Detained

“Fucking hell,” said Col. “Second from the left. Is that Will Parker?”

Darcy’s, “No, can’t be,” was out of her mouth before she realised Col was right. Will was standing next to Avalon’s Chairman Ted Barstow, looking freaked out about the media pack.

Ten days ago Will was in a rehab hospital punching out glass doors and fighting memory loss. Now he was standing a car length and a couple of marble clad stairs away, in a charcoal suit with one hand in plaster and a bandage on the other. Darcy felt the ground beneath her shift and her stomach lurch.

Someone standing in front of them took up the cry, “Will Parker, Will Parker.” Will’s head shot up and he took a step backwards, and that was all the confirmation anyone needed. The pack surged forward. The lead story of the day was now the sudden appearance of the notorious billionaire entrepreneur, tyrant, murder suspect, jail riot survivor—Will Parker. Kiss and tell footy boy was so four hours ago.

Russ was on her shoulder. “Get in there, Darce. He’s yours.” Loud was in front of her, smoothing her way to the front of the pack. She moved like an accident victim, unsure what was happening, except that it was all bad.

&

nbsp; Questions were being fired at Will. “Why are you here?” “What happened in prison?” “Did you get off on a technicality?” “Did you lead the riot?” “Were you bashed?”

“Fellas, ease off,” said Ted Barstow. “Will’s not here for you.”

“Is Parker for sale?” “Are you selling out, Will?” “Why are you here, Will?”

“I said ease off,” Ted repeated. He had an arm stretched out in front of Will, as though protecting him.

Russ and Loud were in position. Darcy had to do something and since Will didn’t know her anyway it shouldn’t matter. But it did, it did.

“Are you okay, Will?” she called. A lame question, lost in the noise in any case. But Will’s eyes shifted and locked tight onto hers. He put his hand on Ted’s arm and eased it down, he squared his shoulders. The pack went quiet to hear whatever it was he’d say. Darcy tensed. She was going to have to interview him as though they were strangers with fifty people watching and recording their every word. She wanted to scream.

Will said, “Ask your question, Darcy Campbell,” and she reeled back into Russ.

He remembered.

Loud was in her ear, “Go, go, go.”

“Will, have you recovered from your injuries?” she called.

He smiled, he was looking directly at her. He lifted the hand in plaster. “I’m doing much better, thank you.”

She could do this, if he kept looking at her with recognition in his eyes, she could do this. “I understand your injuries were significant, and you’re only recently out of hospital. Can you tell us about them?”

“You don’t want to know about a few breaks and scratches?”

There was laughter and a ragged chorus of, “Yes we do.”

Will sighed. He broke eye contact and surveyed the pack. Darcy could see he was remembering how they’d torn his reputation apart. How he must hate them. He might have remembered to hate her too.

“Don’t you really want to know if I did it?” he said.

He might as well have said, ‘I’m going to throw money at you’; he wouldn’t have gotten more attention.

Into the stunned silence someone shouted, “Did you kill him, Will?”

Will closed his eyes and shook his head. “Should I tell them, Darcy?”

The pack swivelled to her. She swallowed hard. “It’s traditional for us journalists to ask the questions.”

There was more laughter, and Will’s response was inaudible above the racket.

A voice shouted, “Are you a murderer, Will?” Another said, “Did you get away with murder, Will?”

Will frowned. He folded his arms defensively and dropped his head. Ted said, “Back off, this is over.”

A voice shouted, “Is Will a killer, Darcy?”