“Oh shit,” said Russ, swinging the camera back around to Darcy. Now she was the story.
“Will Parker is innocent. Feng Kee died in a fire,” she said, never taking her eyes off Will. He had his head down still, and the tension in his neck and shoulders was clear to her. She ached to push through the pack and go to him, but there were memories, expectations, fears and worlds, reputations and responsibilities between them.
Another voice shouted, “Will, was there a riot? The Chinese Government denied it.”
Will shifted from foot to foot. He looked up briefly and then dropped his eyes again. He looked panicked. Oh God, he didn’t remember.
“He’s going to lose it, push him, Darce,” said Russ.
Before she could think of a way to save him, Will said, “Was there a riot, Darcy?”
The camera swung back around. Maybe she could talk him down. “Yes, Will. There was a riot and you were hurt badly.”
Will’s name rang out from five or six other journalists. Everyone wanted a piece of him while he was slowly obliging by coming apart.
Col Furrow’s voice echoed above the others. “Will Parker, how well do you know Darcy Campbell?”
Will’s head shot up, he locked eyes with her as though she was the only person on the planet who mattered to him. “Well enough to know I’d go to hell and back to protect her.”
There was a collective gasp, and a scrambling for position. Half the pack focused on Will, and the other jostled Darcy.
“Well enough to know I love her.”
38. Sanitised
“He with whom neither slander that gradually soaks into the mind, nor statements that startle like a wound in the flesh, are successful may be called intelligent indeed.” — Confucius
Chaos had a new address. The space between the Sheraton’s front doorstep where Will stood, and the driveway where Darcy was being mobbed, as the media pack split to chase this new angle.
The air rent with cries of, “Will, over here.” “Will, this way.” And, “Darcy, Darcy do you love Will?” “Are you in love with Will?” Above it all Ted Barstow’s baritone, “Enough! Get away. Leave him alone.”
Darcy put her hands up in front of her face to ward off the barrage of cameras and microphones. At her side Russ said, “Shit, Darce.” Someone shoved him and he stumbled. “We’re out of here.”
He pushed a bunch of hands holding digital recorders away from her face and grabbed her arm, moving her backwards out of the melee. Darcy looked for Loud, lost somewhere in the shifting bodies. She looked for Will, caught the glass doors closing as he and Barstow disappeared inside, security stepping in to bar anyone following.
Her heart was thumping and she was shaking all over. Only Russ holding her arm stopped her sliding to her knees. Their car pulled up, Loud in the driver’s seat. Russ shoved her in the back seat and jumped in the front.
“Run over the bastards,” he laughed, as a cameraman stood in front of the car and Loud swerved to go around him.
“Not funny,” said Loud. “He never said that. The Premier, Robert Askin, he said—”
“Yeah like Prime Minister Hawke never said, ‘Any boss who sacks anyone for not turning up today is a bum’,” said Russ. He turned in his seat as Loud moved into the stream of traffic and pinned her with an evil glint. “Did you get it on with Parker?”
“I’m not the story.”
“You’re our story. You better get it straight. Merrit’s going to spew he let us come alone. He’ll have you do a piece to camera, ‘my affair with Australia’s billionaire jailbird’.”
“No. I’m not doing that.”
“Yeah you are,” said Loud. He was fiddling with the car radio, looking for a news broadcast. Everyone else will have it. We have you.”
They were right. Will not only recognised her, he’d outed her to every news organisation in the country. There was no way out of this. She’d be forced to talk about him. She scrabbled on the floor for her handbag, tucked under the seat in front. She needed her phone. She needed to call Peter to get a number for Will. She needed to talk to Will, to see him, to know if he was all right. If he meant what he said.
“Shit Darce, you and Parker. He looked surprised to see you,” said Russ, still facing backwards.
“Shut up, Russ,” she said, dragging her bag onto the seat and palming her mobile.
“Who are you calling?”