Just Come Over

by James, Rosalind

  “Yes,” Casey said, “except I already have one, so I don’t need another one. I just like to look at them.”

  “Having a doll collection can be lovely, though.”

  “No,” Casey said, “because Moana would be sad if I had another doll. She wants to be special. Bunnies are nice because they’re real, but you can’t make them go where you want them to, the way you can do with dolls. You can pretend better with dolls, and I like pretending best.”

  “I think it’s time for a hot chocolate,” Zora’s mum said, “and I have a very good idea. Let’s have it at my house, and I’ll show you something special.”

  It was a blowing, rainy five o’clock in Brisbane. In five more minutes, Rhys would be getting on the bus with the team to go to the stadium, but at the moment, he was having a quick chat with Zora.

  “And then,” she said, “Mum showed Casey her latest dollhouse. Don’t be surprised if Casey decides she doesn’t want to live with either of us anymore. She wants to magically shrink herself and live in the dollhouse, or possibly just move in with Mum and help her finish it. Fair warning.”

  Rhys was laughing. He shouldn’t be. He should be switched on. He could switch on in five minutes, though. Right now, he was laughing. “And here I’d have said your Mum was a hard nut.”

  “She wants a granddaughter. Hidden lusts are the hardest to control. Ask me how I know. On the other hand, that’s how I got interested in architecture, doing dollhouses with my Mum, so there you are.”

  “What does she do with them?”

  “You don’t care about this. I just thought it might amuse you.”

  “Nah. Fascinating stuff. Go on. Tell me.”

  “Donates them to Starship, for the children’s hospital. They get auctioned off every year at Christmas, furnished all the way down to the chandelier in the dining room and the food on the teeny-tiny table, and they bring in a surprising amount. They’re collectors’ items. She only does one a year, and she’s very good.”

  “Somehow,” Rhys said, “that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “And Casey . . .” Zora stopped a moment, and Rhys waited. “It’s like she’s a mixture of you and Dylan,” she finally said. “She looks like you, her eyes and her expression. She stands like you, and she’s got all your toughness, somehow. But she’s got so much charm, too. That’s all Dylan. And something of her Mum, I’m sure. Also, I just realized I told you that you aren’t charming. Whoops. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I’m not charming. I’ll settle for ‘tough.’ That’ll do me.”

  “And you’ve got to go.”

  “Yeh, I do. See you tomorrow, baby. Love you.”

  He was in the lobby of the hotel with Finn. He didn’t care. Finn already knew.

  “I love you, too,” she said. “Good luck tonight.”

  She rang off, and he thought about how she hadn’t said, I’ll love you either way, because it might jinx him.

  You always assumed you’d win. No other attitude possible. That was how you came out fighting, and it was how you kept on fighting. All the way to the end.

  Four hours later, the wind and the rain were still blowing at Suncorp Stadium, it was almost the end, and the Blues were still fighting. Down by three at 14 to 17, with seven minutes to go, which meant that a penalty would give the Blues a draw. Except that once again, they didn’t have the ball. The Reds did, and they were hanging on to it. Catch and pass, then pick and go, into the breakdown and out of it again, the machinery turning over. Eight phases. Nine. Ten.

  They weren’t getting anywhere, though. In fact, they were going backward. A hundred-twenty-Kg lock driven back in a tackle by Marko Sendoa that you could practically hear in the coaches’ box, then another player wrapped up by Iain McCormick, his long arms reaching farther than anybody’s ought to have been able to as he wrestled the man to the ground.

  The ball went back to the halfback, then to the No. 10, and this time, the Reds were going for the box kick. An acknowledgment of stalemate, and attempting the high-risk strategy, competing for the ball in the air and counting on winning it, or on being able to hold the Blues out from the tryline and preserve the win.

  The No. 10 was chasing his own kick, and he knew where it would come down. Same as the game against the Crusaders, with Nic Wilkinson going up for it, and the Reds’ No. 10 leaping with him. Two bodies going up impossibly high, seeming to hang in the air, both of their hands on the ball. Nico coming down with the other man, caring more about the ball than he did about how he hit the ground, still wrestling. The Reds player had it, though. He was going to take it. Until Nico’s grip pried it loose, a split second before he landed on his back, and the ball came forward out of the 10’s hands.

  The referee’s whistle, his hand out toward the Blues. Penalty.

  They were forty meters out, close to the center of the field. Not a sure thing, not in the wind, but within Will Tawera’s range and his skill, even as knackered as he was. A penalty kick, three points, and it would be a draw.

  Hugh, talking to the referee, making the decision.

  You trusted your skipper to make the hard calls, to know what he saw out there and what the team could do. That was why he was the skipper.

  The team lined up, and the kicking tee didn’t come out. Hugh was going for the corner. Going for the try, with three minutes to go. Will kicked it, conservative in the wind, making sure it went out, and they were eighteen meters from the tryline, and the win.

  You didn’t worry about the mistakes you could make out there, or the ones you already had. You didn’t second-guess. You committed. No hesitation in Hugh at all, not tonight, or in anybody else. They were all in. They were believing.

  The lineout, and the ball thrown in. Iain McCormick being lifted, rising high, snatching the ball out of the air, then coming down with it and passing it.

  Except that he didn’t. It even took Rhys a second. Iain had sold the dummy pass to the halfback on the openside, then handed it to the blind side, to Hugh. The trick play that the squad had been practicing, that other day in the rain, the day he’d found out about Casey. Hugh was going down in a tackle, but he offloaded it behind his back to Tom Koru-Mansworth as he went, a tricky pass that a forward shouldn’t have been able to make.

  A Reds player caught unawares, offside, and the ref blew the whistle again.

  Another penalty to the Blues. Another choice for Hugh.

  Thirteen meters out. Eighty minutes and thirty seconds gone on the clock. An easy penalty kick for Will this time. An easy draw.

  The referee was talking to Hugh, who was standing, hands on hips, saying something to Will, then to the ref. Players on both sides had their hands on their heads, sucking in the big ones, their tanks on empty. Nothing left to give, unless it came from the heart.

  The nearly certain draw, and two points to the team in the Super Rugby race. Or going for it all, for four points and a move up on the table. For the win.

  Once again, Will wasn’t taking the kick. Instead, he kicked a perfectly weighted ball to inside the five-meter line. They were going for it.

  Hugh was barking commands, his face set but not tense, his body language calm, the senior players running into place around him, spreading certainty and belief like oil on water, settling the younger boys down.

  Do your role, and trust your mate to do his.

  Another lineout, and nothing tricky about it this time. Iain taking it again, turning his back to the tryline, the rest of the forwards forming a rolling maul around him, and the ball passed back, hand to hand, to Hugh standing behind the rest of them, protecting the ball.

  All eight forwards plowed onward, and one by one, the Reds forwards joined them, leaving their flanks exposed. The referee signaled advantage, which meant another penalty coming the Blues’ way, but Rhys dismissed the thought.

  No guts, no glory.

  On the field, Iain, still going backward, had his arms over the chests of his opponents, his legs planted, his mouth open to get more
air, driving centimeter by centimeter for the tryline, nothing but belief keeping him going. Legs would be stiffening up out there, cramping, shaking with effort, and still, nobody was letting up. Beside Iain, Kors had his head down and was pushing like a truck. The little halfback, meanwhile, danced beside the shoving mass of men, waving his arms and shouting, a sheepdog urging his charges on.

  Two meters.

  One.

  Hugh was going to go across the line.

  The Reds were stopping them.

  Penalty advantage. Penalty kick. Draw. As soon as Rhys’s brain formed the thought, in the split-second when the momentum shifted, Hugh had the ball off to the halfback, who didn’t take the tempting route and dive for the line. Too many big bodies in the way. He sent a hard, fast ball off instead, spinning like a bullet, twenty meters across the field to Kevin McNicholl on the wing.

  Kevvie, who wasn’t a battering ram anymore. Who had a player coming straight at him.

  He sidestepped, and the man grasped for his jersey and held on, trying to drag him into touch and end the game. Kevin kept his legs going even as another player closed in on him, and there the halfback was again, the sheepdog at his shoulder.

  Centimeters from touch, and Kevvie flicking the ball behind him without looking. In and out of soft hands, and into Koti James’s sure grasp. A red jersey there, too, and Koti stepping, diving, stretching.

  Over the line.

  Try.

  Will made the conversion. Of course he did. The scoreboard flashed 21 to 17, the referee blew his whistle and raised his arm, and Rhys stood up like he was on springs, unable to feel his feet, and shook Finn’s hand.

  “That’s belief,” Finn said, standing, laughing, clapping him on the back. “That’s heart. That’s you, Drago. That’s you.”

  Sunday morning in Auckland, and it was another rainy and windy one, just as it had been all the way across the Tasman. Winter was coming and no mistake, and the ride on the 777 confirmed it. The plane was bucking up and down, but none of the players behind Rhys was saying much.

  If you were a white-knuckled flyer, you either got over it or got out of rugby. You flew tens of thousands of kilometers a year, you lived on a group of islands in the middle of often-stormy seas, and Air New Zealand had one of the best safety records in the world.

  He couldn’t see anything out the window except streaks of rain and streamers of gray cloud, glowing red from the lights on the wings. His seatback screen, though, told him they were six minutes out. Nearly home.

  He’d told Zora, before he’d got on the plane, when she still sounded sleepy in the sexiest possible way, “You don’t need to come out in the storm, or take the kids. I’ll get a lift. Be there soon, baby.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re going to come. We can’t wait to come. We could bring balloons and banners.”

  Now, he smiled, remembering. Another lurch of the plane that had him holding the armrest, then the clunk of the landing gear lowering. As soon as he was alone with her, he was going to talk to Zora about moving in again.

  What kind of bedroom furniture would Isaiah like? How about if you painted one wall with the solar system, and another with a map of the world? Could be challenging, but you could probably get some sort of stick-on thing. Or hire an art student, maybe, and the kids could help . . .

  Something had changed. His body realized it before his mind did, as usual. The plane wasn’t descending anymore. They were going up, and turning to the right at the same time, heading south.

  It wasn’t that windy, not enough to close the airport, he thought at the exact moment a male voice came over the intercom. “This is your captain speaking. We’ve got a problem with the landing gear, and we’re circling to troubleshoot it. We’ll update you in a few minutes, once we’ve got it sorted.”

  Fair enough. He shot Zora a quick text, even though the players behind him would be doing the same, and word would spread quickly amongst the families and partners awaiting their arrival. Fifteen minutes, probably. No worries.

  “Flight attendants,” the captain said, “take your seats.” It was as bumpy as ever, and the two Business Premier flight attendants held onto the backs of seats as they made their way forward and buckled themselves in a few meters from Rhys’s Row 1.

  Some more grinding and bumping underneath him. That was the gear down, then, because the plane was turning again, heading back west, toward the airport.

  Except that they weren’t descending. Rhys couldn’t see anybody from his pod except Finn. The other man looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Rhys considered texting him, because even he couldn’t shout loud enough to be heard over the engines, and discarded the idea. Nothing to say, other than placing a bet on how long it took them to get down, which could very well be happening in the seats behind him. He wondered how long the Wi-Fi would hold up to the load being placed on it.

  Five minutes passed, then ten, and they were still circling. Rhys would have placed his bet on twenty minutes. Too late to get into the action now. The two flight attendants appeared in the aisle again, and the captain said in a voice so calm, it was practically hypnotic, “OK, looks like we can’t fix that landing gear issue in the air, so we’re going to have to make an emergency landing on one side of our gear. We’ll be in the air for about twenty minutes to burn our fuel down to the lowest landing weight possible. It’s going to be a difficult landing and there’s a good chance of sliding off the runway, so please listen to the flight attendants. They’ll explain what to do. Please follow their instructions.”

  Rhys glanced at Finn again. The other man’s eyebrows were higher this time. Well, this was a new one, and it wasn’t good. They were dumping fuel in preparation for landing because they thought the engines were likely to catch fire. You didn’t need to be an expert to realize that. He could imagine the looks being exchanged, the tears starting for some, the shakes. He wasn’t doing any shaking. He was motioning to the flight attendant nearest to him, and she was heading over. Constance McGill, a fiftyish redhead he’d flown with a hundred times. Competent and calm, and, he thought, probably the lead flight attendant on this one.

  He said, shouting to be heard over the roar of the engines and the commotion behind him, three hundred souls trying not to panic, “Reseat some of us in the back, Connie. Put us at the exits. You’ll need the first people down the slides to catch the rest of them, surely, especially if the plane’s tilted, and if the engines catch fire, you’ll need help getting everybody well away and keeping them together. Kids. Old people. Whatever you’ve got. Put us next to whoever needs help, and we’ll get them out.”

  She said, “Can do.”

  He said, “Forwards at the exits. Go back and tell them—‘Forwards, come with me.’ Move them first, and then we’ll do the backs. Put the backs with the passengers who need help.” Easiest way to separate them, to make sure every man knew his role. He thought of something else. “We’ll send the doctor down first, also. Are the engines likely to catch fire?”

  “Yes,” Connie said.

  “Keep people from opening those overwing exits, then?” He was pretty sure the crew could land the plane, on its belly or not. Fire was the big danger. The flight crew would have only a couple minutes to evacuate three hundred people before the fuselage filled with smoke, and despite the dump and burn, the fuel could explode at any time. “Are we likely to end up in the Harbour?”

  “Yes,” Connie said. “Keep them off the overwing exits, and we could end up in the water.”

  “Finn and me over the wings, then. Our captain and vice-captain as well.” If the engines caught fire, everybody would have to exit through the front and rear, and if the jet landed in the water, you’d have to keep them all out of it. A hundred fifty passengers in each direction, and those over the wings could be last in line. Frantic, maybe. “I need to talk to a few of them. Forty seconds out of my seat.”

  She said, “Right. Go. I’m moving the forwards.”

  He was up on the w
ords, grabbing the seat back as a jolt tried to send him off his feet, crouching by Finn’s ear, telling him the plan.

  Finn said, “Got it,” and Rhys stopped at the trainer’s seat, then headed all the way to the back of the Business Premier compartment, where the senior players were sitting. The bus drove from the back, they said. At least they were all together. He stopped at a row and bellowed, “Hugh. Nico. Nines. Tens. Listen up. Forwards are going to the exits now, and they’ll be first out. They’ll catch the passengers as they come down the slides, help get them away from the plane. Also, if we’re in the water, get everybody onto the slides if you can. Keep them out of the water. Once they’re all out, if we’re on land, everybody follows the nine and ten. Backs are with the passengers, anybody who needs help. Nines and tens, get everybody to a clear spot, well away from the plane, away from the engines especially. You’ll go down the slides first, and take the trainer with you.”

  Nods, and he was in the other aisle, repeating the message, back in his seat, fastening his seatbelt, ready for Connie to move him. Passport and phone in his pocket. Ready to go.

  You always assumed you’d win, all the way to the end. That was how you came out fighting, and how you kept fighting. You prepared, you kept your head, you did your role, and you trusted your mate to do his.

  No difference.

  When the murmur started, Zora barely noticed. She was standing with Jenna and her kids, trying to think of something to say, and only being able to think five more minutes.

  “Delay,” Jenna said at a ding from her phone, joggling Ethan on her hip. “Finn says twenty minutes or so. Good thing the kids are playing.”

  There was a whole group of kids, in fact, sitting on the floor. Zora checked out hers. Isaiah was reading on his tablet, and Casey was playing with Moana along with Jenna’s little girl, Lily. Making up a story.

  It wasn’t twenty minutes, though, when the murmur got louder. Some gasps from around them, and then a new hubbub, the sound of dozens of cellphone speakers, and some activity over at the side. An airport employee, by the uniform, beckoning, shouting out the flight number. “Air New Zealand Flight 732 from Brisbane. Those meeting Flight 732, come with me.” The words crackling over the PA system, and Zora was grabbing Isaiah and Casey, her heart knocking against her chest like a bass drum. Boom. Boom. Boom.