by Bowes, K T
One Heartbeat
K T Bowes
Copyright K T Bowes © 2013
Published by Hakarimata Press
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Acknowledgements
For Andy, my technical guru and kindest critic.
Chapter 1
A crowd gathered in McDonald’s restaurant on Greenwood Street in Hamilton, the epicentre of New Zealand’s North Island. The staff were unhappy, descended upon without notice by a mud splattered group of twenty.
“Amazing win!” a thick set man beamed, slapping the back of a spindly blonde male who almost fell over. “I love this team. We might win the staff and old boys’ league.”
The blonde man grimaced and moved away from another debilitating slap on the back, his tracksuit filthy from rolling around in the mud, allegedly in pursuit of the ball.
“That was so funny,” chortled an amply built woman with a mop of damp, blonde, curly hair. “When those little boys shouted, ‘Dad, Dad,’ everyone on the pitch stopped to look!” She chuckled, distracted by a short dumpy man in a pair of extremely short shorts who ordered a super-sized cheeseburger in a whisper. The staff member leaned across the counter to listen but was thwarted by the woman. “No, Peter North!” she yelled, bouncing up behind him. “Have you forgotten our diet?” She ordered him a chicken salad with a fruit bag and he came away from the counter looking disgruntled.
“I’ve run around for ninety minutes, Henrietta,” he whined, “I’ve burnt off the calories in advance.”
The large woman looked considerably thinner than at the start of the year and eyed the cheeseburger on the tray like it was radioactive. She put her arm around the little man and ruffled his fluffy sandy hair, disturbing the parting at the back of his head. “Let’s sit down and share your fruit bag,” she said, dragging him away from the cheeseburger.
The team gathered at one long table where they continued their excited conversational buzz. The players of the beautiful game wore an unpleasant brand of orange soil found on the pitches of the Waikato Presbyterian School for Boys soccer ground, formerly a swamp. It was the oldest school in the city, forged on flax fields when the town was in its fledgling beginnings as a garrison, stationed around the Waikato River. The game was conducted during an unpleasant bout of horizontal rain and the players looked as though they had been alternately doused and dunked. The spectators looked marginally better, hiding under umbrellas and latterly in their vehicles as the rain pelted them.
“Here come the Du Roses,” Henrietta chortled and nudged Pete so hard he pitched sideways off the bench. The group turned to view the newcomers as he picked himself up and glared at a slice of apple in his fruit bag. “We’re over here, Hana!” Henrietta yelled, deafening everyone in close range.
Hana Du Rose’s auburn hair reached her waist and flickered under the harsh strip lights. She was thin and elegant despite the waterproof jacket burying her under layers of warmth. Her eyes were so green they hinted of emeralds. The baby girl in her arms looked dry, observing the lights and bustle with interest. Her Māori genes dictated a healthy olive skin, but some ancient European influence gifted her unusual grey eyes which glittered and shone as she studied her surroundings.
“Hana, cooee!” Henrietta hollered, standing up to attract her attention. “Get your food and come over.”
Hana smiled as the whole restaurant winced at her companion’s volume.
Appearing through the sliding doors came a giant of a man of six foot three or four. He carried an authoritative presence which caused several other customers to stop eating their burgers and stare. Ruggedly handsome with dark hair and features, his impressive physique betrayed a man not afraid of physical labour. His Māori heritage translated into confidence and satisfaction; his mana grounding him in an ethereal reassurance.
The newcomer wore the same soccer strip as the others; black shorts with a black-and-white striped shirt displaying the letters of his team, ‘WPSB Staff and Old Boys.’ A round red insignia graced the left front while the back of his shirt read ‘Du Rose’ and a number four. He ran his hands through soaked hair and smiled at the redhead as rain water dripped down his face. “You’re soaked.” She reached up and wiped the water away. Her English accent differed from the cacophony of New Zealand vowels around her. “Pity Larry didn’t turn up to open the changing rooms. You all needed a good shower after that dousing.”
The same intense grey eyes as the baby’s shone from the man’s face as he turned a hundred watt smile on Hana. They ordered fizzy drinks at the counter and sat with the raucous crowd.
“Hana, did you see my goal?” a young man shouted from the other end of the table. His features bore a striking similarity to the imposing Māori beside her and Hana answered, her tinkling voice carrying along the table.
“Yes Tama, it was spectacular. I didn’t know you’d been practicing scoring with your backside!”
Everyone on the table laughed and spoke at once.
“Did you see Pete’s?” cried Henrietta, proudly patting him on the head and dunking his face into his salad.
“That was an own goal!” Tama shouted along the table and Pete looked embarrassed, muttering into his chicken and rabbit food.
Henrietta bridled in her boyfriend’s defence. “Well, really!” she huffed. “My Pete only covered for the groundsman not showing up. Don’t be so ungrateful!”
Muttering began as the team conceded their muted thanks to Pete for standing in as a defender, whilst wondering where Larry Collins could be. “He might have forgotten,” someone suggested.
“Or had a bit too much wacky baccy on Friday night,” Pete snorted.
Tama kicked him under the table and shot a nervous look at the dark Māori. “Shut up, Pete!” he hissed. “Uncle Logan hates drugs.”
“Maybe he’s somewhere on the school grounds measuring the height of the grass and yelling at everyone to get off it!” shouted a portly man with a streak of orange mud across the bridge of his nose. A physics teacher at the school, he did a superb impression of the groundsman, standing up and yelling in his best Larry Collins voice, “Get off that bloody crease!”
The gathered crowd laughed and moved on to other topics.
Tama took the baby from Hana, cuddling her into his broad chest, obviously gratified when she smiled up at him and made a gurgling noise. “Come on sis, let’s have some fun away from the olds.” He returned to his seat and ate one-handed, feeding her ice-cream sundae in secret and chortling at the dreadful face she made against the coldness of the stuff in her mouth. Despite the faces, she waved her little arms and opened her mouth for more. Oblivious, Hana snuggled up to her handsome companion, twirling the wedding band on his finger.
“You had a deodorant shower, Logan Du Rose,” she smiled up at him, scenting the strong maleness hidden under the haze of masculine perfume. A tattoo peeked from his sleeve, ending above his elbow with italic writing inscribed around the bottom like a lace fringe. Mud stained his face and neck, but leaned into Hana for a kiss anyway. She pulled a face but gave it.
“Trashed ‘em bro!” exclaimed a young man, slotting himself in opposite Hana. “Hey, Mum.” Part-Indian, he managed a tousled haired boy and laden tray, one in either hand. The child plonked himself on the Māori man’s knee without being invited. He swung lime green soccer boots from side to side under the table on tiny feet.
“You played great, Poppa Logan,” the boy said, reaching up and kissing the underside of t
he man’s chin with a mouth bursting with chips. “Daddy didn’t play so good though.” He looked accusingly at the younger man sideways. Small fingers stuffed another handful of chips between his lips despite the limited space. “You’re not s’posed to let goals in Daddy.”
Hana pulled a face and ran her hand through her son’s dark hair. “But Jas, he kept heaps out. He only let one in!” She smiled at him with the doting expression of a parent.
“Yeah, thanks Mum; I’m glad someone appreciated my efforts!” he replied, eying his wrapped burger. “This won’t help my game much though.”
Hana looked along the table, shaking her head as she saw Tama at the other end feeding ice-cream to her baby. “Stop it,” she mouthed, seeing him bite his lip and carry on. With a cross exhale, Hana excused herself from the table, heading to the toilets near the back of the restaurant.
“Wait for me, Hanny!” The little boy hopped off Logan’s knee and ran after her, grappling at his crotch and sliding on the tiny sprigs under his boots. She waited at the door and held her hand out to him. “I don’t need it though,” he reassured her, a spring in his step and a general happiness in his demeanour.
Logan sipped soda through a straw and glanced around the restaurant; his watchfulness a lifelong habit born of necessity. A couple in their late-seventies arrived, ordered and sat nearby eating a muffin each and drinking coffee.
“Tourists,” Bodie said, nodding towards them, his dark Indian features giving him a model’s slender grace.
“You reckon?” Logan observed them with interest. They had the hallmarks of visitors and he nodded in acknowledgement of his stepson’s conclusion.
“Policeman’s intuition,” Bodie said with a smug grin. “Their clothes look European, not expensive, but different.”
Logan nodded and watched them, something familiar in the man’s movements. He was thin and distinguished looking, sitting comfortably as though crowded situations didn’t faze him. His calm contained a hidden authority which Logan acknowledged as one leader to another. His grey hair ran to white in a gentle, orderly way, cropped and neat above bifocal glasses. The sense of déjà vu perplexed Logan though he’d never met the man before.
The woman with him was delicate boned and seemed more uptight, jerky movements betraying anxiety. Immaculately dressed with her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, she flapped and fidgeted in her seat waiting for the rest of their order.
“Hana’s a long time,” Logan commented to the boy’s father, glancing towards the toilets but remaining intrigued by the couple.
“She’s got Jas with her,” Bodie replied. “He’s fascinated with the hand dryer. He’ll be blowing up the motor.”
Logan looked across at his Indian stepson as Bodie demolished his burger, having made peace with his conscience. “You need to rein him in,” Logan ventured and Bodie shrugged.
“I can’t. Amy won’t let me.” He smiled as sauce dribbled off his chin. Logan shook his head.
“Don’t leave it too late, man. He’s a good kid, but he needs boundaries.” He turned away, staring at the toilet door in anticipation of his gorgeous wife emerging, feeling the restlessness in his soul her absence caused.
Hana struggled in the toilet with Jas. “Everyone’s waiting, mate. We need to go,” she argued.
“But it’s eaten Action Man’s hair!” he wailed. “He just wanted to see inside and it’s stolen his hair!”
Hana poked her hand in the dryer and it activated itself, the powerful mechanism devouring the black mop. “It’s sucked it into the filter,” Hana said. “It won’t come back out.”
Hana’s delicate hands were too big and Jas’ too small to retrieve the fuzz and the chaos began to include attempts by everyone who came in to use the toilet.
“He doesn’t like being bald!” the child wailed and Hana fought her growing irritation.
“Look,” she hunkered down next to him, “why don’t we get help? The staff might know how to get the filter out. I’m sure Daddy can sort this out.”
The child capitulated with reluctance and allowed Hana to lead him into the restaurant by the hand. “Now?” he pleaded. “Can Daddy sort it now? He can get his warrant card out and arrest them if they won’t, can’t he?”
Hana saw Logan’s face light up, giving her the special smile he kept only for her. She rolled her eyes and tried not to betray her inner annoyance for the rest of the restaurant’s entertainment.
The sight hit her like a physical blow, taking her breath away so she froze on the spot. She saw alarm in Logan’s eyes as the colour drained from her face and her body refused to obey the simple instruction to run. She let go of the child’s hand and he ran to Bodie, wailing to up the anti and force a reaction.
Hana stared transfixed as a terrible realisation struck her repeatedly, like a moving vehicle. Logan got to his feet and moved half way across the tiled floor before as the tourist rose from his chair. “No,” Hana gasped. “No.” Her brain offered reassurance, promising, it’s just an illusion. But Hana knew it wasn’t. Her pretty face moved involuntarily as she looked for escape, her mind still drawing on reality even as it failed. She watched Jas writhe on her son’s knees, covering his bald doll with his fingers to save it from embarrassment.
The tourist struggled with the extra chairs around his table, his face ashen and unreadable as blue eyes fixed on Hana.
It’s not real, she told herself, seeking her equilibrium as Logan reached her. “Hana, babe, what’s wrong?” The concern in his face made her panic more and she gripped his hand, relying on him to get her through the bizarre hallucination. Hana looked up into her husband’s eyes with such utter pain, his lips parted in confusion.
“Help me?” she begged. The male tourist approached with renewed vigour as his female companion stared in confusion.
Panic overwhelmed Hana, restricting her breathing and overriding normal thought processes. She pushed past her bewildered husband, putting her hands over her ears and running for the sanctuary of the sliding doors and fresh air. They hissed closed behind her and she dodged moving vehicles, drawing several angry blasts of the horn. Inside, her resolve crumbled and she sobbed, reverting to the broken teenager of twenty-six-years ago. She crouched next to her vehicle and cried, knowing she had looked straight into the eyes of her dead father.
Chapter 2
Hana tasted the fresh winter air, gasping as though denied oxygen. She felt the sour taste of vomit in her mouth but the feeble retches wrought nothing. Overwhelming shame accompanied the other myriad feelings of misery as Hana remembered her daughter and she turned, ready to brave anything to retrieve her child.
She ran blindly into her husband’s broad chest, hearing him grunt. Phoenix giggled, swaddled in her father’s strong arms and made a grab for Hana’s curly red hair. Tama righted his aunt as she swayed with the impact.
“Whoa, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Logan’s eyes filled with suspicion and unanswered questions and Hana felt devoid of the energy to speak. She took her baby, wiping at the dribble of ice-cream sick on her chin and glaring at Tama for the predicted belly ache and serious bout of puking.
The men eyed each other nervously as Hana stomped back to their car, her wellies making a rubbery, clumping sound on the tarmac. Her eyes darted to the sliding doors of the restaurant as the men followed, willing them with her eyes and body language to hurry. Logan deactivated the central locking and Hana shoved the wriggling baby into the car seat, clambering in next to her. “I want to go, now, please,” she begged, urgency making her sound petulant as she struggled with the straps of the car seat.
The men climbed into the vehicle with identical raised eyebrows. Tama shrugged and stared round at the shaking woman behind him. Hana dabbed at more sick on the baby’s chin and he bit his lip and glanced at his uncle. Logan drove past the restaurant doors slowly, still fastening his seatbelt as the tourist emerged and hobbled towards the car park on wavering legs.
The old man’s face was pale and ghostlike as he
raked the parked cars with wide, blinking eyes. His companion emerged after him, putting her hand to her mouth before wrenching on his arm. She pointed at the departing Honda as Logan joined the main traffic flow and he watched in the rear view mirror as the old man bent double, his shoulders heaving. A passing woman bent, her head nodding frantically as she asked him if he was ok.
At the traffic lights, Logan turned to view his beautiful wife, shocked at her appearance. The stiffness of her body looked painful and her teeth worried at her lower lip, causing it to bleed. He reached behind and offered his hand, surprised when shaking fingers took it and squeezed. “It’s ok, Hana,” he soothed. “Lots of people have panic attacks; it’s nothing to worry about.”
Tama opened his mouth and Logan wasn’t quick enough to still his tactlessness. “You don’t.”
“How would you know?” Logan growled and the teenager swallowed and looked through the window. The traffic crawled onto Greenwood Street and passed the McDonald’s restaurant, sequestered behind its graffitied wall. The couple were still in the car park, the man sitting on a wall by the play area and the woman hovering around him like a bumble bee. Logan took in the old man’s military bearing and neat turnout but as the traffic moved, he saw in the rheumy eyes the blossoming of something else which took Logan’s breath away. Hope.
Something from his wife’s past had come back to bite her and a final look at the man’s physique gave Logan a clue. But it raised more questions than it answered. Hana’s parents were dead; she told him so. He recalled her telling him how her brother wrote and told her not to attend their mother’s funeral, just a few months after the birth of Hana’s illegitimate son. She subsequently read of her father’s death in an English Baptist Newspaper years later. Logan screwed up his face, wondering if she lied.
Hana remained eternally damaged by the behaviour of her father and brother during their last meeting, twenty-six years ago. She sat in the back of the moving vehicle, her fingers writhing in her lap and her mind in a whole other world. I needed their help. Her father’s words came back to haunt her. ‘Filthy slut...bringing shame on this house...’ She rode the tube train through London afterwards, her Indian boyfriend sporting cut eyebrow and lip from the encounter and she cried for most of the journey. She remembered seeing fourteen year old Logan Du Rose in the carriage of the filthy tube train, his grey eyes studying her face with an ethereal knowing.
