the hotel and he would, no fuss, or at least that he’d show. She knew she could spend the afternoon shopping, and with money in her pocket, maybe even enjoy it. She knew Will was somewhere through those doors and there was a possibility he might remember her.

  “What if remembering me means he has to remember all the dreadful things that happened to him, Bo? What if I’m so bound up in all that pain, he remembers me only to hate me?”

  “Life is simple. We insist on making it complicated. What if he remembers he loves you?”

  It was a big what if.

  She got out of the car, went to the administration block and signed in as a visitor. The receptionist told her Will was in the gym, and if she waited in the café she’d see him come past. She went to the café, ordered a pot of tea and waited. Twenty minutes later, shirtless, in baggy cotton drawstring trousers that clung to him in sweat patches, and with his right hand in plaster, Will walked right past her without a blink of recognition.

  That was it then. What more could she do? It really was over. Time to move on; and not look back. She stood. Will’s path had been blocked by two wheelchairs. She saw the detail of the tattoo on his back. This was a man who remembered the things important to him. How could he not know her? How could she not try to break through to him?

  “Will Parker.”

  He shifted, looking for a way around the wheelchairs. Without turning he said, “Who wants to know?”

  “It wasn’t a question. I know who you are.”

  He half turned, regarded her with dark, cold eyes. “Oh right. You, Pete’s squeeze. He’s not coming today.” His path was clear, but he hesitated.

  “I know.”

  Now he turned fully, aggression in his stance. “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  She searched his face for some trace of recognition; a softening, a shift, a blink. Anything.

  He advanced on her. “Did we know each other? Did I fuck
you?” He came closer. Darcy could see the pucker in the skin of his arm where the bullet struck. She was catapulted back to the corridor at Quingpu and all that red, red blood.

  “What’s wrong with you?” He grabbed her arm as she swayed, his fingers biting into her skin. “You need to get out of the sun or fucking eat something.”

  She pulled out of his grasp. It wasn’t his fault he was this way, and she wasn’t frightened of him.

  “Yes we were together. We covered a lot of ground: detention rooms, beds, floors, bathtubs, balconies, piano tops, elevators,” she paused, watching him for any sign of recognition, “clothing closets. Is any of that ringing a bell with you?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Honey, I’ve been with a lot of women and I don’t remember you. Must be a reason. I remember the good ones.”

  She gave him a laugh, just for show. “Oh I was good. I made you lose control, that’s how good I was. Shame you don’t remember.” He was so close, she could smell the sweat in his skin, so close she could see his eyelashes were wet, spiky and clumped together.

  The side of his mouth ticked up in half smile. “Really, well maybe you could show me. I’ve got nothing but time, honey, and you came all the way here just to see little ole me.” He lifted his hand and with one finger traced a line down Darcy’s bare arm. “Been a long time since I’ve had some action. I’m raring to go.”

  She wasn’t going to let this man who wasn’t Will get to her. “You’re trying to shock me.”

  He leaned closer. “I’m trying to get you to leave me alone.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because you’re a crazy bitch.”

  She stepped back. “You’re the one named after a superhero. You’re the one who punched out a door yesterday.”

  “Look, you either want to fuck or get out of my face. Your call.”

  There was nothing. She saw nothing in him, not a hint of the man she remembered, of the man who’d nearly died to protect her.

  “I’ll take box B. You’re right, I thought I knew you. But I’d never have anything to do with a man like you. I’d never let him touch me. The Will Parker I knew wasn’t crude or ugly mean. He was charming and smart and funny. I loved him and he loved me.”

  The man who was supposed to be Will pushed a hand through his wet hair, overlong now and curling. “Yeah. Lucky you, lucky him. Whoever the fuck he is.”

  Darcy took another step back. “You’re nothing like him. Oh you look similar, have the same mannerisms, but he would never deliberately demean anyone for caring.”

  “Crazy, you’re crazy.” He was shaking his head. He had one fist wrapped around the back of a café chair.

  He should be her Will but he wasn’t. He should remember her but he didn’t. And it wasn’t his fault. “Goodbye, Will.” Darcy looked down to pick up her bag.

  “What, no kiss?”

  She pulled back. He was almost on top of her. He looked like Will. He could be Will. He was breathing hard. What would he do if she took him up on his offer one last time?

  She put her hand to his damp hair, stepped into him and kissed him. When their lips touched he jerked like he’d been hit with a bolt of electricity. His plastered hand came around her back to hold her close; the other went to her face, fingers fanning across her cheek. For all his early aggression, he held her with infinite gentleness and his kiss was soft and tender.

  She pulled away first, desperate to see who he was now. His bare chest was heaving as if he’d been chased by demons, but his eyes were narrowed and his look was severe. Her sleeping beauty was still out cold, this imposter in his place.

  “Like I said, I remember the good ones.”

  Darcy snatched her bag from the seat. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him. She wasn’t going to run either, though she wanted to. As she turned away she was aware of him watching.

  He called out, “Have a nice life, gorgeous.”

  It was that last word, that last remnant of Will that made her stop, hesitate, turn back. But he was already gone. The next thing she heard was the sound of glass smashing, and she wondered what had broken, other than their hearts.

  36. Not Alone

  “When anger rises, think of the consequences.” — Confucius

  Will phoned Bo and was packed to blow the joint, five minutes after having his other hand strapped. He’d lucked on the only pane of glass in the place that wasn’t tempered so all he needed was stitches.

  At reception he said, yes, he was aware he had damaged both hands. Yes, he was aware he had a problem with anger. Yes, he knew he was checking out on his own recognisance, without the approval of his doctors or his next of kin. Fuck Pete. And of course he understood he’d be charged for the repairs.

  He’d been here five months, at least two months too long. He’d needed those first months, he was weak and confused still, but all the exercise, the fresh air and being able to hold down food again had kickstarted his system. Then he’d been too scared to call himself recovered, and he wasn’t going out in the world not able to talk properly in at least one language. He’d faked through the last eight weeks, frightened of himself and how different he felt. But enough was enough. This could well be as good as it gets. If he had to find a way to live with how he was now, anxious, irritated, angry, then he’d better make a start.

  He couldn’t believe Darcy came back for round two. If it wasn’t for those fucking wheelchairs, he’d have been able to walk through the pain of separating from her. But she’d said his name and it had taken everything he had left not to forget he’d been reborn without worth or control. He wanted to rip his own tongue out for what he’d said to her, and the way he’d said it: deliberately intimidating, insulting, and threatening. But he needed her to go, to forget him, to hate him—the quicker, the harder, the better.

  But he’d touched her, and smelled her perfume, and baited her for that kiss he knew she’d give him. That hadn’t been part of the plan. That was too real. He sat on the end of his bed and put his head in his crippled hands. The feeling of holding Darcy overwhelming his emotions. He didn’t understand the sadness that shadowed the anger in his head. She’d walked away, it was what he’d wanted. He should’ve felt grateful for that. He felt like he’d taken a knife to his own chest and killed the best thing he’d ever known.

  The only good thing he could say about it was he’d never hurt her again.

  When the ever faithful Bo arrived, the first thing Will did was snarl at him for taking too long. Bo wasn’t like Pete. He didn’t wear his emotions on his face, he was hard to read. It made Will want to push Bo even harder to get him to crack. And all that proved was not having a behavioural filter made it disgustingly easy to act like a psychopath. He was checking out of rehab, but he wasn’t thinking of rejoining the world. He was hot and cold, up and down, inside out, and not fit for human consumption.

  He had Bo drop him to the house in Luwan and fuck off. He’d fend for himself from here. He hadn’t been to the house in a while and fending for himself meant he’d have to sort out food, which would be interesting. If he walked to the supermarket he’d be stuck with trying to work out what the labels said. If he went to the fresh food market with no language it would be an equally crappy experience. He could pick up a phone and send Bo shopping, call in the housekeeper, or he could start getting used to managing on his own. Starting with shopping for food.

  He opened the fridge and leaned in. It was already stocked. That’s what Bo had been doing before he arrived. Shit. He went into the living room, headed for the bar. Empty. It was never, ever empty. Fuck. That was Bo too, making sure he didn’t do anything dumb.

  He wasn’t hungry anyway. He couldn’t drink himself into a stupor without going shopping. With both hands bandaged he’d be likely to drop every bottle he tried to pick up. He couldn’t read, and TV made his head spin. But he had a pocket full of happy pills he’d swiped off the counter in casualty. They’d be enough to knock him out without dreams for a day, lon
ger if he was lucky.

  It was two in the afternoon. He’d never hated himself as much as he did now. He downed the pills and went to bed, even though he knew oblivion was too good for him.

  When he woke it might’ve been the same day, the next day or a week later. He could smell food cooking. He had a stunning headache, and his mouth felt like he’d been licking a beach. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head. On the bedside table where a pile of pills had been there was nothing but an empty glass of water. That meant he’d been waking and dosing again. It could be next year for all he knew.

  He made it through a hot shower without falling over, or getting his plaster wet but couldn’t manage to get the bandage off the stitched hand with his teeth. Whoever was out there cooking would come in handy. He stood in the kitchen doorway. He expected Bo, or maybe the housekeeper. He saw Jiao with a large carving knife in her hand.

  “Oh God. I’ve died and gone to Shenzhen.”

  She dropped the knife and rounded the kitchen bench. She was furious with him. She put her hand on his chest and shoved hard. “You talk now.” She shoved him again.

  “You made me crawl all over town looking for you.” She shoved a third time, so he gave a little, took a step back.

  “Not where you’re supposed to be in the hospital. Not in the apartment. Not at the office. Not at Pete’s. Not at the villa. I thought you might be dead, and no one remembered to tell me.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Bo?”

  “You think that lapdog would tell me where you were unless you wanted it? I had to break a window to get in here.”

  “You broke in?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t answer your phone.”

  “I’m sure Pete knew where I was.”

  “Peter is in Sydney. He didn’t know you’d checked yourself out. I had to tell him you were here.”

  “Sydney?”

  “You are the worst ex-boyfriend ever. I’ve had ex’s who pledged undying love, leave their wives, buy me jewels and threaten suicide to get me back, but you—you have to get your face all over the news—what were you doing to that poor man? Get kidnapped, jailed and beaten near to death. Then, as if that’s not enough, you lose your memory and don’t talk for eight months.”