Detained (2 page)

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. The Chinese Embassy in Sydney issued this visa. How can it be invalid?”

“Your visa is invalid. You will be detained until we can solve this problem.”

“Detained? No, you can’t hold me.”

The official handed Darcy her passport and immigration card. “You are welcome to return to Australia.”

She tried to hand them back. “No. I have business in Shanghai. I’m sure my visa is valid.”

“Your visa is invalid. If you wish to enter into China you will be detained until we can solve this problem.”

“Where will you detain me? How long will you hold me?”

“Here at the airport until we solve this problem.”

“But how long might that take?”

The official shrugged. “The paperwork must be in order before you can enter the country. If you wish to think about this, you must stand aside.”

Standing aside was less threatening than being detained. Darcy had travelled widely through Asia and Europe, and even in Africa had never once been detained for a visa irregularity. She stood aside, in limbo between the queue of passengers and a barrage of immigration officials. Not that she had another choice. The passenger behind her had already taken her place at the counter.

She was rapidly assessing her options as that passenger was replaced by another and it became obvious she’d stand there all night unless she made another decision. Before another changeover could take place she stepped back into the line.

“I’d like to enter Shanghai. I’m sure my visa is valid. I trust you’ll only detain me until you can make contact with the embassy in Sydney to confirm my details.” She felt vaguely stupid for crossing her fingers while she said that.

The official raised an arm and another uniformed officer stepped forward. He motioned for her to follow, leading Darcy down one corridor after another until she thought they’d surely emerge somewhere in the middle of the Bund. So far, being detained was likely to give her blisters and a sore shoulder from tugging her wheelie suitcase. Getting out of detention without assistance would probably require breadcrumbs. How thoughtless of her not to have dropped them.

At the door to a nondescript room in a nondescript corridor, the official stopped and motioned to her to enter. “You will be advised when your visa has been validated.”

“How long will I need to wait?”

“Not long.”

“How long?”

The official smiled, revealing jumbled teeth, as if that might make his lack of information more palatable. “Not long.”

He opened the door, stepped inside the darkened room and turned on the lights. Then he was off down the corridor like he was being chased by a swarm of bees.

The room was windowless. There was a table and a scattering of regulation plastic chairs, a brown couch and a water dispenser, but no cups. There was also a small bathroom with a toilet and basin. It was about ten degrees colder than it was in the rest of the airport.

Welcome to Shanghai.

She threw herself on the ugly couch. She was tired from the ten hour flight. She was hungry. She had the beginnings of a headache from the amount of cramming she’d done—reading up on Chinese business regulations, and what little there was publicly available on the privately held Parker Corporation.

She’d spent most of the flight with what might be pictures of Will Parker scrounged from files and internet image matching services taped to her upright tray table. If this was Parker, he was tall, had dark hair, a square jaw and glasses. He wore a business suit well; and an expression of superiority better. In a tux with a glamorous Chinese woman on his arm, he was definitely social pages drool-over material.

The only thing Darcy was drooling over was the thought of her hotel room, being able to have a hot shower, and stretch out full-length in bed. At least she’d brought a wrap. She dug it out of her wheelie bag and snuggled into it. It was a poor substitute for the overcoat she’d have packed if she’d known her damn visa was going to be invalid, and she’d end up in a freezing cold room somewhere in the backblocks of Pudong airport, where she might well starve to death because they forgot about her.

How long was how long realistically likely to be? Worst case, she’d spend the night in detention. But surely not. Surely someone would phone Sydney tonight, and sort it out.

Thank God she’d taken the Friday flight. She had the weekend to get over the detention ordeal before she needed to front at Parker’s office for her interview.

She sat shivering on the couch. When her stomach rumbled audibly she stood and paced about the small room. Damn, this wouldn’t do. There was no way she was spending the night here. She got to her feet and went for the door. She’d find someone who could fix this mess, if she had to stand in the corridor and scream fire till someone showed up.

Someone showed up before she had the chance. Smiley was back and he had another passenger with him. A man dragging a carry-on bag, worn blue jeans and a crushed white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He spoke Mandarin, or maybe it was the local dialect to the official. He didn’t seem happy. Neither of them acknowledged her.

“Excuse me. Do you have an invalid visa too?” she said.

The man turned. He had thick, dirty blond hair and deep ocean blue eyes. Thirty-something, six foot-ish, muscular, a knockabout rumpled look to him.

“Yeah, you too?” he said with a laugh, and an Australian accent.

“Were you on QF129?

“You?” He had sandy eyebrows and a crooked nose that looked like it might have been broken a time or two.

“Yeah. Do you know what’s going on?”

“What kind of game are you in?”

“I’m a journalist, with the
Sydney Herald
.”

“Right, well that accounts for you then. Sometimes they make you sweat.”

“Are you a journo too?”

Quick head shake, slow blink. “No. I have a business here.”

“This has happened to you before? How worried should I be?”

He held up a hand, a give me a minute gesture. He turned to Smiley and rattled something off. Smiley responded with head nods, exited and closed the door on them.

Darcy figured her expression must have bled annoyed. Her fellow detainee was apologetic, as though it was his fault. “Don’t worry. This is all about the inconvenience. They’ll likely hold you for a few hours, and then let you go as if nothing happened.”

“They didn’t take my passport.”

“Right. Like I said, it’s all about the inconvenience.” He dragged his wheelie bag further into the room and tucked an e-reader deeper into a zip pocket. “I ordered us dinner.”

“You ordered us dinner. How many times have you been detained?”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “I hope you like Chinese food.”

“I’m starving. I’ll eat anything. Does your influence extend to getting the air-con adjusted to somewhere north of South Pole?”

He glanced around, grimaced. He had the white line of a scar under his chin. “You’re right, it is a bit chilly. Wait till the dentist’s dream comes back and I’ll see what I can do.”

Darcy smiled. He’d noticed the teeth. He’d ordered food. He seemed to know the drill, and he was someone to talk to. Detention was looking up. If he could get the air fixed, the evening might not be a complete loss. She watched as he sat at the table. He didn’t appear to be the least bothered by all this.

“Where are you from?”

“Small town in Queensland. Tara. Population of about eight hundred on pension cheque day. You?” He had a slow drawl, a country town cadence when he spoke in English. His Chinese was rapid fire.

“Sydney. Small suburb, Dover Heights. The daggy cousin sandwiched between funky Bondi and toffee-nosed Rose Bay.”

She got a full mouthed smile. It transformed him from pleasant looking to ruggedly attractive. “I would never call you daggy.”

“Thank you. I’ve tried to rise above. You’re a long way from Tara.”

“And I regularly thank whatever deity made that possible.”

“What kind of business do you have?”

He flicked a hand dismissively. “Export.”

“Were you speaking Mandarin? Where did you learn?”

“That was Shanghainese. I learned it here.”

“Impressive for a boy from Tara.”

She thought he might smile again, but he played it straight. “It was essential.”

“So why have they detained us?”

He leant forward, put his forehead on the table; his voice was muffled, “Because they can.” It made her chuckle. The man from Tara could be funny.

“I thought things had loosened up towards foreigners.”

“They have. I’ve lived here for ten years now. It’s vastly more accommodating. The city is almost unrecognisable from when I arrived; entirely modernised. Still, sometimes things get a little confusing.”

“I’m lucky they got you too. I was ready to break-out, make a run for it. You make it sound like a speed bump. I was gearing up for an international incident my editor could make a headline out of.” Darcy opened her arms to simulate something big. “‘Sydney Journalist Detained by Chinese Government. Subhead—Freezes to Death’.”

“Sorry to disappoint your editor.”

“Disappointment is currently his middle name. He wanted to be here instead of me.”

“Why are you here?”

“To interview Will Parker. Do you know him?”

“Bit of a recluse I hear.”

“I guess he doesn’t show up at expat barbies. How long do you think they’ll keep us? We can make an international incident from not very much you know.”

“To think I trusted the Australian media.”

Darcy gave him an arched eyebrow and a shrugged shoulder and he laughed, the sound coming from low in his broad chest; a warm rumble, before he answered her question. “They’ll keep us long enough to be annoying. Worst case midnight.”

That was five hours away. Five hours in a small cold room with nothing to do except pass the time with the attractive man from Tara.

“
No matter how busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading, or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance.” — Confucius

She was a knockout.

Was that still the word for it? Pete would say she was a babe. She was wasted on print journalism. Should’ve been on the TV news, fronting her own current affairs program. And that was just her face. He couldn’t see the rest of her. She was on the couch huddled into a blue scarf thing. She had huge round doll eyes and golden hair, tied loose at the back of her neck. Smooth, rosy skin, cheekbones sharp enough to shave on, no makeup, simple gold studs in her ears. No artifice. Classy.

She was obviously anxious, appropriately so, but she wasn’t panicked. He could imagine her in the hallway shouting until someone came and sorted things out. He could see her flexing her intellect in a busy newsroom. She’d have determination and focus. She’d have quick elbows and a tough hide, despite the dewy skin.

She was freezing. He’d have to do something about the air-con. Meanwhile she could have his jacket. He dug it out of his carry-on. “Put this on.”

“Oh, no thank you, it’s okay. I’d have packed thermals if I’d have known it’d be like this in the middle of summer.”

“You won’t need thermals when you get outside.”

“Good to know.”

“Please, take my jacket. You’re shivering.”

“That’s very gallant of you, but I’m fine.”

“I’m not cold.”

She gave him that big-eyed look, one eyebrow raised. This time it said either ‘you’re kidding me’ or ‘you’re an idiot’.

“I’m not cold. Look if I get cold, I’ll, er, I’ll flap my arms, do push-ups.”

That eyebrow stayed raised. His left thumb itched to trace over it, to understand what it meant. He wasn’t supposed to feel like that. He studied her face; those pale green eyes were twin danger signs. Okay, that look definitely said ‘you’re an idiot’. Might as well conform to expectations.

He dropped to the floor and slammed through quick push-ups, counting them out loud. At five, he almost abandoned ship, but she started laughing. Not at him, hard or brittle, but with him, soft and generous.

“Okay, you win. I’ll take your jacket.”

He did two more for the sheer show of it, then tossed her his jacket, and busied himself zipping his carry-on. What the fuck was that about? He wasn’t just warm now, he was burning up. One pretty face had reduced him to a teenage macho blockhead in about fifteen minutes, what were the next five hours going to be like?

Five hours with nothing to do except listen to her pepper him with questions and appraise him with those ethereal eyes. Last time he’d spent five obligation free hours with a beautiful woman was...? Yeah, that’s about right. Not in living memory. He’d need to keep his inner dickhead under control to make it manageable.

While he fiddled with his carry-on, she’d worn his jacket over her shoulders. But now she was skipping respectful of other people’s property, and launching straight into practical. She was on her feet shoving her arms into the sleeves. She was curvy in all the right places, in blue jeans and a soft, pale blue, short-sleeved t-shirt. Not one of those women afraid to eat. Not that it mattered. What she looked like was irrelevant. But he’d always been a sucker for a naturally pretty face, and a good laugh. Not that it mattered, but that body didn’t disappoint. Now she had the scarf wound around her neck and the jacket zipped, the cuffs turned back. It hung down to her mid thigh—looked ridiculous. Made him feel like laughing, but not at her.

She clocked him watching her. “Thank you. Maybe we can take it in turns,” she said.

“What, you can do push-ups?”

She laughed, notes of music. “I’m more of a yoga girl, but sure, if I have to, I’ll have a go.”

“Yoga. Been practising long?”

“New to it. It’s good for my brain.”

“I guess you work in a stressful environment.”

“Yes. It can be stressful, deadline driven, but I love it. Is stress a big deal for an exporter?”

“It can be.”

“How do you cope?”

Pete would say, not well. That he was an uptight, way too buttoned down, blowhard with an increasingly limited comfort zone, way too much filthy water on his chest, and a short fuse.
Fuck Pete
. Pete’d think he’d popped a brain cell if he’d seen the push-ups.