by Bowes, K T
Hana argued with him horribly that last time. He said some awful, racist things about Vik. Yet Vik’s family had unpicked his arranged marriage at great cost and embarrassment. He made them, for Hana’s sake. Vikram Johal had been betrothed to an Indian girl since the age of thirteen. The little girl was two years younger and around the time her world collapsed, probably just at the age of her important exams. One silly, drunken fumble after a party and it was all ruined; other lives as well as their own. It turned out fine for her and Vik eventually, but sometimes Hana wondered about the little Indian girl. What if she never married at all and never had children of her own; scarred by the betrayal of her betrothed with a filthy English girl? It was yet another burden of guilt which Hana would carry for a lifetime.
The teenagers kept Hana’s pregnancy secret until it couldn’t be kept secret anymore. It had been a dreadful train ride from the university to see her family; her frail but beautiful, flame-haired mother and her bellicose, angry father. Mark was visiting with his perfect wife and perfect children. Hana hadn’t known until she arrived and saw their flash car outside. They bodily threw Vik out of the house, her brother and father; an unfair, one sided fight. Hana’s mother had cried and cried; her deafness fracturing her understanding of what happened. Mark called her a ‘filthy slut’ and Hana felt like one.
The taxi to the station and the ride to London, to Vik’s parents, hadn’t been much better. Do them all in a day, get it over with and get back to Aberystwyth. It seemed like a good plan at the time. But it made for an emotionally overloaded day. Mark split Vik’s lip and eyebrow open and Hana fretted and worried all the way to London. The tube train took them to Vik’s parents in Aldgate. Overcome by tiredness and stress, Hana cried quietly, hoping nobody would notice. The underground was full of commuters and nobody looked at anyone else. They read the newspaper or listened to music. Hana hated London, hated the constrictive, impersonal tube trains but to Vik it was home, as familiar as breathing in and out. He had been philosophical about his smack in the mouth but Hana was horrified.
She kept playing it over and over, not so much the violence, but the sight of her lovely mother sat in the corner, tears cascading down her face. It broke Hana’s heart like nothing ever had again. She felt tears well up just thinking of it over twenty-six years later and tried to stop herself. Hana was never given the opportunity to explain or to apologise to her beautiful mother. She was hustled out, their eyes locking over the anger and pride and her mother blew her a kiss and touched her slender hands to her own stomach. She had seen her daughter’s shame and would have understood.
Hana wiped her eyes furiously as tears dropped onto the expensive coat. Over two decades ago and they were as loaded with misery as back then. She grappled in her pockets for a tissue, finding none, just as she found empty pockets on the Circle Line train all those years ago. A handkerchief found its way into her hand back then. Hana still had it somewhere, the little tiny kiwi pattern repeated around the outside; navy blue kiwi-birds on a pale, soft blue cloth. Hana thought about the kind, steel grey eyes and the darkly tanned skin as the woman sat, flanked by her seat companions, a man who left after only a few stops and the other, a teenage boy.
The boy was handsome and fresh faced. His eyes held an intensity that Hana found hard to engage with. They connected once across the dirty British Rail train as Hana touched her rounded stomach, stroking it gently with her left hand. She glanced up self-consciously to find the boy openly studying her. His grey eyes stared into hers and something scorched her soul, as though he had projected some thread of his consciousness into hers. It was a naked, intimately searching look that made Hana feel immensely powerful in a way she knew she didn’t deserve. Hana gave the boy the smallest smile and broke the connection, putting her shakiness down to the horrifying events of the day. Logan smiled back, that lopsided, wistful look, which twenty-six years later was her lifeblood.
“I fell in love with you then,” Logan often told Hana, usually at night after they made love, laying entangled, whispering together in the silent darkness. “You looked so vulnerable and fragile. I’d never seen a woman that beautiful and I never have since.” He preserved that image of her during the intervening decades and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was his soul mate. Hana wished she had seen more that day than just a teenager in front of her, knowing the futility of such a wish against the confusion of Bodie’s conception. Her pregnancy had complicated and coloured her future for as far as the eye could see.
So Logan safeguarded it for both of them and Hana was grateful. She had been and always would be his girl-on-a-train, in her ill-fitting yellow dress, which revealed the object of her guilt and misery through the tautness of its fabric. Logan had seen it and loved her anyway.
Thinking of Miriam as she tenderly provided the handkerchief, made Hana miss her own mother with an ache that cut deeply into her soul, causing a familiar thudding pain which would remain with her for days or weeks at a time. She felt Logan’s baby move under her hand, knitting her past and future together and had a sudden yearning to be around Logan’s mother, as though she was a proxy for her own.
Logan came back to the car, knocking on the window for Hana to unlock it. She was startled and fumbled the keys, not able to get the fob to work for a couple of pushes. Logan saw she was flustered and upset as he settled into the driving seat. He looked at her curiously. “It’s all fine, babe. I just forgot something. What’s wrong?”
He was astounded when, in a quavering voice Hana asked, “After this Expo’s over, could we go up to your parents’ hotel for a weekend? I think we should tell them about the baby and stuff.”
“Course,” he said smiling, like it was no trouble at all.
With tender fingers, Logan pushed a stray lock of hair out of Hana’s face and behind her ear, knitting his brow almost imperceptibly and feeling the wetness of her cheeks as his fingers brushed her face. But Hana didn’t see his look of concern. She faced forwards, watching as Detective Sergeant Odering came out of the main doors and stood on the steps watching the Honda. Logan flicked on the engine and headlights and indicated, pulling out of the parking space as the traffic warden strolled around the corner. The uniformed man hunted those last few overstay tickets to make up his quota before the six o’clock stand down, when it all became free anyway.
Du Rose Legacy
Chapter 7
The day of the Expo a few weeks later started badly. After a sleepless night with indigestion and an exhausted collapse onto the sofa in the living room around four o’clock, Hana overslept. She rushed around the house like a maniac, showered in a time which properly officiated, would have made it into the Guinness Book of Records.
Things went from bad to worse as the outfit Hana meant to wear, refused to go around her middle as well as doing up. “What happened?” She stood in front of the mirror in disbelief, hauling the buttons across her torso and trying to squash her belly in.
“Geez, Han. You can’t do that. You look like Santa!” Logan dared to comment and Hana turned her venom on him instead.
“This is all your fault! You and your damn Du Rose genes...fertile as the Irish bogs...oh, whatever!” She ended up once again in a sweater and too-small leggings with boots. Logan showered and dressed quickly, staying out of her way to avoid unnecessary conflict. Her antics made plucked at his emotions and Logan Du Rose couldn’t allow that. The clothing strewn all over the bedroom offended his neat-freak tendencies and the sight of her examining her naked body in the mirror, uncontrollably turned him on.
Logan had spent the last few weeks using his contacts to find out as much as he could, to flesh out the bones of the story Tama gave him. He was careful not to ripple the waters of the underworld too hard and bring Hana’s attackers right to their door. But he did find things out. “Should have done this before,” he sighed, kicking himself for not having used that particular information super highway before now. Staying on the right side of the law was frustrating against men lik
e Laval.
Laval was notorious amongst low-grade criminals, but the fight he picked with Hana, remote but deadly in execution, was something more major. Something usually out of his league.
“His interest is as you suspect. He has obtained a favourable last will and testament, accompanied by an engineering report for a section of land in the north.” The Triad King’s English was impeccable. “You should have come to me sooner, my friend. We could have sorted this little matter out in an instant.”
Logan laughed hollowly. “Yes Mr Che, but then I would owe you a bigger debt than I’m willing to pay. And I’d quite like his head still on his shoulders, if possible.”
The Chinese patriarch tutted. “You are like a son to me, Du Rose. Such a debt will never happen. I want your friendship and business sense. In that, we are equals. As to the head, yes, you may be right. Sharks can be hungry this time of year.” The clipped accent disappeared in a hail of quick fire Chinese at someone in Che’s vicinity. Logan waited patiently. “Ah, Du Rose, an interesting fact. Your name came up in our enquiries. This is not just about something your wife has inadvertently become mixed up in. It is very much about you.”
“But...” Logan quickly halted his verbal confusion. It didn’t make sense. Hana encountered these men even before she knew Logan existed. If Che said that was the case, then it was so. The Chinaman was never wrong. “Thanks Mr Che,” Logan said gratefully, “Zàijiàn.”
“Zàijiàn, Du Rose,” Che returned the colloquial goodbye and hung up.
Logan sent a crystal clear message back along the wire, borne uncomfortably by his informants and aimed at the centre of Laval’s empire. It was, quite simply, ‘You’re messing with the Du Roses. Think again.’ The man on the other end of the phone call squirmed as Logan called in a significant debt, leaving him no choice but to pass the message along. “Yeah, Che said he’d back me. Make sure Laval understands loud and clear. Leave my family alone or it’s game over for him. No negotiation.” Logan heard the man shift uncomfortably on a gravelled surface.
“Right boss,” the man replied and hung up.
Very little scared Logan. He hadn’t risen to such determined heights by soiling his pants when the big players shouted. He was clever, calculating and shrewd, investing carefully and recouping when it suited him. Sometimes he crossed the line, sashaying across legal boundaries to achieve his goals, advised and covered for by his astute sister. He never stepped too far, but wasn’t above a fist fight if needs be. None of Che’s men would take him on and the thought gave Logan satisfaction.
His mind strayed to his earliest connection to the Ches. Years ago when his uncle tried to set up a storefront in the central business district of Auckland for his curtain making, he was visited by protection racket heavies. Logan traced the intimidation back to its source and paid a visit to the big boss. It wasn’t pleasant, but was definitely productive, even though Logan left with a black eye and a series of nasty cuts to his torso. From then on, the interior design shop was the only one in that street not handing over a percentage of its takings each Friday. And the windows stayed intact.
Logan had mana and the charisma to match. Mana was a Māori truth meaning power and influence. Logan was born with it and inadvertently, his family deferred to that leadership quality in him. All of his family. His paternal grandmother recognised and cultivated it. The daughter of a rangatira, a tribal chief by birth, she saw that same essence pass through her blood into her favourite son and then her grandson. Logan had great ‘presence’ like his father and had she known death planned to steal her away before she could see it fully bloom and grow, the matriarch would have bitterly regretted its prematurity.
Logan’s heart clenched at the thought of his tupuna wahine Du Rose. “There’s so much I need to ask you,” he whispered to her imagined ghost, sadness blossoming in his chest. “So much you could have helped me with.”
He could lead and others would automatically follow, his influence already far exceeding that which his grandmother had anticipated. But his route was not of her choosing; it wasn’t a straight road. In the course of keeping the playing fields of business level, Logan met with some of the most frightening gang leaders in Auckland. He gradually built up the kind of respect which gained him entry into the Chinese bars and lunch with bloodthirsty, ferocious men. Logan smiled sadly to himself. Not people he would ever take Hana to meet, he mused.
Nothing useful came back down the wire for twenty-four hours and Logan checked his phone again as Hana pontificated and discarded the leggings for the third time. The silence was not unusual, given the complexity of the situation. Logan waited patiently like he always did. It was only Hana that made him feel awkward and nervous, outclassed almost. Nobody else saw that side of him. He waited for word of Laval, not knowing quite what he would do when it came. The Expo would throw the school wide open to the public and if Laval hadn’t been scared off, he would definitely send someone for Hana tonight.
“They’re too tight,” Hana groaned, yanking the seam out of her bottom yet again. “They hurt already!” She tore out of the house with her hair straightened only on one side, a fistful of name labels in one hand and a carrier bag in the other. Logan spotted a smart plum coloured jacket in the bag and smiled to himself. It was fitted and cut long. It made her look tall and elegant, especially with heels; but not tonight. He would cheerfully put money on it not even going around her protruding belly, let alone buttoning up. Hana was going to be disappointed and subsequently livid. He peeked into the bag when she wasn’t looking, relieved to see her straighteners languishing in the bottom. At least she could correct her hair.
At work, he made the choice to stay out of the student centre altogether and definitely away from his wife. He could imagine the cluck she and Sheila would set up together for most of the day. Bodie was right. All that just for two hours! Anyone would think it was the Queen of England’s Diamond Jubilee, not some evening thing for schoolboys to pick their career. The only fireworks were likely to be indoors and generated by Sheila.
“Those women are rabid!” Peter North complained as he took refuge at the back of Logan’s classical studies class, guffawing at the sexual imagery in one of the texts and then snoring on one of the desks at the back.
Logan taught for three periods and relented. He nipped out at lunchtime and headed for a boutique shop he noticed in an area called the Five Crossroads.
“How big is your wife?” the shop assistant asked politely, as Logan dangled a dress from a hanger in front of him.
He put his hands around his middle and held them out about ten centimetres indicating, “This big.”
The assistant, an older lady with greying hair dragged back in a bun, nodded knowingly and bustled over to a stand with tent-like dresses dribbling in swags from their hangers. Logan pulled a face, realising he was in the wrong kind of shop. It was likely Ethel Bowman’s dress shop and he wondered how he could extricate himself politely, running a hand across his face and hearing the bristles work against his palm. Logan shook his head and put his hands back down by his sides. “No,” he said, “she’s not fat. She’s pregnant.”
Logan emerged from the shop feeling hot and sweaty. He had acquired two new best friends and a carrier bag containing a rather expensive maternity dress, which allegedly wouldn’t tentify his poor wife. It was simple and pretty and he liked it. The garment was a smoke grey colour, in two pieces. The undergarment consisted of a straight skirt, attached to a simple ‘V’ necked top. Over it went a long coat-like layer, designed to be nipped in at the waist. It reached almost to floor length. “It will look good with boots,” so the shop assistant promised. Long sleeved, it would keep Hana warm as she rushed between classrooms in the night air and as Logan now knew every part of it in intimate detail, it would enable him to shadow her easily and unobtrusively, in case of trouble.
The shop assistant added a delicate, cream scarf with tiny pink roses detailing it and a pair of skin coloured tights in case Hana didn’t
have any on under her leggings. “You’re such a delightful husband!” she waxed whist making Logan’s credit card bleed with the price tag. Then she waved him off after opening the door for him.
“Nothing as delightful as a sucker!” Logan hissed between his teeth, waving back at her through the glass. The whole episode used up most of his lunch hour and only gave him enough time to grab a sandwich from a delicatessen next door. He bought one for Hana, being careful to avoid all the delights a pregnant woman shouldn’t eat and two coffees; to take out.
The only person back in the office was Pete. “The women are off labelling rooms around the place and playing with electric extension blocks,” he muttered. “I’m leaving as soon as they get back. Otherwise they’ll make me do something.” He sounded traumatised.
Pete eyed Hana’s sandwich and coffee covetously and Logan warned him off, eventually lending him five bucks for the tuck shop. He knew as he handed the money over he would never get it back. “How come you’re always broke when you have so few expenses?” Logan asked him. “It’s astounding.”
Pete’s face blanched instantly and some sixth sense in Logan instantly switched on. “I’m paying off a debt,” Pete said cagily. Logan knew he was banned from asking for credit at the tuck shop because of the $500 bill he ran up last year and only recently finished paying.
“What debt? You rent a house with other people and your car’s a write off on wheels.” A nasty thought occurred to Logan and he stared intently at Pete, completely unnerving his friend. “Ah, no. You haven’t? The gambling syndicate Boris was in. Were you in it too?”
Pete shook his head dismissively and then thought better of lying to someone who would know instantly. He squirmed in his chair and tapped his skinny fingers on the top of the desk. “Truth is, I was for a while. But it started getting way beyond me. Henrietta found out. I came out of the syndicate, but it wasn’t easy. I think that’s why they enjoyed cracking me on the head so much at Hana’s old place a few weeks ago. Not that I’d ever seen those particular thugs before. They were probably debtors like me and Boris, trying to pay it off early. But it was heavy stuff. I only did it for like...a couple of months. I owed a few hundy, that’s all. Henrietta bailed me out. Thank God!” He added the latter whole-heartedly, like he actually meant it. Hana would have been gratified to hear the genuine praise of her God. “So now I have to pay my missus back, don’t I?” The silly little man had the effrontery to sound impetuous, as though it was Logan’s fault.