Detained

Inside the cold, dark terrace, she dumped her bag and headed to the bathroom. In the slightly yellow light above the mirror she tried to find the web, to pull it off her skin, out of her life.

Face washed and hair brushed, she looked like an entirely normal person. Someone wondering whether it was okay to have mashed potato tonight, and promising herself she’d go to the gym tomorrow. But the mirror lied, she lied. The web wouldn’t come away, no matter how hard she scrubbed. It wasn’t on her skin, it was on her heart and soul, and until she got over Will Parker, until she could cut up his replacement dress, it always would be.

Brian met her in the hallway of the old family home with a hug and a back slap. He had a faded yellow apron on over his shirt and work pants, and a splatter of marinade on the lens of his glasses. No prize for guessing they’d be having steak.

“Tough day, Darce.” He knew, but how much and from whom?

“Not one of my best, Dad.”

“That Gerry Ives is a dodgy bastard. Never was too keen on you working for him. Hope the severance was decent.”

She handed him a bottle of red wine and he checked the label before tucking it under his arm and heading back towards the kitchen. “Andy is out back. Be nice.”

Darcy followed Brian though to

the open plan kitchen and living room of her old family home. It’d been renovated and was light filled and spacious, not vaguely reminiscent of the pokey cottage she’d grown up in.

Andy was in the yard with the latest incarnation of Gonzo. This one was called Rupert, though a girl dog. According to Brian, there simply weren’t any good girl’s names in journalistic mythology, and he wasn’t naming his dog after a primped up TV talking head like Barbara, Katie, Diane or God forbid, Jana.

“Andy, Darce is here,” Brian called from the bi-fold doors to the deck. He said, “Quit tormenting that dog,” and went back to his marinade.

Darcy hadn’t seen Andy for twelve months. He’d been stationed in the Middle East, reporting for ABC TV. He looked tanned but tired. He had less hair and his clothes hung off his frame. He didn’t look like a normal person concerned about his diet or exercise plan. He had a weird look in his eyes. Wired, on edge. She understood Brian’s be nice instruction.

But he hugged like the old Andy, quickly as though he might catch girl germs, and he sounded like him too. “Dad says you screwed up.”

“I didn’t screw up. I got retrenched.”

Andy laughed. “Yeah. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

“So why do you look like crap?”

“Oh you know, watching people get blown up in suicide bombings is not so good for the complexion. At least I have a job to go back to. What’re you going to do?”

Darcy sighed and gave her watch an exaggerated look. “In the two and half hours since it happened I’ve not made any key decisions about my life. If that’s all right by you?”

Andy laughed, a dry, bitter sound, more like a bronchial cough than an expression of humour. “Righto. I was just asking.”

He sat on the edge of the deck and Darcy sat beside him. Not too close. Like everything about her relationship with Andy. Not too close and with her defences up. Brian came out and started grilling the steaks. Birds chirped. The kid next door bounced on his trampoline. Rupert went to sleep on her haunches like a staffie Sphinx. They were three people bonded in blood and by profession without a whole lot to say to each other.

“Darce, make the salad and set the table, will you? Bring us another beer,” said Brian brandishing tongs.

Darcy got up and went to the kitchen, retrieved beers for Brian and Andy, a coke for herself. She found the makings of a garden salad and prepared it, buttered bread and gathered plates, knives and forks and napkins, and set the outdoor table.

Andy sat on at the edge of the deck, and that wasn’t unusual, he was the special guest. Even when he’d been working locally, he was still the special guest. The one that got to sit and enjoy while Darcy fetched and carried.

Once she’d fought it. This expectation she’d do woman’s work, be her dead mother’s drudge. It’d meant moving out at eighteen and long periods of seeing neither Brian nor Andy, except at neutral locations where someone was paid to scrape plates and launder tablecloths.

But if she wanted salad with her slab of meat, she’d have to make it. If she wanted a napkin, she’d have to find a pack in the cupboard. If she wanted peace, she didn’t make a scene about something as silly as not wanting to set the table.

When the steak was done and on the plates, a grilling of another kind began.

“What’d you do, Darce?” said Brian.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Col Furrows says he thinks you and that Will Parker had a thing.”

Darcy shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “Col only thinks he knows something.”