Detained

by Ainslie Paton

  And some creative wit dug up a picture of her from three years ago and juxtaposed it against a current shot. In the older photograph she was at a barbeque wearing shorts and a plain white t, hair in a tumble down ponytail, sunglasses propped on her head, tanned, a smile on her face and a cricket bat in her hand. The newer shot showed her looking pensively at her watch. It was fat, carefree and happy, alongside skinny, anxious and lonely. The headline said “Love Hurts: Darcy Pines for Will”.

  When she wasn’t in front of a camera or dodging real and imagined ones, she shut herself away. She found it impossible to fathom how her life became such a circus. How buying a takeaway coffee and telling the friendly barista she had a headache could turn into: “TV Star Plagued by Illness”.

  Meanwhile, being lovelorn was good for ratings. They were up, in direct proportion to Darcy’s irritability and indecision and the general expectation this real-life love story still had legs.

  Brian thought the whole thing was a huge laugh. The inevitable consequence of chasing fame over substance. Andy was largely silent after sniping she was well paid for any inconvenience.

  Will didn’t have the same problem. He was vapour. He’d told journalists he was going home and wasn’t seen again. That headline, “Will Parker Leaves TV Star at Altar”, which hit supermarket checkouts two days later, led Alan to ask if her China entry visa was up to date. He was counting down the weeks and so was Darcy.

  Her lawyer said the network had her locked in good, she’d be able to fight any suit but she’d have to pay court costs. If she lost she’d end up with nothing except a reputation for being difficult.

  His solution had two parts. Part one: try to persuade Will to do an exclusive interview and hope he accepted. If not, hope her sterling efforts in good faith to the contrary made the network back off. Or part two: quit. Do something else. The network couldn’t touch her if she quit.

  He said that from the comfort of his palatial Phillip Street offices, wearing a tailor-made suit Peter Parker would’ve approved of. If he’d ever struggled to pay the rent and build his professional credibility, if he’d ever had to ‘take one for the team’ and work freelance with no guaranteed payday, it was a long time ago and well forgotten.

  Darcy still sat on her old couch and had a wardrobe full of chain store clothes hanging shoulder to ragged hemline beside her designer ones. Failure wasn’t an option, and neither was quitting, until she could plan an exit with a salary attached to it, and since Alan’s six week deadline had narrowed to three surprisingly quickly, she needed to act.

  The obvious solution was the one that left her staring at the ceiling at night and bribing the makeup crew to take special care with the black stains under her eyes. She needed to talk to Will.

  She’d needed to talk to him almost from the moment she’d hung up on him and gave Bo an overlong hug that signalled goodbye. But she’d been so hurt by his rejection, so shocked and confused by his declaration and its aftermath, she’d been emotionally spent.

  As the days went on and the circus rolled into town, pitched tents and tossed out clever headlines and Will remained silent, it became harder to see what the point of a long distance chat would be, other than more aching awkwardness and doubletalk.

  But it was that or quit and she wasn’t quitting till she was out of options. And maybe, just maybe, she could convince Will his first big Australian-based interview should be with the person who had once been selected for it, and had no motivation to make it hard for him.

  She told Alan she was going after the interview, but she’d need to talk to Will face to face if she had any chance of convincing him to do it. Alan gave her five working days to get to Shanghai and back with a commitment from Will to be interviewed exclusively in a special profile edition of the program before the year was out.

  She could’ve done it in less time and argued it, but Alan held out. She looked tired and the five days straight, nine days in total off camera, would give Liarne an excellent chance to get comfortable hosting the whole show. No one was saying it, but it was a threat anyway and not even Nadia was pretending otherwise.

  She needed to call Will and warn him she was coming. She’d never had a mobile number for him, and she’d learned enough about him to know he wasn’t a desk jockey. He was more likely to be out and about. She hit on Bo first. Where Bo was, Will wasn’t likely to be far. But Bo’s voicemail had an instruction in Shanghainese she couldn’t understand.

  Next stop Parker HQ. She dialled hands-free. “This is Darcy Campbell for Will Parker please.”

  She got, “Hold please,” and wondered why she hadn’t done this first.

  “Hello Darcy, this is Wendy. I’m afraid Will isn’t here.”

  “Oh, hi Wendy, can you tell me when he’s due back?”

  “I’m sorry I’m not able to do that.”

  “Doesn’t have to be today, I’m just keen to talk to him.”

  “Um, maybe I should put you through to Peter.” Did Wendy sound nervous?

  “No, don’t worry Peter. Just let me know when you think it would be a good time to call for Will.”

  “See that’s it. I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “No, no. Oh, you should really talk to Peter.”

  Darcy sighed. She didn’t want to make life hard for Wendy. “Okay, is Peter available?”

  “Yes, I’ll put you through.”

  “Darcy.” Peter sounded tired. He sounded wary. She couldn’t blame him. Her name had more often than not been associated with bad news as far as Peter was concerned.

  “Hi Peter. I didn’t want to bother you, I was calling for Will.”

  “Right.” Peter shifted from weary to crisp. “Anything in particular?”

  What was this? Bo, Wendy and now Peter giving her the stonewall treatment. Wariness yes, but she didn’t think she inspired hostility. “Okay, now I’m worried. Is something wrong?”

  “No. Can Aileen help you?”

  “No, Peter, what’s going on. Why can’t I talk to Will?”

  Peter expelled an impatient breath. “Because he’s not here.”

  “Not in the office?”

  “Not in Shanghai.”

  Not ‘home’? She should’ve figured Will would be smart enough to misdirect. “Ah, can you give me a number where I can reach him? Bo’s not picking up, and I never did have a direct number for Will.”

  “I’m not going to do that.” Peter used his lawyer voice.

  “You’re not?”

  “I think it’s safe to say you and Will aren’t good for each other.”

  At her desk in the studio, Darcy pulled a paperclip apart. Finding Will was supposed to be the easy bit. Talking to him was going to be a wrench, and convincing him to do the interview was where she’d expected to sweat and maybe have her hopes die. But Peter was giving her enough grief to make her suspect unemployment was her immediate future. Not good enough. It wasn’t his call.

  “Ah, let me make sure I understand, Peter. Not more than two months ago you sat across from me at M and convinced me to go and see Will in rehab a second time. That wasn’t a good experience for any of us. Then I tell you he’s in Australia, during which he outs me publicly and messes up my life, and now you’re saying you won’t give me a contact for him.”

  “Excellent summary of events.” Peter the lawyer again.

  The paperclip was in four pieces. She started on another one. “What am I missing here?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, excellent summary.”

  “Peter, does Will want contact from me blocked or do you?”

  “Will doesn’t want much of anything.”

  “I see. So you’re making Will’s decisions for him now.”

  Peter gave a bitter laugh. “The day I make more than the most cursory decisions for Will is the day pandas dance down the Bund in leather chaps.”

  “He owes me one.”

  “You’re not serious, Darcy?”

  Darcy shifted in her
seat at the anger in Peter’s tone. “I am. He turned my life into a circus.”

  “You mean your boosted public profile, your enhanced ratings and the inconvenience of losing your privacy?”

  Her hands stilled. She was alone, but she picked up the receiver. She’d heard Peter sound like this, sound like Will—hard and uncompromising—twice before. Both times he was protecting Will. Something was wrong.

  “You’re right, but—”

  “I never thought I’d have to remind you that when you interfered with Will’s privacy he lost his liberty and almost his life.”

  “Peter.”

  “Kind of a bigger deal than being asked for your autograph one time too often. So, am I being protective of Will? Too right. Do I want you to stay the hell away from him? You bet I do.”

  Darcy sighed. It started in her toes. By the time it reached her lips she felt nauseous. “Peter, I’m very fond of Will. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, you know that. But I need to talk to him. Tell me why I can’t do that.”

  Peter breathed heavily down the line. Darcy bit her tongue to stop from jumping into the conversation. She needed to give him time to answer. She picked up a pen and doodled on the pad in front of her, a couple of lines that turned into a tree.

  “I don’t know where he is.” Peter sounded agonised. “Oh, he checks in once a day, reliable as religion, cheerful as sunshine. Says he’ll be back when he’s finished doing what he needs to do.”

  “Do you know what that is?” She put squiggles for birds in the tree.

  “I have no fucking clue. You have to understand, Will was always my North Star. I always knew where I was in the world by where Will was, or where he told me to be.” Peter grunted in annoyance. “I’m making myself sound rudderless. That’s not what I mean, but you don’t know what it was like for me as a kid, and what Will did for me.”

  “He told me he put you in hospital over jigging school.” She grounded the tree in wavy lines to represent earth.

  “He told you that?” Peter sounded embarrassed. “He didn’t mean to hurt me. And he never did again. He was right. I should’ve been at school. He’s always been right and always been where I could find him. This whole year, it’s been rough on me too.”

  Now she drew a square, added a triangle on top. She looked down at the pad.

  “I think I know where he is.” Her doodle was inspired by Will’s tattoo.

  “I’ve had people looking for him. How could you know?”

  “I’m not sure, but he told journalists he was going home. I figured home meant Shanghai, but I think he’s gone to Tara.”

  “Tara!” The word came out of Peter like a detonation. “The one place, he’d know I’d never look. Why would he go to Tara? There’s nothing there. He kicked out of Tara and never looked back. He hates the place. We both do.”

  “Something bad happened in Tara, didn’t it Peter?”

  “We had tough childhoods, he told you that.”

  “Something more.”

  Peter went silent. Darcy waited.

  “Will has demons in Tara.”

  “Then he’s gone to face them.”

  41. Blockies

  “If either wealth or poverty are come by honesty, there is no shame.” — Confucius

  Even the trees looked shorter.

  When Will was a kid, those gums had been giants, with big grey limbs that would crash to the ground. They could kill you, those gums, if you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now they were just trees, not something else about this place out to get him.

  Everything about Tara was like the trees on the block. Familiar but different. Reduced.

  From the deck of the kit home, Will watched the creek. He’d been on the block for three weeks now and while much of that time he’d been busy getting the house sorted out, it wasn’t a good excuse for not taking five minutes to walk down there. It was out and out avoidance.

  Bo had. He’d spent several afternoons pretending to fish, but Will suspected, secretly snoozing in the shade. Tomorrow Bo was taking the ute and hitting the road, his first Australian adventure solo.

  He looked more at home here now, his bewilderment at meeting rural Australia and hearing its accent had been a good foil for Will’s own ambivalence about coming back. He’d been able to look at the place through Bo’s eyes when using his own got too hard.

  Will sat on the deck, his hat down over his face, Pete Murray singing in his ears, and replayed that first day back in Tara.

  The town had barely changed at all. There were two new cafés. One looked like it might attempt decent coffee. The pub had been renovated, the Chinese was a Thai and the bank was a grocery store. The school had a new fence and was painted yellow instead of the green of Will’s day.

  The layout of the streets was the same, they were filled with the same mix of weatherboard and brick homes, some painted proud, with gardens, some worse for wear; but the suburb looked smaller, more tightly huddled together, as if for security against the vastness of the space around.

  Karen Fredrick’s rented cottage was derelict. Parched to grey. Entire boards gone. Every window stone blown. From the street front you could see straight past the long gone front door down the hall to the overgrown backyard. Karen had a fiancé back then. He drove long haul trucks and wasn’t around much, until the day he lost his licence for speeding, and he and Karen moved to Brisbane. The school had needed a new history teacher and Will had needed a new outlet for his restless energy. It amazed him now to think it had taken him till Shanghai to find it.

  Remembering how Karen taught him more than history in that house was a warm vision amongst the curled up and dry ones.

  He’d driven through the town, crawl slow, in the rented ute with Bo in the passenger seat. It’d amused them both, this reversal, but Will had been itching to drive, and in a place where the rules were less random and they’d hardly meet another car, he could do it one-handed.

  It rocked Bo’s world: the vast emptiness, the distances, the way the people on the street stared open-mouthed at them as though they were aliens piloting a rocket ship.

  “Makes my village look cosmopolitan,” he’d said. “And you say no one will know you here?”

  “Nope. Fifteen years ago. I might recognise some old-timers, but the town was busted even back then, the population dying off or passing through.”

  Will cruised to a stop outside a little park, a couple of craggy trees, a bench to sit on.

  “Back then the place was bigger. The state government had a scheme to sell land off cheap, encourage people to move out here. They thought they’d build a farming community, but the blocks were too small, and the people who bought them had no idea how to farm.”

  “Why did they come?”

  “I guess thinking they could build a better life. For ten dollars they got a block of land with no water, sewer or power to it. The services were supposed to come. They never did. But the people were stuck. There was no industry in town, no jobs. They lived in sheds and kit garages and went on the dole. They stole power off the grid, had water when it rained, and jerry-rigged everything else with whatever was to hand.

  “The townies called them blockies. Hated them. They were an invading force and they were a drain on the community.”

  “Your family were blockies?”

  “No, my foster family, the Dunns, they were townies.”

  Bo had turned to him, “Show me the house you lived in.”

  “Can’t. But I can show you were it was.” Will inclined his head, used his plastered hand to point out the window. “I bought it, razed it, put in the park and gave it to the council.”

  Bo got out and walked across the dry grass, stood in the middle of the park, bordered on one side by a brick house and the other by a side street. Will had watched him, thinking of Mrs Dunn. For the two years he’d lived with the Dunns she’d been good to him, patient with him. Helped him learn to read. If Bo had looked on the back of the bench he’d have seen a plaqu
e donating the park in her name. Will had been a fourteen your old boy who only knew how to express himself physically with his fists, with his body, and Mrs D hadn’t been around long enough to see him learn how to use his brain.

  Bo got back in the car, bringing a wave of heat with him. “What happened? To them, to you?”

  “Mrs D died, cancer I think. Mr D never knew what to do with me when she got sick. When she died he sent me to Pete’s dad. I was supposed to labour for him, work on his block and look out for Pete after school and weekends. One day I came home and the house was empty. He’d checked out. I had nowhere to go except to Pete’s.”

  Bo had been outraged. “Didn’t anyone in authority check on you?”

  Will shrugged, “Who knows. I guess I was hard to find.” He started the car, pointed it in the direction of what had become his home for three years.

  “Where was Pete’s mother?”

  “Shot through six months after they came here. Pete was thirteen. He never heard from her again.”

  “And Pete’s father, he accepted you?”

  “No, he fucking hated me. I was another mouth to feed, but I was useful as a worker and he was big man down at the pub for taking me on. I should’ve gotten out of there the first time he hit me.”

  “You stayed for Peter.”

  Will hadn’t wanted to lie to Bo, but the truth was tangled and hard to unwrap. “Don’t paint me a saint, Bo. I stayed because I had nowhere else to go.”

  “Peter told me you took his beatings and saved his life.”

  “Did Pete also tell you he did drama at university?”

  In his peripheral vision Will had seen Bo shake his head, but more at the whole conversation than the question. He deserved a better answer.

  “I stayed because I had nowhere to go and because of Pete. Norman used to belt him. Poor kid was always covered in bruises and cuts and I had a soft spot for him. He was smart in school, but he never laughed at me for being dumb.”