by Bowes, K T
The Asian followed them into the room and looked around him with piercingly brown, slanted eyes. “Pull it apart!” he muttered, jabbing an angry finger at his partner and then left the room. Hana heard crashes coming from the bedroom end of the house as he upended boxes and her belongings smashed against the carpet. The other man began to do likewise in the family room. At the sight of a little china spaniel which Bodie gave her for Christmas their first year in New Zealand, Hana’s senses stirred. This man was even more sinister than the Asian, frighteningly unpredictable. He had the same air of being out of control which had terrified Hana when they deliberately smashed into the back of her car. The brindle and white spaniel was hurled to the ground in a handful of similar items and Hana gulped with relief as it survived. But as the man stepped backwards and the little china dog crunched into hundreds of pieces under the weight of his boot, Hana recaptured some of her latent anger.
She moved backwards into the kitchen, making sure he mistook it as fear of him. He glanced across at her once and sneered as he saw how petrified she was, turning back to his work with a commitment that would be admired in any other profession. He tossed a threat over his shoulder. “There’s no way out. You can come past me or through me. I’ll enjoy either.”
Hana was buoyed by revulsion and reached carefully backwards into the cutlery drawer, slowly pulling out a large carving knife before reaching into the next one and retrieving her oak rolling pin. She tried hard not to create the usual jangling noises that could give her away and held her breath. Armed with a utensil in either hand and shielded by the bench-top, Hana rested for a moment. The knife blade was cold against her fingers. She tried to regulate her ragged breathing. The stranglehold on her throat had caused her to panic and a dreadful soreness emanated from her windpipe. She wanted to reach up and make sure all was well, but her hands were now full. Silently and earnestly she prayed inside her head, help me God, please help me God.
A loud crash from the other end of the house was soon followed by a shout and the big man looked towards the source of the noise. He plainly needed to investigate but couldn’t leave Hana in the kitchen alone. “Come here!” He lurched towards her, intending to drag her with him, but she was ready. Swinging the rolling pin with everything she had, she struck him hard on the side of the head whilst lunging with the knife. The knife wasn’t sharp enough. It became entangled in the sleeve of his dark coloured jacket. They struggled together as she rained more blows against the man’s temple one-handed, gripping the rolling pin and feeling its thudding contact. Enraged, the man grabbed her wrist and slammed it down against the worktop. Hana let out a scream of pain as her bones contacted the solid surface. The rolling pin spun out of her grasp and skittered away, making a resounding ‘pop’ and then a ‘clunk’ as it hit the wall.
Hana noticed a dark shape move across the ranch-slider window facing the back garden, distracting her and making her miss her mark with the bare fist that replaced the rolling pin. She saw the Asian man leap the low wall outside, running down the slope to the street below.
Hana’s attacker hadn’t realised his abandoned state and continued to fight her, overpowering her delicate frame and forcing her slight body backwards against the bench. He bled from a cut on his head and the knife detached itself suddenly from his sleeve. It was free in Hana’s hand and she tried to stab it into his shoulder, realising too late it had turned in the struggle and the blade faced the wrong way. It turned the last of its cutting strength on her instead, slicing her deeply across her palm and she gave a shrill scream of pain and disbelief. It dropped to the floor and skittered away across the shiny surface.
Hana knew it was game over. The man was furious enough to seriously hurt her. As she braced herself, the blonde man’s head whipped back unexpectedly and the grip on her wrist disappeared as he put his hands up to his own throat. His face bore a look of complete surprise as his knees buckled and he tried to turn away from Hana. She was suddenly free and her body slumped as she tried to communicate to her legs to run. Jelly like they refused the simple command and Hana slipped to the ground, gagging as her bottom hit the floor.
Another shape moved into view and the big man was smacked roundly in the face with an expert king punch. He reeled back, but changed his tack. Escape became his priority and he bolted for the ranch-slider, ripping it almost off its tracks in his efforts to get out. He too was off and bolting over the side wall, through the bushes and down into the street. The dark shape followed him to the door and then turned back into the room, a different priority demanding his attention. Hana felt for the lino underneath her, the backs of her hands seeking solidity. Blood ran along her right wrist and into her sleeve as she raised her hands in front of her face.
Logan came around the bench and kneeled down in front of her. He seemed reluctant to touch her. “It’s ok,” he soothed, “it’s all gonna be ok.”
He reached for the tea towel, carelessly left over the handle of the oven and began to wind it around her bleeding hand. Hana noted with irony that he did have his cell phone on him for once as he pulled it out and quickly dialled the emergency number. Hana kept her face buried in her knees, making her battered body as tiny as possible. She missed the misery on Logan’s face and the countless number of times he reached out towards her and then pulled back. “Sshh,” he soothed from a safe distance. “You’re ok now, Hana. You’re safe.”
There was massive disruption as the police arrived. Not one but two police cars parked outside the house and tramped inside without removing their shoes. Hana no longer cared. Twice she gave her statement to different police officers amidst an agony of tears. One of the cars contained the policemen from last time, bewildered Hana’s problem had not magically gone away despite their inadequate detecting skills. They all stood aside as a more senior ranking officer arrived. His introduction seemed to come to Hana through mental static and she didn’t register either his rank or name. She remained slumped on the floor in front of the sink, the gothic handles from last year’s decorating project poking unforgivingly into her back. The floor felt safe and unchanging. She wouldn’t move, despite being asked to a number of times.
A single conversation stuck in her mind afterwards, uttered to the other officers in hushed but angry tones by the senior man in the plain civilian clothes. “Her son came to see me about ten days ago. Senior Sergeant Bodie Singh Johal. He wasn’t pleased with you idiots and nor am I! Get the crime-scene guys in here. Go over it all again. This is not coincidence, it’s a vendetta. Get this fiasco cleared up!”
Logan drove Hana to the doctor’s surgery to get cleaned up. “I am not going to hospital!” she growled through clenched teeth.
“Ok, ok,” he soothed, his face full of concern.
“Don’t you dare tell me to stop being upset,” Hana threatened, wiping her eyes with her bleeding hand. More leakage oozed from the open wound. “Don’t tell me to calm down!”
“I haven’t and I won’t. I promise.” Logan’s voice was soft and reassuring, despite the heartbreak in his eyes. He helped Hana to her feet, disturbed at her reluctance to be touched, even by the female officers. A policewoman arrived in the kitchen and tried to talk to Hana and she later heard her ringing the surgery at Davies Corner, warning them she was coming. Sitting in the truck, still pristine from its clean and polish, Hana wondered why the doctor’s needed warning. Was it in case she flipped out in the waiting room, sitting with the coughs and colds with her bleeding hand and shattered nerves?
Once there, Hana experienced unexpected difficulties getting out of the truck. It seemed an awfully long way down and her body failed to obey her instructions to move. Her spine hurt and her throat felt sore, while her neck burned like it was on fire. She couldn’t reach up and touch it to see if there were blood or gaping holes because her left wrist was so painful and her right hand was swathed in the tea towel. It was one of her favourite tea towels too, the Shakespeare one with all the printed blue ink pictures of his house and Anne Hathaway�
��s cottage. She wondered if the blood would come out, or if it would forever look like the gory bandage it was proving to be. She kept remembering the flash of the policewoman’s camera as she photographed Hana’s latest injuries. “I loved this tea towel,” Hana sobbed, sounding ridiculous even to her own addled mind.
“I’m sorry, Han.” Logan lifted Hana down from the truck, setting her on the floor as though she might break. He was competent, solid and reliable. Hana clung to him like a life raft, without registering he was someone she had rejected only an hour before. Her frightened brain had shut down everything except for the necessities. But when Logan tried to put his arms around her, Hana bashed them away, overbalancing herself and hitting the back of her head on the truck door.
The phone call from the policewoman ensured Hana went straight into triage and didn’t sit in the waiting room at all. Logan came into the area but not behind the curtain. She saw him through the cracks where the curtains met as the nurse unwrapped her hand. “This looks deep. It needs to be stitched,” the nurse commented.
“I don’t care!” Hana sniffed and turned away from the sight of the needle, her fear morphing into futile, belated aggression.
Logan leaned against a white counter with a clipboard and pen. He struggled to fill in a green form and Hana watched him withdraw his wallet from his tight jeans pocket and pay for something in cash.
Hana’s doctor’s surgery had its own minor emergency facilities, able to take x-rays and perform lesser dressings and procedures. Miraculously Hana had no broken bones, just a badly bruised and sprained left wrist.
“Sprains can sometimes be worse than a break,” the doctor ventured as he wielded a sling. The carving knife had created a nasty gash on her right hand which he stitched closed. A subtle jab of something mildly sedative and definitely pain relieving left Hana feeling somewhat gormless and she found herself back in the truck and travelling away from the surgery.
Logan still didn’t speak as they drove, but occasionally his passenger caught him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “I want to go home. Please take me home?” Hana pleaded, her voice breaking with misery.
“Ssshh. You can’t. The cops don’t want you there tonight. Trust me, I’m taking you somewhere safe.” His expression remained neutral and Hana couldn’t bear to hear the weakness in her voice and fell silent. She felt inexplicably tired and everything seemed dreadfully difficult.
“The biology teacher won’t want to move in now,” Hana sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “He won’t be safe. My life is ruined. He’s been my biggest fan all week, waving and smiling across the staff room at me - and his lovely family won’t have anywhere to go. They won’t want to live in a house someone’s been...attacked in.”
“Your life’s not ruined, babe,” Logan soothed. “I promise.”
“I don’t trust you,” Hana hiccoughed. “You tell lies.”
“I don’t, I promise.”
Hana felt truly bone-weary and didn’t register where Logan was driving to. He gave up trying to talk to her, her fear reaction working its way out in flashes of temper.
It was possibly the gentle Indian doctor’s drugs which made Hana grateful to the kind female hands which helped her undress and put on a nightdress that wasn’t hers and climb into a soft and comfortable bed. She descended at last into a welcome pit of nothingness, which held neither pain nor fear of any sort. Nothing else would have induced her to end up there.
Chapter 40
Hana woke with a clanger of a headache. It took an age for her to properly wake to the point where she was in reasonable control of her arms and legs enough to attempt to move. Sitting was difficult, not just because both of her hands were out of action but because there appeared to be something long and sheet-like wrapped around the lower half of her body. As she lay in the cold semi darkness, she wondered if she was in a straightjacket but her arms seemed to be free, although heavily bandaged. “Oh my God, I’ve died and gone to the morgue,” she panicked, trying to remain still in her shroud, but wondering if it would be advisable to shout for help.
Eventually, her bursting bladder persuaded her that the matter needed urgent consideration and rolling onto her left side, Hana managed to get enough traction to tip herself out of the bed and onto her knees. Battling to stand up because of the sheet-like thing’s reluctance to unwind itself from around her legs, Hana found herself wearing an enormous white, old fashioned nightdress. Hana stayed on her knees for a moment or two, collecting her battered head into some semblance of order. She was accidentally discovered that way by a near hysterical Henrietta, was convinced she had collapsed.
Emerging from the bathroom, Hana was alarmed to discover it was after eleven o’clock on Monday morning and she had spent the night in Logan’s immaculate room at the Gordonton house. The shroud belonged to Henrietta. Hana had a slight panic about work, a bigger one about her unlocked and police infested house and a massive one about poor Tiger, alone and defenceless. Henrietta was able to confidently dispense with all three worries easily over a cup of tea, which whilst welcome, was not easy to drink with no hands. “Work is fine. Angus is fully aware of what happened and knows where you are. Your house is locked securely and my Peteepoos and Logan slept there all night while Boris kept vigil over me and you.” Henrietta smiled like the princess from Shrek.
The police had accessibility for fingerprinting and investigating via the key with her next-door neighbours and Tiger woke to a sharp prod from Henrietta, sleeping comfortably on a chair on top of Hana’s blood stained tee shirt. He was deemed ‘at risk’ at Achilles Rise. After a short struggle, he was captured in Logan’s jacket and smuggled to the house. He hadn’t appreciated the police presence near his food bowl and Henrietta was fearful the men might return and harm him while the boys were at work. Tiger proved partial to the Gordonton house, having caught two mice in the front driveway and one, alarmingly from somewhere inside.
“I’m glad he’s catching mice for me, but I’m now worrying about where he’s finding them all!” Henrietta complained. The cat showed no signs of running home and after his rude awakening prowled around importantly, winding himself around Hana’s legs. He seemed perplexed by the enormity of the nightie which he popped in and out of affectionately, until almost tying himself in a knot. Then he then strutted over to the chair and settled down for another snooze.
Hana laid her forehead on her arms, remembering at the last minute to avoid her throbbing wrist. Henrietta clucked with concern but thankfully asked no questions, leaving Hana to wrestle her thoughts into order. It was overwhelming. She had so much to do. “I need to go home,” she stated with a moan. “I still have packing to do. I can’t stay here. It’s too awkward. I need to get back.”
Henrietta cajoled and persuaded but to no avail. Hana had made up her mind. Although how on earth she was going to get the new house sorted with no hands, she had no idea. “What a nightmare. How can I pack with no hands?” she complained. “The intruders wrecked everything at Achilles Rise and Culver’s Cottage has no curtains and the place needs a damn good clean. I don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
Hana tried to prise her tee shirt out from under Tiger, but he dug his claws in as though he was part of Henrietta’s conspiracy to keep her there. In the bathroom, Hana sat on the toilet seat and worried, shocked by her appearance in the mirror. “I’m still going,” she muttered to herself stubbornly. She plied her tousled hair with water and mousse she found in the cupboard. Then she strip washed best she could using a towel and flannel her hostess reluctantly handed over. A carrier bag over her stitches allowed Hana to wash, but when she pulled it off the bleeding started again. It was almost impossible trying to keep the wrist bandage out of the water. Her right hand was next to useless and incredibly sore. Henrietta had somehow managed to wash and dry Hana’s underwear. It hung on an airer in the conservatory, nestled rather too snugly to a pair of grubby Y-fronts which she was informed through giggles, were, “Pete’s best ones
.”
Too much information, Hana decided as she rescued her undies.
“Come on dear,” Henrietta tried to persuade her. “You need to stay here.”
“I can’t,” Hana insisted. “It’s only a matter of time before Logan’s new girlfriend turns up and I’m not in the right frame of mind to deal with her.”
Back in Logan’s room, Hana dressed in her undies with painful slowness. Her tracksuit pants seemed to have disappeared, Tiger had commandeered her tee shirt and she couldn’t possibly go out in her undies. Hana started opening cupboards and drawers. With a pang of guilt tainted by wistfulness, Logan’s musky scent drifted up from the clothing and assaulted Hana’s nostrils, filling her with regret. She held a tee shirt up to her nose and missed him with a physical ache in her chest. The tee shirt had the slogan, “Love is overrated” on the front and Hana slipped it over her bra, deciding it just about summed up how she felt. It had maybe once been white, but washed into a faded grey over time. She found a pair of Logan’s track pants. They were too long and required some awkward folding over at the waist, not easy one handed.
Hana raided shelves in the compulsively tidy wardrobe and found the jumper Logan wore when he tried to speak to her in the common room. For reasons known only to her subconscious, Hana slipped it on over the tee shirt, borrowed some socks and then tried to put the room straight. The constant moving of her hand caused blood to leak through the bandage and Hana was mortified to find some on the nightdress. She folded it tightly and decided to take it home with her to wash. She pulled the sheets and duvet back onto the bed, straightened it all up and hoped Logan wouldn’t mind if she offered to wash them later. She didn’t know how she would get them off the bed without covering them in blood. To her horror, she realised it was two o’clock and tried to move faster, finding her trainers but struggling with the laces.