Detained (3 page)

Bo would have a quote. It’d be one of those ones he was never sure was real or made up to suit the moment.

The door opened, saving him from further introspection. Dinner. Smelled good. Dentist boy brought it in on a trolley: soup, rice, a chicken dish, vegetables, tea. No banquet but it would do.

He asked about the air-con while she set out plates and poured tea into cups. No deal. It was controlled somewhere else, and meant for a large space. This room was a wasteland where sensible temperature control came to die. Crap. He’d have packed thermals too.

When he sat she said, “Truth or dare?”

“It’s
tongzi
—young chicken. Safe to eat. Though the English translation is, ‘this chicken has no sexual experience’.”

She laughed. “No, I meant we have hours to fill. Are you up for some truth or dare?”

“Oh hell.” She wasn’t boring, you had to give her that. She was bright and amusing. It’d been a long time since he’d had dinner with a beautiful woman who wanted to play games that didn’t involve money and his eventual loss of it.

“Well, is there anything you’d rather talk about?” she said.

“Life—the meaning of.”

“I think I know the answer.”

“What?”

“Heat.”

It’d been a long time since he’d been with a woman who met his eyes and didn’t want anything. “Very cute. Let’s skip the dare part. I’m a wimp at heart. I’ll start. Truth—what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“I wanted to be a journalist like my Dad.” She served them both rice. “I still want to be like my Dad. He made me do it the hard way. No favours, no leg-up. He actually suggested I use a different surname.”

“Hardcore.” And impressive. She wasn’t giving him wistful or put upon, she was proud of doing it tough.

“I’m a better journalist than I might’ve been if I’d taken shortcuts. I’m still my father’s daughter though. He casts a long shadow.”

“And if you were your father’s son?”

“I’d be my brother, Andy.” She paused, chopsticks raised. “He’s a journo too, foreign correspondent. Award winner. What about you?”

“I always wanted to be an exporter.”

“You. Did. Not!”

He had to laugh. Not that he’d expected her to take that answer seriously. “I can’t remember.”

She was all cheekbones and spikes of sunshine. “Yes you can, you’re embarrassed. What does it matter if you tell me?”

“You’re a journalist.”

“Not in this room. I’m a fellow detainee.”

Good, that was established. “Okay, I’m—what do you call it—‘off the record’.”

She leant forward, dropped her voice lower. “Tell you a secret. There really isn’t any off the record, there’s only what’s negotiated. But for you, my fellow detainee,” she was laughing at him, “whatever you tell me in here is forever off the record.”

She stuck out a hand, and they shook across the virgin chicken and green peppers. “I’m honoured.” He was relieved. “I wanted to be rich.”

“What’s embarrassing about that?”

“It’s mercenary.”

“It’s practical. Did you make it?”

He reached for the teapot. “Would you like more tea?”

She held her cup out. “I take it that’s a no?”

He poured, watching the cup, knowing she was studying him with those big doll eyes. When he lifted the spout and met her gaze she was grinning.

“It’s not a ‘no’ is it? Good for you.” She’d sussed him right out, even when he’d been conscious of trying not to look smug. “My turn. Truth. Is there anything unusual about you?”

“I speak Shanghainese.”

“Apart from that. And not the small town boy makes good story either. Something I don’t know.”

“Bossy.”

He must’ve pulled a face because she leant back from the table, “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to annoy you. We don’t have to do this.”

They sure didn’t. But it would be interesting to see what it would take to shock her. “I didn’t learn to read until after I learned to drive a car.”

She looked bemused. She’d been watching him closely, she’d seen the Kindle.

“Visual dyslexia and teachers who didn’t know what to do about it, when I bothered to show up at school. I caught up, but not till my late teens.”

“Where were your parents?”

“I was a foster kid. Moved around so much no one picked it up, and I was good at hiding it.”

“That’s incredible. You have come a long way from Tara.” She said that like a caress, and damn if it didn’t make him feel relaxed, even though he was starting to get cold. “My turn. Truth. Why do you want to interview Parker?”

“Hah. Too easy. You wasted a good question. It’s a career-making interview. You know that long parental shadow? If I can get the definitive interview, I get to step out from under it. If I can get Parker to spill secrets, particularly about why he’s started buying up shares in Avalon mining, it’ll be a genuine breaking story. Parker doesn’t do media interviews. But all of a sudden he’s available. His people think we’re tame, that we’ll fall over our own feet to write a puff piece. That’s not my intention.”

“You’re right. I wasted a question. Who cares about bloody Will Parker?”

“I do. There has to be a reason he’s so deliberate about avoiding the spotlight and I wonder if it’s the same reason he appears to have built his empire out of nothing.”

“Maybe he has a terrible physical affliction—he’s a hunchback or a vampire.”

She laughed. “If he’s a hunchback, I promise I won’t be mean to him. But if he’s got fangs, I’m going to do whatever I can to stick a stake in his intentions to soft soap the Australian public.”

“I’m glad I’m just a boy from Tara and you’re just my fellow detainee.” Though she was so inspired and engaging, he was beginning to want to define detainee a different way.

“My go. Truth. Any scars?” she said. She touched her chin. She wanted the story.

Let’s see if this got her. “Hell yeah. You sure you want to know? We could be here all night.”

“I thought that was the detention plan.”

“Funny. You ready for this?”

“Only if it’s show and tell.”

“You asked for it.” It had to be said. He gestured to the back of his neck, but kept his eyes on hers. “There’s a scar here from where they removed the hunch.”

He’d hardly got the words out before she shoved the table so it butted against his gut, plates skidding, chopsticks scattering. She was choking on her laugher. “I get one dare for that. You are so going down.”

“No, no dares. Truth.” He pushed his sleeve up, displaying a burn scar. “Petrol fire.” He ran a finger under his chin, “Fight. Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tapped his nose, “Got this broken to go with it.” He pulled the neck of his shirt to the side, showing his pec and the faded line of stitches. “Knife.”

Her mouth dropped open. She had a freshly poured cup of tea in her hand, held aloft, forgotten.

“There’s more.” She shook her head, frowning. She’d heard enough. “Hey, it was a tough neighbourhood. What about you?”

“Nothing to speak of compared to you. Fifteen stitches from a badly split knee. I fell out of a tree.”

“Show and tell.”

She smiled, looked down at the waistband of her jeans. Her momentary loss of composure over. “Nice try. No way.”

“My question then. Most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”

“Death knocks.”

“That sounds bad, what is it?”

“When you knock on someone’s door and tell them their family member is dead so you can get their reaction, get the scoop; make the headline.”

“Shit.”

“It’s unbearable. They hate you. Sometimes they’re in such a daze, you’re inside on the family sofa drinking their tea before they even realise you’re a vulture. I’ll squeegee windscreens at traffic lights before I do that again. And you?”

He should’ve thought more about that question before he spat it out. “Hard to pick one. So many special times to choose from. A standout is putting my brother in hospital.” Those doll eyes gave nothing away, made him want to explain. “When you can’t read, the fist really is mightier than...well you get what I mean.”

She nodded. “Why did you hit him?”

“He was jigging school.”

“Didn’t you say you were too?”

She had him. “Yeah. But he was bright, a hell of a lot smarter than me. I needed him to do well in school. He didn’t appreciate the sentiment until I beat it into him.”

“Noble of you.”

“That’s me, noble. He went on to become a Rhodes scholar. I’d hit him again if I had to, just maybe not that hard.”

“Geez. Tough neighbourhood.”

One he didn’t need reminding of. “Is it my turn? Your biggest regret?”

“I regret... Actually I don’t regret anything. Not sure there’s much point in regret. You?”

“My brother would say I work too hard.”

“The scholar? What do you say?”

“One day I might regret working too hard.”

She was staring right at him. Her journalist’s probing look. “Favourite movie? Mine is
Little Miss Sunshine
. I love a quirky comedy.”

“That’s girly of you.”

“Hey, I’m not Lois Lane twenty-four-seven.”

“
The Departed
.”

“Yeah I can see that. All that intrigue and cop action. Favourite superhero?”

“Spiderman.”

“Why?”

“What’s not to like about a guy in a leotard fighting crime?”

“When you put it like that, but why not Batman or Superman?”

“You really want to talk about Spiderman?”

“I don’t really want to be detained.”

“It’s the leotard. He had a better leotard.”

She shook her head, not buying.

“Batman was a rich guy and Superman was an alien.”

She blinked at him.

“They didn’t have Spidey sense.” Doll eyes, blink, blink, she wanted more. “Spiderman was a kid when he got his powers, he was in school. He didn’t always do the right thing. He was persecuted.” Blink, blink. “He’s a functioning neurotic.”

Down went those eyelids, the lashes fanning out. Her cheeks went razor edge on the breadth of her smile and her laugh came from somewhere tropical and lush.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be cold again.

“What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.”— Confucius

He’d said he was a wimp at heart. But he’d punched his way through his teen years with Spiderman as his idol. And the man from Tara, the foster kid who couldn’t read, admitted to being rich and successful. He might’ve made an interesting interview. He was a genuinely engaging detention companion. This could’ve been so much worse. And if this wasn’t a cold, dull room, and she wasn’t passing through, it could’ve been something more.

“Is there a Mrs Man from Tara?” It felt like a useful slice of information for her awkwardly fizzing hormones to have.

“Ah, no.”

“Why not?”

“Dive right in there.” He didn’t like the question but he didn’t squirm or break eye contact. “Speaks to the whole I might regret working too hard thing. You?”

“I might regret working too hard.” She said it quickly, and watched him closely. He stacked the crockery, pushed it to the far edge of the table. He was a poker player and gave nothing away.

“Must be my turn for a question. Are you in love?” he said.

“I just told you.” She laughed at him. “You’re not very good at this are you? You wasted another question.” Either that or this was a bluff, a negotiating tactic.

“Answer the question or take a dare,” he said. It was an order, in a tone that was used to being obeyed. The command coming as easily as his breathing did.

“You wouldn’t?”

He folded his arms, and rocked into the back of his chair. He was an immoveable object. He so would.

“I’ve never been in love or met anyone I wanted to stay with in a forever sense.”

“Do you believe in forever?”

“That’s two questions. Some forevers. The bond between some parents and children. Some couples get lucky. But overall, no. I believe in making the best of the moment.”

He uncrossed his arms, looked less hard-baked. He seemed to like that answer. But she couldn’t have him feeling too comfortable, too in control. “I get two turns. Tell me about your first kiss?”

He spluttered a laugh, one hand going to his hair and combing through it. “We’re not about to play spin the bottle are we?”

“We’ll stick with truth or dare.” The thought of playing spin the bottle with Tara was a hot tickle to cold bones, not enough to want to remove her hands from the pockets of his jacket though.

His eyes went down to the table. He groaned. “Miss Fredrick.”

“If Miss Fredrick is a family friend or a neighbour, and this is about a kiss on the cheek, you are in serious dare territory.”

His eyes came up, no hint of embarrassment. He was still in the driver’s seat. “I assume you want the full adults only version. I’m skipping minor skirmishes behind the bike shed. I assume your next question will be about who I first had sex with. I’m giving you the two-part X-rated response.”

He looked completely serious. He might’ve been about to explain an international export regulation.

“I was fifteen, she was twenty-four. She was stacked. Long red hair. My year ten history teacher. I liked history, it was all about stories I could memorise. She kissed me in the classroom after she gave me a D for an essay on The Great Depression. Softening the blow. She wasn’t thinking clearly. I was angry. I was lonely. I wasn’t soft. She put her tongue in my mouth. I was in her bed that night and every night for the next six months. She still failed me. Bitch,” he finished on a grunted laugh.

He was sitting easy, one bent arm resting on the table edge, but there was something in his expression—a hardness, the brawler in him challenging her to recoil. It made him more intriguing. “That answer your question, Lois Lane?”

“Comprehensively.”

He broke eye contact. He was looking somewhere inside himself. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

She wanted to bring him back into the room. “In the spirit of the game, my first kiss was Nathan Tucker, we were both sixteen. We went steady for about six weeks. I was heartbroken when he chose dirt bike racing over me. I had sex with his older brother Ben a year later.”

“Was it good?”