by Bowes, K T
Tama laid his knife and fork next to his pancake and stood, meeting Logan’s eye as he did the same. The teenager had grown into a six feet, two inch male in the last year and still hadn’t finished. Logan was six feet and four inches in his socks and they towered over the tourist. The Māori males looked muscular and fearsome compared to the overweight, five feet nothing Englishman. They fixed their unified grey eyes on him, taking in the ‘I love London’ tee shirt, the hairy belly overhang peeking from underneath and the regulation lurid shorts. His European tourist uniform of white socks peeked through the toes of clumpy, unattractive sandals and Tama’s sneer spoke volumes.
Hana watched the Englishman’s Adam’s apple bob as he realised he’d picked a fight he couldn’t win. The booth behind Hana fell silent as none of the lottery winner’s sycophantic friends rushed to his aid. Sweat poured down the side of his bulbous face as he struggled to work out how to extract his pompous self from the calamity.
As one, Hana’s men made their eyes huge and round, bugging from their faces and showing their sclera like crazed maniacs. They flexed their huge arm muscles and stuck out their flattened tongues. “Haaaaaaaah!” they shouted in unison, filling the small cafe with their guttural, terrifying war cry.
Phoenix dissolved into a peal of hilarity and almost laughed herself off her mother’s knee and underneath the table. Hana struggled to keep her upright and when she looked up, saw the tourists gathering their belongings and fleeing. Logan caught the obstreperous man’s eye as he reached the door and the Māori jerked his head towards the till, wordlessly ordering him to settle his debt. He crept back, throwing a wad of New Zealand notes on the counter and glancing over his shoulder towards Hana’s table.
As the last tourist left, slamming the door behind himself, Logan and Tama sat down and picked up their cutlery to a round of applause from the other diners. The chef appeared from the kitchen with the phone in his hand. “No,” he said to the person on the other end. “They’ve gone now, but you might want to have a chat to them if they’re walking round our city behaving like that.” He disconnected and nodded to Logan. “Cops,” he said, waving the handset.
Logan did an upward jerk of his head in acknowledgement while Tama whispered under his breath. “Like they’ll come here for a few rowdy tourists?”
“I’ll tell Lucy you said that,” Hana commented, drawing a glare of dismay from her nephew.
“Don’t?” he begged.
“Which haka would you have done?” she asked, curious.
“The one from our marae,” Logan said, filling his mouth with pancake.
“Oh.” Tama stopped with a forkful of food half way to his mouth. “I was gonna do the school one.”
Hana snorted. “Oh, dear. You’re both a worry,” she laughed. “I’m so embarrassed by my kinsmen sometimes.”
“They’re not your kin,” Logan said gruffly. “We are. You’re a Kiwi now.”
Hana’s heart fluttered with the warmth of acceptance and she bit her lip and smiled at her formidable husband.
“Yeah,” Tama agreed, flushed with his own sense of belonging. “We’re family; just us.”
Hana smiled and enjoyed being part of something, realising how much of an outsider she’d become.
Chapter 17
“Painkillers,” Hana said, handing tablets to the teenager. “It might help.”
“Thanks.” Tama took the white pills and clasped the glass of water. “You’re awesome, Ma.” He laid down on the sofa and flicked through TV channels, alternating between loud pop music and cartoons.
Logan got underway with report writing, putting all his concentration into a neat, left handed slant. Phoenix went to sleep and Hana rattled around bored. Mindful of her promise to James, she muttered something about visiting a random wife in the staff accommodation and disappeared before either of the men could question her further.
Hana found her tennis partner already on the courts with his ball delivery machine. She let herself in through the gate and borrowed the spare racquet, conveniently lying next to the man’s bag. Without speaking a word, the players whacked balls at each other with speed and abandon until they were both breathless and worn out. The tennis player welcomed Hana’s presence with regular smiles as she made him duck and dive to return her volleys and she revelled in the familiar, physical exertion. Her muscles remembered the stance and demands on their flexibility, responding keenly, if a little rusty. The sparring finished before nine o’clock as before and Hana jogged around the court, fetching rogue balls and waiting while her partner locked up.
Hana stroked her finger across the name, ‘Lachlan’ written on the racquet case as she zipped it up, fighting to remember anyone of that name. She remembered one Lachlan from school, but his hair was a sandy red and he wasn’t as nice to look at as her partner. It seemed ridiculous to ask his name at this late stage, especially as he’d known hers from the start, so Hana tried to make conversation that might give her clues. “So, you remember me on the tennis circuit,” she said matter-of-factly, caressing the expensive racquet cover. “Did you go to the Hamilton club?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” His blonde hair whipped up in the icy breeze and he smiled. “I loved watching you play; you have a natural grace and your backhand is dynamite.”
His compliment distracted Hana and she felt herself blush in the glow from the floodlights. “It was dynamite,” she said sadly. “Now it’s more like - rusty undischarged landmine.”
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. Hana started in shock as his hand snaked gently around the back of her neck and he caressed her skin with strong fingers. She opened her mouth to protest but he covered her lips with an index finger smelling of tennis balls and rubber grips. “Sshh,” he whispered. “You’re a demon on the court, Hana Johal and a goddess off it. Leave me with my fantasies.”
Hana swallowed and he let her go, pushing the moment no further as if knowing she’d refuse. Hana clutched the racquet case and he took it from her, laying it on the back seat of the car, his fingers brushing hers in the action. Tasting the air for danger and reaching into her surroundings, Hana felt only peace and confusion. “Come again?” the man asked, his jaw angular and handsome as his blue eyes bore into hers.
She nodded with slowness born of doubt and pointed back towards the floodlights, remembering the real reason she came. “The lights are still on.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” The tennis player strode towards the darkened shed, jangling a set of keys in his hands. He sorted through them until he found the right one. Hana stuck close behind and watched as he drew the creaky door open, peering into the blackness inside. The model plane perched on an old desk in a dank corner. “That’s where it is!” she said, pretending to sound surprised. “My nephew’s plane came over here last week and he couldn’t find it. He’s been really upset.”
“Where?” he asked, peering into the gloom.
Hana turned a devastating smile in his direction. “There,” she replied, pointing a finger to direct his gaze. The tennis player ignored her raised hand, staring at her instead as though drinking in her beauty. Hana felt momentarily powerful and exploited the man’s adoration, tossing her hair and testing her latent skill to reel him in. He seemed stunned, fixated on Hana’s flushed complexion and windswept red locks and then he stepped back, allowing her into the shed.
“Help yourself,” he said with a wobble in his voice.
Hana walked up the steps and into the metal container before her common sense kicked in. She chided herself for her own stupidity at having willingly trapped herself, wondering if she learned nothing from her experience with Laval and his stalking. She felt her heart rate hike and the familiar pounding in her ears. Her hand shook as she snatched up the plane in her right hand, finding it heavier than she expected.
Hana swallowed and walked towards the open door with purpose, expecting at any minute to find her exit barred. “Thanks,” she said, her voice breathy and hollow.
“No problem,” t
he tennis player said with a smile, standing back to let her pass and closing the door behind her after flicking off the switch for the floodlights.
The area plunged into an eerie darkness as Hana bid him a shaky goodnight and jogged home, hearing the huge floods audibly click until they were almost as black as the night, leaving a slight, discernible glimmer as they cooled. “Idiot, idiot, idiot!” Hana admonished herself, finding her lungs protesting as she reached her front door. The plane in her hand seemed ridiculously insignificant compared to what it might have cost her, had the tennis player been a different kind of man. Hana heard his car start up and caught sight of it passing the end of her road, a nondescript colour and model in the darkness.
When her heart rate returned to almost normal, Hana knocked on the door. Logan opened it and studied his wife, concern in his eyes at her dishevelled appearance. He stood back to let her in, touching her lightly on the back. “Have you been running?” he asked, suspicion etched into his chiselled face.
“It’s just a bit dark and scary out there,” Hana replied truthfully. “It made me want to run home.” Her hair was damp around her head and her cheeks pink and cold and she sensed Logan didn’t believe her. “Look what I found,” she said holding the plane aloft.
Tama looked up from his cramped position on the sofa, losing interest when he saw Hana didn’t possess the remote control to make it fly.
“Where did you find that?” Logan’s eyes narrowed and Hana gulped and shrugged.
“Just out there,” she said, sticking as close to the truth as possible, knowing Logan would smell a lie at thirty paces. Logan took the plane from her hand and peered at it as Hana bent to remove her trainers.
“Did you know it was missing?” he asked, his grey eyes boring into the side of Hana’s face. “Your mate, James has been bugging me about a plane he lost a while ago.”
“I just found it by chance,” Hana said, trying to sound innocent and engrossing herself with her knotted laces.
“So what’s this all over it?” her husband replied, looking at her with a gaze which felt as though it left a physical wound.
“I’ve no idea.” Hana peered at the greenery stuck in the plane’s wings, relaxing with relief at being able to align with truth again. “I didn’t see that in the dark.” She reached out to poke at a fluttery leaf and Logan lifted it above her head, his eyes flashing.
“Don’t touch it,” he said, his voice hard. “You don’t know what it is.”
Hana shrugged and wrinkled her nose. “Well, it won’t be poisonous, will it?” she scoffed. “Not in New Zealand.”
“Did you know you can die from touching cow parsley?” Tama chimed, looking pleased with himself. “It’s part of the hog weed family and contains a natural toxin that kills some people. It might be that.”
Hana shook her head and smirked at Logan, seeking his unanimity in mocking the teenager. He didn’t join in, eyeing her sideways as though she represented a risky filly who nobody else had managed to break. “Please can you give it back to James tomorrow?” she asked setting her expression to neutral.
Logan cocked his head and his eyes flashed. Guilt made Hana exasperated. “You said he’s been bugging you for it, Logan, so please will you give it back?”
“Ok.” He raised it above his head as Hana took another swipe for it. “I said I’d deal with it, Hana. Bloody hell, I’ll put it down here so just leave it alone.” He laid it underneath the table by his boots, out of the way in the cramped unit.
“Thanks.” Hana feigned normality and yawned. “I think I’ll go for a shower and then bed. Phoe keeps waking at four and it’s playing havoc with me at the moment.”
“Ok.” Logan softened and leaned in for a kiss, stroking Hana’s ruffled fringe away from her forehead. “I’ll be down later.”
As he heard the bathroom door click behind his wife, Logan turned to his nephew as the teenager sprawled on the sofa in his plastic wrap shroud. “I’m not going mad am I?” he asked. “That’s hash on that plane, isn’t it?”
Tama nodded with certainty and went back to watching the TV programme taking his mind off the pain in his ribs. “What’s my wife up to now?” Logan mused to himself and Tama shrugged, not caring.
Chapter 18
Logan strode across the field towards St Bart’s, the morning frost heavy underfoot. The aeroplane dangled from his hand in a plastic bag, the bits of vivid green leaf absent from its fiberglass body. The Māori shook his head, narrowing his eyes at the time it took to separate the greenery from the plane and flush it down the toilet.
“What are you doing?” Tama had asked, staring over his shoulder as Logan sponged the plane’s surface with a wet cloth after midnight.
“It was covered in marijuana, idiot!” Logan bit. “Do you think I should’ve just rolled it into a joint and offered Bodie some?”
“Ah, probably not,” Tama replied. “Reckon Supercop’s got it in for both of us lately.”
“No kidding,” Logan breathed. He climbed into bed in the early hours having cleared the house, including Hana’s trainers and clothing of drugs.
“Want breakfast?” Hana asked as she wandered into the lounge and nudged her house guest with her toe.
“Na,” Tama sighed. “Don’t feel so good.”
“Oh, that’s worrying. Logan gone?” Hana yawned and stretched and the teenager nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Did he take the plane for James?” she asked, casting her eyes around looking for it.
“Yeah.”
Hana sighed. “Are you going to say anything other than yeah or na today?”
“Na.”
Tama stayed in his sleeping bag and remained uncommunicative. He couldn’t explain why the last inking session caused him more agony than all the others put together, but something to do with the wording disappearing into his boxer shorts and heading for his groin served as a clue. Hana did a load of washing, asking him to hang it on the line for her when it finished. Then she bundled up the baby and put her into the pram, walking into town with the clothes for the op shop and an idea she might visit the pharmacy and get something to help the suffering teenager.
The first pharmacist was unsympathetic when she told him about Tama’s tattoo and she left empty handed. “If the tattoo artist isn’t licenced, there’s all sorts of risks; hepatitis, HIV and various other dangers associated with tattoos.” The woman refused to sell Hana anything to help, insisting, “Get him to a doctor as quickly as possible.”
After the op shop visit, Hana walked to Hamilton East and found a much nicer response. She came away with anti-bacterial cream and stronger painkillers. The Asian man spoke with kindness and understanding, agreeing with Logan’s treatment of the area. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’d suggest he does. Apply this cream four times a day and repeat the dressing twice a day. Your husband’s right. It mustn’t dry out or form a scab.” He rolled up his sleeve and showed Hana a beautiful eagle which wrapped around his forearm.
“That’s amazing!” she breathed, admiring the realism of the image. “Did it hurt?”
The pharmacist shrugged and laughed. “I wouldn’t admit it. He’ll be fine. Look out for symptoms such as fever or weeping from the tattoo and general unwellness. Otherwise, he’ll just be sore for a few days and probably complain a lot.”
Strolling along Grey Street, Hana enjoyed window shopping without being tempted to go inside. The sound of her name being called made her stop and look around her.
“Hana! Over here!” Hana’s heart sank as she recognised Vik’s old friend and Anka’s ex-husband, calling to her from a parked car.
“Hi,” Hana said, only half committed to the conversation. Their last talk hadn’t been pleasant. “I’m just on my way somewhere,” she lied. “And I’m sure you’ve got work to do.”
Ivan gazed at her over the tops of his brown eyes, sensing Hana’s reluctance. He opened the car door and unwound himself from the driver’s seat, standing almost as tall as Logan. “I w
ork for the council, Hana. You know how it works.”
Hana bit her lip and smiled. Ivan worked for the council in a managerial role, working in some capacity with the elected city councillors. Anka had regaled her friend with hilarious stories over the years of the things the great and good of Hamilton got up to. “I’m was waiting for a colleague to turn up to visit a shop owner on the block, but he’s just rung in sick. Would you like to go for coffee?”
“No, thanks. I have to go.” Hana backed away, seeing the sadness cross Ivan’s face.
“Please,” he said, reaching for her arm. “I’d like you to stay and hear my apology.”
And so Hana found herself sitting in the same cafe she met with Ivan’s wife some months ago, deciding the place must be cursed with a spirit of awkward conversations. Hana wedged the pram between two tables and checked Phoenix was still asleep, contemplating waking her and using her as an excuse to escape. They chatted about general matters until Ivan asked if she’d seen Anka lately.
“Not since February,” Hana answered, trying hard not to conjure up the vision of Tama’s backside working its muscular way back into its boxer shorts, or Anka sitting on Hana’s new sofa with her breasts spilling from her bra. Tama often referred to the lounge rug as the rectangle of passion, just to tease Hana.
Eventually, Ivan turned the conversation to his phone argument with Hana, over a year ago.
“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he said. “You weren’t to blame and I shouldn’t have lashed out at you.”
“It was an unbelievably difficult time for everyone,” Hana muttered, desperate to change the conversation. “It wasn’t a good time for me anyway but Anka’s affair with Tama made it worse.”
“Well,” Ivan said, “with you knowing how it felt, you were the last person I should have fought with.”