by Bowes, K T
Tiger wiggled and scratched Hana along her arm in his efforts to escape. “Fine!” Hana said crossly and dumped him on the floor. “I’ll decorate instead then. And I’ll never ask your advice again!”
She set herself up to do some wallpapering in the hall, trying not to make too much noise in the big open space, aware of Logan still sleeping. Carrying the ladder instead of dragging it across the stripped rimu floors, Hana got busy decorating with the bold navy and white pattern which she used on the wall furthest away from the front door. She used the kitchen table and the tarp again and worked away hanging the paper. There were no accidents this time and she started to feel like an expert decorator. “Oosh, I’m so good at this!” Hana praised herself and did a little jig in the middle of the hallway.
The large pattern made matching easy and the wastage was minimal. Hana papered quickly and efficiently and hung eighteen strips of paper before Logan surfaced near eleven o’clock.
“Hey, babe. Look what I’ve…” Hana began. Logan ignored her as he staggered out of the bedroom with his hair stuck up like a rooster; his pyjama trousers skew-whiff around his hips so the buttons were at the side. He lurched down to the kitchen, weaving and winding around the paste bucket and wallpapering implements and Hana heard the sound of the tap running and the clink of glass. Finishing brushing the air-bubbles out of the last piece of paper, Hana stepped down the ladder and followed Logan to the kitchen. She found him fumbling with a foil packet of pain killers over the sink.
A white pill popped out suddenly and rolled away. Logan wasn’t quick enough as it dropped down the plughole and was lost. He tutted loudly in exasperation and started on the packet again with the hand protruding from the cast, whilst shoving the surviving tablet into his mouth with the other. Coming up behind him, Hana lifted the pack out of his hand. Instantly he grabbed for the glass of water and drank to help the tablet go down into his stomach.
“Hurting?” she asked him gently. Logan nodded and Hana popped the tablet into his hand, watching it gratefully disappear into his mouth almost instantly. He sat down at the kitchen table and rested his forehead on his arms, his body tense and rigid. Hana rubbed his back lovingly, trying to stroke out the stress and the pain, praying quietly in her mind. “It’s still early days yet,” she comforted, “shall I ring the district nurse and get some advice?”
Logan shook his head vehemently and Hana could tell he wouldn’t be swayed. The decision she wrangled silently with, which woke her early and kept her distracted with the papering, was suddenly made for her. She couldn’t spend the best part of ten hours a day away from him, not while he was still in such pain. She would text Sheila later and apologise, but Hana couldn’t possibly return to work yet.
Logan remained listless and silent, not seeming to know what to do with himself. He agreed to a hot drink, which he then couldn’t seem to swallow and Hana grew more anxious as time passed. When she asked where it hurt, he pointed gingerly to his ribs and the site of the incision and any suggestions she made were rejected with a silent shake of his head.
Eventually, Hana was driven to take action, despite Logan’s protests. She found the number for the Ngaruawahia doctors’ surgery and called it. In the UK, doctors didn’t work on Sundays, but the absence of an NHS in New Zealand and the fact everything was paid for everything privately, meant the surgeries were open, but the price was doubled. The receptionist tried to make an appointment for Hana, but half way through, Hana doubted she would be able to actually get Logan into the car and down to town. “He’s adamant he doesn’t want me to call an ambulance again,” Hana explained twice before the receptionist took her number and promised someone would call her back.
Hana hung up the phone and sighed. Nobody in New Zealand ever called back when they promised. She went back to her husband and kissed the top of his head, holding his hand and resting her forehead against his shoulder, tracing her finger over the bold tattoo which snaked around his upper arm. She tried to distract him while the codeine kicked in, asking him about the complicated moko and its delicate tracks and swirls, which seemed so intricate and almost gothic. She stroked the fine lines and noted how they seemed to follow a never ending black pattern back to the beginning and out again, twisting and weaving around his arm, deviating only to form another shape before returning to the start. He looked up once, his face drawn and grey to say only, “Whakapapa,” before putting his head down again, his breath coming in tight rasps.
Family, genealogy. It was the foundation of Māori culture, who you were, where you came from, how you got there, who belonged to you. It made you who you were. You came into the world with your ancestry behind you and left having become a part of it.
Hana was in awe of it and gently kissed its darkly woven centre, feeling Logan’s overheating flesh shivering slightly underneath her touch as he tried to control the physical battering coming from inside. “Please let me help you?” she begged him in a low voice, wondering if he suddenly agreed what on earth she could actually do. “This is frightening me, Loge.”
Hana heard the telephone trilling in the hallway and went to answer it, expecting it to be Bodie or Izzie. To her surprise it was a duty doctor from the surgery. He was clipped and pleasant and asked her if Logan was related to Michael du Rose. Apparently they went to med school together in Auckland. Hana confirmed they were brothers and was amazed when the doctor told her, “I’ll be at your address in about ten minutes.”
Hana didn’t have the heart to ask how much that was going to cost, or how to explain it on the medical insurance form. She was just grateful someone else was going to share the responsibility for a moment.
The doctor was true to his word and buzzed the gate ten minutes later, driving quickly up the driveway in a sporty little Mazda which spat out the gravel like grape pips behind it. He was thin, blonde and good looking, his movements quick and competent as he shook Hana’s hand on the porch. She turned to go into the house, thinking he would be keen to get straight into the patient but he detained her instead, asking questions about Logan’s condition.
His accent was New Zealander with a definite hint of South African and his questions were pointed and hard to fudge or give anything but the truth to. He would have made an excellent barrister. “How did he sustain this injury?” He watched Hana’s face carefully, noting the slight flush which crossed the pretty freckled cheeks and drew his own conclusions long before Hana stuttered out her conscientiously worded answer.
“Someone hit him from behind with a crowbar and broke ribs, his arm and damaged his spleen.”
Blue eyes bored into her face as he nodded definitively and Hana knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was familiar with the Du Roses, in a way she could only guess at. Her mafia fears rose quickly to the surface only to be dispelled by the sight of Logan, still slumped at the kitchen table, his back rigid and the bones of his shoulder blades angled sharply through the muscles in his bare skin.
The doctor was quick and efficient, getting Hana to help him take Logan into the living room and lay him on the floor so he could examine him properly. At the sound of his voice, Logan shot him a direct look, which Hana intercepted and saw he knew the man. She couldn’t tell whether the look was of friendship or not though and another worry emerged that perhaps she inadvertently let the wrong person near her husband in his considerably weakened state.
The tall man encouraged Logan to stretch out flat on the floor, but it was clear his patient was finding the action difficult. When the doctor pressed on his stomach, he let out an involuntary groan and pushed the doctor’s hand away hard.
Hana stood watching, wringing her hands and feeling decidedly useless. The doctor continued his examination of Logan’s midsection, kneeling calmly on the rug next to his writhing patient. He was a calming influence on Hana as he tapped and pressed, seemingly unfazed by Logan’s silently threatening resistance. “Lay on your back with your knees up to alleviate the pressure on your stomach,” he told Logan finally, standing
smoothly to his feet. He indicated to Hana he would like to wash his hands.
As she handed him a tea towel to dry them, he turned to her and smiled. It was a kind smile and his face changed with it, losing some of the hardness. Hana waited expectantly, but the man turned away and reached for his black briefcase. He pulled out a prescription pad and started scribbling away, finally handing it to her after adding a flourishing signature, which looked as though it could potentially go on forever. Hana took it and looked at the scribble for clues. It meant nothing to her. Sensing her confusion, the doctor spoke. His voice was gentle and quiet and she felt she needed to strain to hear.
“His gut has spasmed,” he explained, “because of all the surgery. I’ve scripted something to get it relaxed again and something for the pain. As long as nothing tears inside he will be fine. It could happen to anyone but with the hemophilia, it’s just made a whole lot more complicated.” With that, he released another megawatt smile.
“Did you know his brother died of it?” Hana asked and the doctor nodded.
“Yeah. But that’s because he fell from a horse and sustained multiple bleeds. His mother tried to nurse him at home. It was never going to end well. There were other complications too though. It wasn’t as cut and dried as it sounds.”
“So Logan doesn’t have to die from it?” Hana was aware of the wobble in her voice.
“Not at all,” the doctor scoffed, adding, “The pharmacy will be open now. I’ll wait with him if you want to go down and fetch the medication.”
Hana felt nonplussed and hesitated, wondering whether to leave Logan or not. In the end she went into the living room where Logan managed to prop himself up against the sofa, but still clutched his stomach. Hana explained quickly where she was going and that the doctor was staying with him for the duration. He nodded slowly, so she knew he understood.
“Thank you,” she said to the handsome doctor, “he’s terrified of going back into hospital.”
“I know.” His reply made Hana’s brow knit in perplexity and grabbing her car keys and purse, she headed rapidly out of the front door to Bodie’s sleek car. She kept looking back at the house feeling unsettled, but unable to put her finger on what it was that made her feel so unsafe.
Activating the gates Hana flew quickly onto the Hakarimata Road, making the journey into Ngaruawahia in less than five minutes. Traffic was sparse and she managed to get a parking spot right in front of the pharmacy. The girl behind the counter took the prescription and her money before advising Hana there would be a half an hour wait. Hana was irritated. “Why did you do that?” she chuntered, “take my money and then tell me you couldn’t deliver on time. My husband’s at home really sick and waiting for this medication.”
She walked away from the counter in exasperation before she drew any more attention to herself. In Hamilton, she might have snatched the prescription back and gone elsewhere, but Ngaruawahia only had one pharmacy open on Sundays and Hana had no choice but to wait, seething in the shop.
Twenty-five minutes passed with no sign of Logan’s prescription and the staff behind the tall counter worked busily in silence. Occasionally the sound of pills being dropped into containers reached Hana’s frustrated ears. She moved around the shop, trying to occupy herself with looking at the make-up and the special offers on lipstick and moisturiser. A rack containing handbags over near the window caught her eye and she went across to admire the pretty chintzy fabrics. One in particular attracted Hana, a pale pink shoulder bag with large hyacinth flowers dotted over it, some petals darker pink and others a mauve colour. Hana delved into the bag, counting the pockets and assessing their usefulness, wondering if she should make a ‘cheer up’ purchase for herself while she waited.
A sudden movement on the street outside made Hana jump, instantly removing her focus from the bag. A little boy looked in the window, pressing his face up close and pointing at a brightly painted wooden truck which was part of the window display. The shelf the window was built into was fashioned into a beach scene, to advertise the different brands of sun cream available. Sand dunes were carefully crafted and surfboards dotted around a papier-mache sea. The truck was balanced precariously on the sand pile and was a typical beach camper van.
Very Kiwi, thought Hana to herself, smiling at the little boy who apparently wanted to take possession of the van. She gave him a wave and he smiled broadly back, perhaps thinking the pretty redhead was part of the display.
Heartened, Hana forgot about the bag and started to move away from the window, just as Logan’s prescription was called out. “Logan Du Rose?” the pharmacist shouted again. Hana felt the presence of the black BMW before she saw it, sliding into a parking space across the street. Hana froze with fear as the brake lights on the car went out and she saw the vehicle put in park by the momentary appearance of the reverse lights. Her reflex action was to move slowly backwards, but she only became aware of this as she ended up squashed against the handbag rack.
“Logan Du Rose,” came the voice of the pharmacist, this time more loudly, bringing Hana back to reality. She dashed over to the counter, almost snatching the prescription and causing the woman to look at her in alarm. Hana’s flight instinct worked overtime as she seized the door handle, intending to make a run for the car and leave.
“Thanks,” she remembered to call over her shoulder. A million thoughts ran through her head, alongside the incredible realisation that the men had found her. Again.
Help me God, help me God, she pleaded pitifully, hesitating before wrenching the door open. As the door clanged behind her, Hana flipped the hood of her sweatshirt up and over her hair, turning away from the road as she shoved her thumb roughly over the key fob, willing the car door to open. In the movies something would have gone wrong. The car would have refused to start until the final moment or the ‘baddies’ would have spotted her across the road, but Bodie’s prized possession behaved exactly as its expensive engineering dictated and the vehicle unlocked smoothly as Hana flung herself into the driver’s seat. She fumbled, trying to activate the central locking and ensuring no uninvited passengers could appear in the empty seat next to her but she couldn’t remember which of the interior switches worked it.
The main street in Ngaruawahia was spacious, designed to attract people into the shops. There was angled parking on both sides of the road and a broad, pretty central reservation divided the two sides. Crossing ramps rose out in grey concrete, surrounded by a riot of colour provided by careful planting. Because the end of the road met State Highway 1 there was no right turn. To get out and home, Hana would have to use the turning circle at the end of the road and drive right behind her pursuers. She sat in the car and panicked. The windows of Bodie’s car were slightly tinted providing some cover but the day was dull and overcast, meaning the tint was less effective.
“What do I do? What do I do?” Dithering too long in the driver’s seat, Hana saw one of the occupants of the black BMW get out and walk towards the video store. She didn’t recognise him as he began a conversation with an elderly man sat on a seat outside. There was a great deal of arm waving and gesticulating and Hana noticed randomly in her rear-view mirror the wrinkled, brown-skinned old man was toothless.
Collecting her wits, Hana attempted to think as the mother of a policeman. She tried to memorise the registration number of the BMW, which wasn’t easy as it was backwards in her mirror. The occupant was the Asian looking man, but she could only see the back of his head. He was dressed crisply in a neat white shirt. He didn’t look like someone who would bash a woman. To be fair, he hadn’t – all the menace came from his violent co-worker.
To Hana’s absolute horror, the passenger door of the BMW slowly slid open and another person emerged. There were now three men. Hana was transfixed in position as the tall, blonde figure of her attacker unfolded himself from the car, shaking himself slightly as he stood up as though the vehicle was confining. With a nod to his companion, he turned towards Hana’s side of the road and began
walking over.
Hana had time to note the permanent sneer on his face, the stubbled hair and general unkempt look of him as he strode confidently towards her. She felt her heart pounding so hard the whoosh of the blood in her ears muted any other sounds around her. Her whole body shook and vibrated from the motion of her heart valves and arteries, a rhythmic pulse so violent she feared she might pass out in her seat.
The man paused on the centre island behind her, waiting for a number of vehicles to pass. An old lady struggled with the steering of a green utility vehicle causing a temporary delay, which Hana used to her advantage. Forcing her shaking, fumbling fingers to work, Hana snatched Bodie’s sunglasses from the visor and clamped them over her eyes. She groped down in the door shelf next to her, seizing an old and filthy dish-drying towel, which Bodie used to wipe the interior surfaces of the car, usually until they shone. Hana seized her distinctive auburn hair in one hand, flipping her head forward and putting the towel over her hair as though she just got out of the bath. Keeping her head forward, she wrestled with it, eventually managing a tight knot at the front.
She tied it too tight and it made her eyes take on a slitted appearance underneath the glasses, but it was a reasonable disguise even if she did resemble a land-girl from an English war documentary. Pulling the hood back over her headgear and grappling with the controls for the vehicle, Hana managed to get it started, whipped it into reverse and tried to back out. The green ute finished its fifty-two point reverse manoeuvre, much to the frustration of the other motorists, but there was no room for Hana to slip out unnoticed. Feeling unsafe and seeing a gap in the traffic, the man on the centre island made a run for it.