Detained (28 page)

She sighed. “Something like that.” This was one story where she’d never have to stand with the press pack to hear about a lead but Andy hadn’t worked that out. And her strongest lead just entered the room, looking dishevelled and haggard but smiling.

“I have to go.”

“Un-fucking-believable.”

She hung up on Andy. Yes it was.

“The superior man thinks always of virtue; the common man thinks of comfort.” — Confucius

Bright, bright. Pain. Pain like fire. Burning. Oh God.

Will opened his eyes, he was being held down, strapped down. A gag in his mouth he couldn’t spit out. The kidnappers had him. They wore white. He was so tired. His throat hurt. His head felt like a balloon. Then he remembered, they had her too. He tried to get up, he had to get up, go to her, but he was so tired, so tired.

Bright. Pain. Burning.

Who were these people? White uniforms. Chinese. He couldn’t understand what they were saying. They seemed pleased to see him. They were fussing about. They took the gag out. He nearly choked, vomited. Where was he? Who were these people? What did they want from him?

Bright. Daylight. Where am I?

Something in his hand. A voice told him to squeeze and it would make the pain go away, help him sleep. The pain was bad. That’s all he knew. He squeezed.

Where am I? Oh God.

It hurt to open his eyes. He was in a very clean room. In a bed. He needed to get up and look for her. He was late. She was lost. He tried to sit up but he was too weak. He looked at his hand, there was a syringe plunger taped to his palm. He pressed it.

This was a hospital. Why? What happened?

He could feel warmth on his face. Sunlight through a window. He opened his eyes. Tried to sit up. A horrible beeping. Like a siren. He’d go deaf. A woman came running. She made it quiet. She told him to rest. He didn’t know who she was. Not a nurse. Black suit, Chinese. She said his family were waiting. She lied. He didn’t have any family. They were all dead. He closed his eyes. There was no point being awake.

Try to wake up.

Someone was holding his hand. He didn’t know who she was. He tried to speak but the words in his head wouldn’t come to his tongue. He moved his hand and she opened her eyes and smiled. Blonde, pretty, eyes like a doll. Who was she? Why was she holding his hand? He had a terrible headache. She was crying. He wished she’d go away. He had to find someone important. Someone who was lost. He couldn’t stay here. He closed his eyes.

Awake. What the fuck happened? Who the fuck am I?

The man said he owed him a harp. He didn’t know who this man was. He closed his eyes. He remembered what a harp was. Made weird sounds. Silk and steel. He knew about grey silk dresses with crystals and pearls. He knew about steel too, but it was hard to remember.

Earlier they’d poked and prodded him, asked him questions. Doctors, that’s what they were. This was a hospital. He’d been here for a while. They kept asking him for his name. He had no idea. But he knew what a harp was and he knew about silk and steel. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t stay awake.

“Who?”

The man said, “Jesus, God, Will,” then he started shouting, “He’s awake, he spoke,” and the nurse came. The man was smiling, rubbing his eyes. He looked familiar. “Do you know who I am?”

He did know this man. Not Chinese, finally someone who wasn’t Chinese. He had a terrible headache, and it was too bright in this room. It was hard to make words come. “Why?”

“You’re in the hospital, Will. Do you know who I am?”

The man’s clothes were crushed. He had a fancy watch. What was his name?

The woman in white said, “Don’t worry. It’s a good start.” This upset the man. He walked away from the bed. He was very tall. He was familiar.

“Peter.”

The man turned, he smiled. “God, Will. It’s good to have you back.”

“Vessy.”

The man leaned over the bed, he looked worried. “You always call me Pete and I’m not Vessy anymore. My name is Peter Parker. Do you know who I am to you?”

“School.”

“Yes, we went to school together. Can you remember anything else?”

“Steel.”

“Yes, we have a business together. We make things with steel. Do you know your name?”

He shook his head. He was tired now. It was too hard to talk. He closed his eyes.

He heard them, they were worried about him. The man, Peter, and a Chinese woman in a black suit. They seemed to care about him. He had bandages everywhere and he couldn’t roll over. He was so tired. He had a syringe taped to his hand. He pressed it.

His name was Will Brown. He was from Tara and something bad happened there. He didn’t understand why he was in China, such a long way from Queensland, or why Peter Vessy was so concerned about him.

They gave him a mirror but a stranger looked back. So many cuts and bruises. An old scar, healed white, under his chin. He ran his finger over it, trying to remember how it got there.

They said he’d been attacked. He had a broken knee, four broken ribs, a broken collarbone, two broken fingers. He got shot in the shoulder and they broke his cheekbone, eye socket and nose. They damaged his brain and now he had trouble remembering. He had trouble talking as well. All he was good for was sleep.

Apart from the pain and having no memory, he was worried about what he should be doing instead of lying here. He felt anxious all the time. Peter said his only job was to get well, to rest and recover and then he’d start to remember. But he knew he needed to be somewhere, find someone, protect them, stay with them. He just didn’t know who that was or why he felt a pain he couldn’t locate in his body when he had that feeling. It was like a part of him was missing altogether, got left behind, left off the catalogue of his injuries, or cut out in surgery. It worried him more than the fact he had no balance and no feeling in his right hand.

He was in a new place now. A different hospital. Food still tasted bad, no matter what they fed him. He was allowed out of bed. But he couldn’t go far. He was so weak. He’d tried to read, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. They were just scribble. Today he’d gotten so angry he smashed a cup and plate. He felt angry all the time.

They told him to try to talk, but the words wouldn’t come out in the right order, so he made no sense. They told him he could speak several languages but now he couldn’t find the words of one.

Peter Vessy visited often. He’d changed a lot since school. He could look you in the face and he didn’t try to hide his height in a stoop. The man called Bo visited every day. He didn’t remember Bo. Bo said he was his driver, but he didn’t understand why he’d need a Chinese driver. He preferred it when Bo came. The man was quiet and didn’t expect anything from him. Peter was disappointed and frustrated all the time, though he tried not to show it.

Every day he had physiotherapy. He could walk and swim in a warm pool. He did stretches and strengthening exercises. He could feel his body getting slowly stronger. They told him he had remarkable healing properties, that his fitness before the attack was an asset to his recovery.

They couldn’t tell him anything about how long it would take to be able to talk, or remember or read.

Now when he slept he had vivid dreams of a gorgeous woman, blonde hair, lush, curvy body, big frightened eyes. There was water, fear and black smoke, men with guns and blood everywhere. Over and over she screamed his name. She was terrified. He always woke in a sweat after that dream, more disoriented than ever.

“Why come?” he asked Bo.

“Because you are my friend.” Was this grey-haired man with the calm expression his friend? It seemed unlikely, but Bo came every day, and even when Will barely acknowledged him, he stayed, sat quietly and didn’t demand anything.

“How?”

“I drove a taxi. One day, a freezing cold day, you got in. You had no coat. I thought you were a stupid foreigner to be so badly dressed. I pretended I didn’t understand English.”

“Friends?”

Bo laughed. “You had a map and you pointed to where you wanted to go. A bad part of town for a foreign man. I pretended I didn’t understand. I wasn’t going to take you there. I thought you’d get out of the car, but you offered to pay me whatever fee I named. Then I knew you were crazy. If you were dumb enough to throw money away on a taxi instead of a coat you deserved to be cheated.”

Will groaned. This was not great. He was learning that when he had a memory he was a stupid man.

Bo smiled. “I named an outrageous price and I drove you to the address. But I was curious about why you wanted to be there so I asked you in English. You laughed and said you lived there. I was amazed. You were a foreigner living in a part of town that was ready to be demolished. I couldn’t understand why you’d want to do that. You said where you lived wasn’t important, because you were going to make a fortune and buy a mansion in the French Concession.”

Will groaned again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest of this. He was a complete twat.

“You told me I was the last honest taxi driver in Shanghai because I’d only tried to charge you twice, not many times the price of the fare. You asked me if I would be your regular driver and to name my fee. I was intrigued by your strange accent and your confidence. But I still thought you were stupid. I named a price. You said you’d pay me a third of it. Then I knew you weren’t so dumb. You knew exactly the cost of things, and the price of people.”

Will shook his head. It didn’t sound like any life he’d lived.

“Next morning I picked you up and took you to an office, big new building. You tell me this is your company’s office and I think you’re lying. You live in a condemned building and you don’t have a coat. I go inside with you and this office is very professional. You have a secretary. So I ask again. And you say, ‘The superior man thinks of virtue, the common man thinks of comfort’. You know Confucius. You tell me your own personal comfort doesn’t matter. All your energy and money goes into building your business. I became your driver that day, and your friend. I have worked for you for ten years.”

Will closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember anywhere he lived, or an office or being cold. He didn’t know where the French Concession was but he thought maybe he did know Bo. “Teach?”

“Yes. I taught you Shanghainese and Cantonese. You learned some Mandarin from your mistress.”

“Miss?”
Fuck
. That was interesting news. He had a mistress. Was this the blonde woman in his dreams?

“Yes. All the women love you. You had many girlfriends, but you got tired of them. Too much trouble. You took a mistress instead. More convenient and no expectations.”

“Where?”

“You were together a long time, and she wanted to marry you, but Jiao is not the one you love. She is in Shenzen now. You bought her a spa business. You called it a going away present. She wants to come here to see you but Peter said no.”

He’d had a mistress named Jiao, but he sent her away. She didn’t sound blonde, but he suddenly knew she was elegant and regal and swore like a trucker. He saw a grand old house in a gracious tree lined street. He’d lived there. He saw an apartment high above the city. Glass and wood, sky and cloud. He’d lived there too. He smelled leather and felt warmth in his hand and knew Bo had driven a powerful car and brought him strong black coffee. He turned to Bo. His friend wore a wedding ring, but his wife died of cancer a long time ago.

There were images in his head. Disconnected; out of sequence, like scenes from dozens of different movies spliced together.

Hiding in the dark. Dead eyes staring. Spiderman. A pile of books. A steel mill, spooky under moonlight. Black satin sheets in a bedroom opening out onto a lake. Cuffs tight around his wrists. A pocketful of tiny crystals and pearls. A cold steamed dumpling broken in four. Blonde hair and Bruce Lee.

His surname wasn’t Brown.

There was a riverbank, it was night and he itched. He put his hand to his nose, straight now, perfect after surgery, but that night, broken for the second time.

He was starting to remember.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” — Confucius

The suit wardrobe provided was pinstriped. They teamed it with a red camisole. You’d only see a small V of it, a hint of lace, an acceptable suggestion of sex, under the businesslike jacket on camera. It was a nice suit, reminded her of a nicer one.

“You good, Darce? You’ve gone white.”

Darcy shook her head and smiled at Nadia. “I’m good.” She wriggled her toes, looked down at her bare feet, trying to collect herself. It happened less often now, the sudden disorienting flashbacks to Quingpu, but nearly eight months on they could still catch her off guard. “What shoes for this?”

“Red heels. But you’re doing this one in the studio, right, you can wear your Uggs if you want to.”

“Too weird, even though I know as far as the camera is concerned I have no legs.”

Nadia flattened one hand across her curly hair, the other under her chest in a frame. “That’s the reason they call ‘em talking heads.”

Darcy stepped into the heels. Red like red bean soup. Red like Will’s blood coating his side and arm, dripping on the floor. Damn. She needed to get some air, get a grip before she went into the studio.

The counsellor said it was normal to have panic attacks after what she’d been through, but current affairs show hosts didn’t crack up before going on air and expect to keep anchoring the country’s second highest rating news program.

“Eat something, Darce. I know I’m not supposed to believe there’s such a thing as too thin for TV, but you look like you could do with a good feed.”

Darcy studied herself in the mirror. She was thinner than she’d ever been in her life, and it hadn’t been hard to get that way. After Shanghai, food lost its attraction and working hard helped keep her weight down. Of course the station bosses liked her this way, so it was part of the package. Part of what she did to earn her seven figure salary. Being thin was synonymous with successful. It was the perfect accessory for her sky-blue convertible, her beach view apartment and her designer wardrobe. It went well with her public profile, those invitations to opening nights, charity spokesperson roles, and social pages pictures. And it supported her newly acquired professional reputation as cool and collected under fire.