Detained

Only Scarface was in the cell. Somehow Scarface knew he’d confessed that first time. That day, when Will got back, the man got in his face, pushing him around a little. “You weak,” he’d said. But it wasn’t weakness, it was justice, and it was doing right by Pete.

Will had been avoiding Scarface, as much as is possible in a small cell, since then. Scarface was not a man you wanted to disappoint, and since Will was in a disappointing mood, this being alone together was not an ideal situation. The man stood when he came in. He fronted Will, getting up in his space. Will stood his ground. There was a difference between avoidance and outright cowardice.

“Trouble come today,” said Scarface. He put his hand on Will’s back. “Watch.”

Watch his back—that was a warning. Will would have asked what it meant, what kind of trouble was coming but Scarface was gone. He went to his mattress and lay down. But sleep wasn’t coming either. There was a guard, he had visitors. Pete or someone from the consulate. He was going to miss lunch as well. He followed the guard to the interview rooms and there was Pete with someone else. He could see them through the window as he approached. A woman in a navy pinstripe suit. Not Aileen, he’d said no, she wasn’t to come in here. He didn’t want her anywhere near this foul place.

The guard opened the door. Pete was standing. They hugged. They’d started hugging now. They’d never even hugged as kids. It still felt awkward, but Pete seemed to need it. When Pete stepped back he could see the woman. It was like she’d stepped out of his dream into his nightmare.

“Fuck,” he said. The shock of it. Of her being here. “Darcy, what?” He couldn’t think of one good reason why she’d be here. She said his name, so she was real, not a hallucination from hunger or lack of sleep.

“Sit down,” said Pete. “We have big news. Good news. Amazing news.”

He felt his way across the tabletop to a

chair opposite and sat, an old man, uncertain on his feet. Uncertain of why the fuck she’d be here.

“Will, are you all right?” The look on her face told him he wasn’t. She reached a hand across the table and he stared at it a moment. If he touched her she might disappear.

“Will?” said Pete.

He took Darcy’s hand, threaded his fingers through hers and held tight. “I must look dreadful.” He still had tape on his nose, he’d be bruised. He hadn’t been allowed to shave since the night he arrived, but they’d razored his hair off. “I’ve given you a shock. No mirrors in here. Believe it or not, I’m still prettier than most of my fellow inmates.”

She smiled, but couldn’t find words. She moved her foot to the inside of his and he bracketed it, his feet trapping hers, knees grazing. They locked eyes.

“You look beautiful. Did Pete buy you that suit?” He glanced across at Pete who was grinning like a kid at Christmas. “Armani?”

“Of course,” said Pete.

He still had Darcy’s hand, and there was no reason yet to let it go. He might never get to hold a woman’s hand again. Never, outside his dreams, did he think he’d get to touch this woman again.

He’d have sat there all day just looking at her, but they were brutal with visiting, could cut it off any time it pleased them. He looked at Pete. “At interrogation this morning they wanted details. I told them everything about killing Feng I remembered.” Darcy flinched when he said the word interrogation and squeezed his hand on “killing”. He realised he’d announced he killed a man like you might say, ‘at work today’ and go on to talk about something innocuous like jamming the photocopier.

“It doesn’t matter, Will, we have—”

The deafening blast of a siren sounding over the intercom cut Pete off. He let go Darcy’s hand so she could plug her ears. They all came to their feet. The guard flung the door open, mouthed something then locked them in. A group of prisoners came passed the window, they had weapons. Will watched as they surrounded the guard and beat him with chair legs and metal food trays. Blood sprayed in an arch across the window. Pete swore. Darcy cried out.

Trouble had come.

He grabbed for Darcy and pulled her down to the floor, out of view of the window. A woman in a prison during a riot. His woman. It was unthinkable. He had to get her out of here. Get her to safety. That glass, that door, they wouldn’t hold long if a mob tried to break in. There were three thousand men in this prison, most of them long-term, hardened criminals. She was the sweet prize that could interrupt the best intentions of a riot. She was the unlooked for spoils of war. They’d turn on each other to get to her. For a moment he wanted to deck Pete for bringing her here and putting her in such danger.

She sat on the floor against the half wall with the window, her legs drawn up beside her, hands over her ears and eyes wide with fright. She’d already have figured her chances of coming out of here without being raped repeatedly were poor.

He went down on his knees and spoke in her ear. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll keep you safe.”

When he stood again, his head ringing from the deliberately deafening siren, there were four guards at the door and the corridor was clear. The cavalry had arrived. They burst in.

The first guard came at him with a baton. He twisted to avoid the blow and copped it across his back, going down on one knee. He’d forgotten that he was the enemy. When he looked up, two guards had flanked Pete and were walking him out. Thank God. Pete was yelling, twisting around to look back at him. The other two guards were helping Darcy to stand. He was on his own from here, but they’d both be protected. He might be able to lock himself back in, sit on the floor and wait it out. Not a great day to have missed meals. Who knew how long this would all take. He might be permanently deaf when it was all over.

He remained on his knee. He didn’t want to attract attention by moving and draw a guard away from Darcy’s side, so he didn’t see them coming until they were in the room. Two gang-tattooed prisoners. They did a comedy double take, a look back and forth at each other when they saw Darcy. She screamed, the guards lashed out, a fight started, and Will saw his chance.

He stayed low, came around the table and up behind Darcy, pulled her against him and eased her back around the table, keeping her behind him, skirting the fighting, moving quickly towards the door. The guards could see this but were too busy to do anything about it, the prisoners had their backs to Will; there was lots of shouting, mouths opening, but no one could hear anything over the wail of the siren.

He was almost at the door when the sprinkler system turned on. Sudden indoor rain caused a pause in the fighting. One of the prisoners saw them and lunged. Will stepped back, blocked the punch, grabbed the man’s kick and upended him.

He went for the door, pulling Darcy behind him, skidding into the corridor, slamming the door, locking the fight in so they could kill each other with privacy and no interruptions.

The corridor was thankfully empty, except for the prone body of the guard. He was alive, eyes open, but not a well boy. There were doors left and right. He had no idea where they led to, or if there’d be worse happening on the other side of them. He needed somewhere, close, secure, boring—and fast.