by K T Bowes
She slumped into her seat and turned her face away, seething inside. Logan reached for her hand, ignoring her resistance and obvious irritation at the roughness of his cast. She snatched her fingers away and with a grip of steel, he pulled them back into his lap beneath the table. Squirming proved futile against his iron grasp, setting an unexpected tone for their marriage.
Amy reappeared without Jas. “He’s making a surprise in the bedroom,” she announced, her gaze moving from one to the other. “What’s happening?”
Bodie clenched his jaw and walked to the sink, tipping the rest of his drink down the drain. Hana watched as Amy stood next to him, their bodies touching. Her maternal radar went on high alert, distracting her from the need to extricate her fingers from Logan’s hand.
Amy saw her expression and offered a tiny, secret smile, communicating an unspoken desire to fight for Bodie. Hana pursed her lips and nodded, the imperceptible motion shared only by the women. Her gaze flicked to her son, reading the intimate way he inclined his head towards Amy and raised his eyebrows. Hope soared in her heart at the prospect of seeing her problem child settled and happy.
Logan sighed and ran his right hand through his hair. He’d done it so many times in the previous half an hour his fringe resembled an excited rooster. His left hand still clamped her fingers, the plaster cast dragging against her thumb. Hana peeked beneath the table, noting the frayed edges of the cast in the shadows. “Are the cops interested in Hana now?” Logan demanded, the force of the question betraying the thought processes behind it.
“We were always interested!” Bodie spat and Hana felt Logan’s body stiffen. She watched him through the corner of her eye and tried to release her hand again, without success. Straight to the point, her husband never wasted words.
“So where are the patrols making sure she’s safe? Or are they invisible?”
Bodie sighed, an exasperated rush of air. “You have no idea what’s going on.”
“So enlighten me.” Logan ground his teeth and Hana appreciated his self-control as he waited for the answer.
“It sounded dubious at the start. A mugging, broken windshield, an accidental shunt. It’s only when you put the incidents together that you get a picture.”
“What picture?” Logan unfolded his legs beneath the table. “And how does that help her?”
His grip on Hana’s hand relaxed and she discovered she didn’t want him to let go. She curled her fingers around his and his eyes widened in surprise. “What’s going to happen next?” she asked and Bodie shrugged.
“Not sure. I handed everything over to Odering’s detectives. They need to find a connection between you and Laval.”
“Oh great!” Logan snarled with obvious sarcasm. “And how’s that going for you?”
“Look, I know what you’re thinking!” Bodie’s brown-eyed gaze focussed on Logan. “Your people don’t have a great history with the police. But it’s not that way anymore. We aren’t racists.”
“No?” Logan leaned forward in his seat and his eyes widened. He radiated a vibe of intimidation. “You want me to forget how the local constable flogged my poppa in the street for possessing an apple? I ride my motorbike up the highway and I’m fine because they can’t see my face. I drive my Triumph or something nicer and any road cop will stop me at least once. ‘Bloody Māori, I bet he nicked that.’ Nothing’s changed, you just hide it better.” Logan sat back in his chair so hard; it tilted onto its rear legs for a fraction of a second. He drew his top lip back in a sneer. “The minute your ma got involved with me, her case went to the bottom of the pile so don’t kid yourself. What’s wrong, mate? You too embarrassed to admit it’s gone into a file with all the other multiracial domestic incidents?”
Hana held her breath as Bodie floundered. “It’s not like that! I’m a bloody brown cop, man! I would know.” He sounded hurt. Amy nodded her head in agreement, but slowly as though unsure.
Hana squeezed Logan’s fingers, begging him with her eyes not to walk along a damaging trail of racist accusations they couldn’t return from. He glanced at her and then shook his head. When he let go of her hand it felt spiritual as though he severed the union of their cultures. In protest, she leaned across his legs and seized his hand, gripping it in both of hers and glaring at him. “Stop!” she hissed. “Don’t punish me for what others do.”
Logan’s eyes softened and ignoring their audience, he pressed his lips against hers. “Sorry,” he whispered. Bodie’s eyes narrowed and Hana felt his jealousy stretch across the room.
Amy broke the leaden silence. “What about Mrs Bowman,” she asked. “Did you warn her, Bo?”
“No,” he replied, his tone sullen. He scratched his chin and Amy watched his fingers move across his flesh with naked craving in her eyes. Hana ached for her. “I couldn’t take the risk of her telling him anything. She’s so enamoured of him, I suspect she would.”
“Poor Ethel,” breathed Hana. “Loneliness makes people vulnerable to any kind of affection.”
“Is that right?” Bodie glared at Logan and Hana closed her eyes against the accusation. Tiredness filled her bones.
“Who will tell her?” Amy asked. She pursed her lips and looked at the floorboards. “She might not believe it.”
“The investigators will visit her.” Bodie chewed the inside of his lip. “They’ll show her the evidence.”
“She’ll be traumatised. I hope she hasn’t given him money yet.” Hana remembered Ethel’s coy excitement over her gentleman friend and the sparkle of hope in her eyes. “This sucks.”
“She won’t be the first or the last,” Amy concluded with a sigh. She nudged Bodie’s hip with the back of her hand. “We need to get our boy home,” she said, her voice soft. “He’s too quiet.”
“I’ll get him.” Bodie left the room and Hana saw the unrequited love in Amy’s eyes. She held her tongue and pondered on her son’s odd behaviour. Amy’s existence explained the hole in his soul and yet he resisted their mutual attraction with dogged determination. Hana identified the culprit in her own marriage. Lack of trust.
Bodie returned carrying Jas over his shoulder. “He put dried flowers on your pillows and fell asleep waiting for you.” He winced. “What do I do now?”
“Put him in the car.” Amy held her arms out and reclaimed her son.
“Sorry.” Hana stroked the boy’s hair back from his forehead and kissed his downy temple. “I’ll look at them now.”
Amy followed her down to the bedroom and Hana inspected the crinkled daisy chain on her pillow. Crunchy bits of flower leaf dotted the area like green dandruff and she admired the child’s efforts with enthusiasm. “I love it,” she declared, sniffing the decorations and inhaling particles so she coughed.
“I worked hard on that,” Jas grumbled, coming alive on Amy’s shoulder. He wiggled his feet to get down and strode across the room. “Can I sleep with you?”
“It’s home time, Jas.” Amy’s firm tone met instant resistance.
“No!” he protested, dropping his knees and squatting on the rug. “Don’t wanna!”
“Let’s not do this right now,” Amy implored, but the child scented victory and dug his heels in, setting up a loud protest about going outside in the cold.
Bodie appeared and took charge. “Come on mate, Hanny’s tired and so am I.” He led the sulking boy into the lobby.
Amy pushed his spindly arms into his jacket sleeves and bent to retrieve his boots. Jas bounced on the spot in temper. “I don’t want shoes on!” he complained. “I don’t need them.” He toppled sideways and his foot slipped through the strap of Hana’s abandoned handbag. He fell and the bag upended onto the floorboards.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Hana, bending to stuff everything back in. Her fingers touched the little metal box from her garage at Achilles Rise and she detached a coin from its surface.
“What’s that?” Jas clambered up and rested his hands on her knee. “I like it.”
> On impulse, Hana handed it to him. “I think Daddy made it in metalwork at school. You can play with it if you do as Mummy tells you.”
Jas fondled the box in his fingers, turning it over and over. “Okay,” he conceded. He gave a tired, squinty-eyed smile.
Bodie peered over her shoulder. “That’s not mine,” he said, shaking his head and shrugging. “You asked me about it once before. I don’t know why you kept it.”
Jas kept to his good behaviour bond and the little family left. Hana waved them off from the porch. Logan smiled as she returned to the kitchen and continued to load the dishwasher. “Sorry about before,” he said. “I just hate how the cops aren’t helping you.”
“I know.” Hana rested her hand against his back, feeling the bones of his spine move as he bent to load cups and spoons.
“I’m scared,” she confessed and he turned to hold her.
“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “But it’ll be okay.”
“How? This old man sounds nasty and the cops think he killed someone. I’m no match for them.”
“No, you’re not,” Logan replied. “But we are.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hana woke before dawn on Sunday morning. She lay in the darkness listening to the gentle breaths of her husband, feeling the mattress dip and shake as he shifted in the big bed. An austere grey light, filtered through the gaps in the bedroom curtains like cold fingers, exerting its hold over the day. Hana admitted defeat and got up.
She hugged a cup of tea at the kitchen table, swamped by boredom and a sense of imprisonment. “Oh, Lord. I can’t live like this!” she exclaimed and pressed her fists to her forehead. “I’ll go mad.”
The sewing machine would wake Logan and she considered her limited options to fill the long hours ahead. She set off another load of washing and examined Logan’s bloodstained dressing gown drying in the garage. “Dustbin, I think,” she said, unpegging it and throwing it into the wheelie bin. “Two washes and it’s still stained.” The horror of the night rose up to meet her and she shivered against the memory. Catching sight of the paste bucket, she peered into it. No sign of Logan’s haemorrhage remained after an earlier frenzy with bleach and the idea blossomed in her mind.
Hana set up her tools to wallpaper the lobby, trying not to make too much noise in the big open space. Pasting the navy and white paper on the kitchen table, she got to work. The large pattern made matching easy and Hana hung eighteen strips of paper before Logan surfaced. “Hey, babe. Look what I’ve done,” Hana began.
Logan staggered from the bedroom, his pyjama trousers skewed to one side so the buttons rested over his left hip. He lurched into the kitchen, weaving and winding around the paste bucket and tarpaulin. Hana descended the ladder at the sound of water running and the clink of glass. “What’s wrong?” she asked with dread filling her chest.
Logan fumbled with a foil packet of painkillers over the sink, his fingers shaking. A white pill popped out and rolled into the plughole. He swore and bent double, rubbing a hand over his dressing. “It hurts,” he groaned. “It hurts bad.”
Hana took the blister pack and popped two tablets into his hand, watching him chase them down with water. “I can ring the district nurse,” she offered, concentrating on her breathing to keep her calm.
“No!” He shook his head and his eyes held warning. “Call no one.” He slumped into a chair and rested his forehead on his arms, his body tense and rigid. Hana rubbed his back, trying to stroke out the stress and pain whilst praying in her mind. “It’s still early days yet,” she comforted. “If it gets too much, you need to tell me.”
Logan remained listless and silent. Standing or sitting caused him pain and laying on the bed made him want to vomit. He agreed to a hot drink and then couldn’t drink it, driving Hana’s anxiety to fever pitch. “Where does it hurt?” she asked and lifted his tee shirt. He pointed to his lower abdomen but wouldn’t let her press there.
Hana sneaked to the garage with her mobile phone and made a call. Speaking in hushed tones she sought medical advice. The receptionist at the doctor’s surgery groaned. “Not again!” she complained. “You need to bring him into town and wait your turn.”
“I can’t lift him,” Hana whispered. “And he doesn’t want to come. Can I pay for a home visit?”
The receptionist scoffed and took her phone number, promising to ring back. “They’ll tell you to call another ambulance,” she said as her parting shot. Hana hung around for ten minutes, hanging washing on the line strewn across the garage and waiting for the call. It didn’t come and she felt no surprise.
Upstairs, Logan curled into a ball on her side of the bed, his eyes closed and a hot water bottle clamped over his stomach. Her heart clenched in pity at his sorry state. She kissed the top of his head, holding his hand and resting her forehead against his shoulder. Her fingers traced the bold tattoo snaking around his upper arm. “Is this your genealogy?” she asked, trying to distract him while the painkillers kicked in. She followed the gothic tracks and swirls of the moko.
He looked up, his face drawn and grey. “Whakapapa,” he answered.
“Is that the basis of your culture?” Hana asked, her voice wobbling at the tremors in his body. “Who you are, where you come from and how you got there?”
Logan nodded and crushed her fingers beneath his. “Yes.”
Hana leaned forward and kissed its dark, woven centre, feeling Logan shivering as he tried to control the physical battering from inside. “Please let me help you?” she begged. “This is frightening me, Loge. It’s happening again.”
Her phone buzzed on the bed and she snatched it up, striding into the lobby to answer the call. The male voice sounded calm. “Mrs Du Rose?” he asked.
“Yes.” Anxiety made Hana breathless.
“Are you related to Michael Du Rose?” the voice asked and Hana stilled.
“Why?”
A sigh. “I trained with him in Auckland and went to school with the brothers. Is Logan okay?”
“No. Please can you help him? I don’t know what to do and if I call an ambulance, he’ll divorce me.”
The man laughed. “I doubt that. I’ve got your address here. I’m doing a stint as locum in Ngaruawahia. I’ll pop up in about half an hour.”
“Thank you!” Hana gushed, hugging the phone to her chest as he rang off.
He kept his promise and buzzed the gate thirty minutes later, blasting up the driveway in a sporty Mazda that spat out gravel like grape pips behind it. Thin, blonde and good looking, his movements oozed competence. Hana turned after the brief handshake to lead him into the house, keen to take him to Logan. “Wait.” He held up a hand to halt her. “I need to know what happened. I’ve read the notes and they make little sense.”
A flush of embarrassment crossed Hana’s freckled cheeks and he drew his own conclusions. “He lied on the form, didn’t he?”
Hana swallowed, not wanting to commit to the betrayal aloud. The doctor put his hands on his hips. “Level with me, Mrs Du Rose. I know your family and I need the truth, please.”
“Someone hit him from behind with a crowbar and broke ribs, his arm and damaged his spleen.” Hana spat out the list of injuries, her face blank. “A week afterwards they removed his spleen. A week after that, they repaired a tear and an infection. He was fine yesterday but I think it’s happening again.” She swallowed and struggled for control.
“It’s okay.” Blue eyes bored into Hana’s as he nodded. “Where is he?”
Logan slumped at the kitchen table and the cooling hot water bottle lay on the floor next to him. Hana saw the kettle sitting in the sink where he tried to fill it. A sheen of sweat covered his back, the bones of his shoulder blades angled through the muscles.
“Hi Logan.” The doctor smiled and lifted Logan’s good arm around his shoulders, hauling him to a standing position. “Let’s get you laying down. I’m Carlos. We went to the grammar school together. Do you remember
me?”
Logan looked at him sideways and nodded. His affirmative reply sounded hoarse. Hana took Logan’s other arm, wary of doing more damage to the break as she tried to support her husband. “Turn right,” she told the doctor. “We’ll lay him on the rug.”
Between them, they lowered Logan onto the floor. “Stretch your legs out for me,” Carlos instructed and Logan groaned. When the doctor pressed on his stomach, Logan shoved his hand away.
Hana stood on the fringe feeling useless. The doctor continued his examination of Logan’s midsection, ignoring his patient’s writhing. He tapped and pressed, unfazed by Logan’s barrage of swear words. “Lie on your back with your knees up to alleviate the pressure on your stomach,” he said, tapping Logan’s shin. He looked up at Hana. “Where can I wash my hands?”
“Through here.” Hana gave a nervous glance back at Logan as he covered his stomach with his hands as though protecting himself from an outward attack. She led Carlos to the kitchen and hovered in the doorway. The doctor used soap and water and dried his hands on a towel Hana indicated with a jerk of her head. “Should I take him back to the hospital?” she asked, a tremble in her voice.
Carlos smiled and his face lost some of the hardness. “No,” he replied, his voice soft. “I’ll fetch my bag.”
He skipped down the porch steps as Hana checked on Logan. She heard the front door close again and the doctor’s footsteps cross the lobby. “I won’t be long,” she promised her husband and he nodded without opening his eyes. She snatched up a blanket from the sofa and folded it next to his arm. “Put this on if you get cold,” she whispered.
In the kitchen, Carlos scribbled words onto a prescription pad. He wrote a list of medications and added a flourishing signature at the bottom. “No charge,” he said with a smile. “Logan is the better brother.”
Hana accepted the paper from his outstretched hand and looked at the scribble. The Latin words confused her. Carlos lowered his voice. “His gut went into spasm because of the surgery. It’s quite common. His discharge sheet says he left before they checked everything out. As long as nothing tears inside, he will get over this. The haemophilia makes it more complicated, is all.” He released a megawatt smile that infused her with confidence.