Detained

“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 exer

cises. 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?