by Bowes, K T
James smiled. “Thank you muchly for your help.” He pressed his hands palm together and touched his nose with his middle fingers, dropping from the waist in an elegant bow. “I love you, Missus Johal,” he said.
Hana smiled lamely and watched him leave the student centre. Sometimes there was just no answer.
Chapter 5
It was mid-February and the weather broke, bringing with it disappointment and the reminder that summer would not go on forever. It was not yet completely spent but threatening in a nonchalant, foreboding way. The crickets had begun their endless night calling, which added to the heaviness as something enjoyed, dwindled.
It was balmy that morning and humid due to the rain; the evening not much better. The day proved too long already for Hana as she sought escape from work. She had struggled to catch up on paperwork after a frantic deluge of boys called into the office wanting help with subject changes before the deadline. Added to that was her workload for the guidance counselling staff, who required her to make appointments and take their phone calls when they were busy seeing boys.
With an empty house awaiting her, Hana put off the moment for leaving, aware of a yawning middle-aged loneliness seizing her. Her soul mate died, her chicks flew the nest and made nests of their own without her. She had relatively little in her life apart from church, work and her passion for knitting strange things which never turned out like the picture on the pattern. Hana recognised a need for change and kept putting off the dreadful hour.
It was late and evening settled on the school grounds, throwing long shadows out from the buildings and Hana’s striding figure, as she moved towards the Chapel car park. That morning, with the radio station blaring out the Bee Gees and boys milling off the Orbiter buses, there were no shadows or hint of foreboding. It was lonely and eerie despite the gloomy light peeking through water logged clouds. As she neared the back of her car, Hana sensed danger before she heard sniggering and the shifting of bodies near the front tyre.
Hana’s blood pounded in her head and throat as a figure loomed up, seeming to rise out of the ground. The air was thick with pervading evil. She smelled alcohol as a female voice swore at her, “Give it here, bitch!” She snatched at Hana’s handbag, pinned under her arm. Instinctively Hana turned her body sideways and let out a small cry. In response, she received a violent push from the woman, who let out another curse. Clutching her bag tighter, Hana let go of the other thing in her hand and there was the startling crash of breaking pottery, as the plant she was taking home to re-pot hit the concrete floor and broke into a myriad of tinkling pieces. Her attacker started at the noise and hesitated, but she was not alone. “Get it off her!”
Hana heard heavy male breathing behind her and then the pressure on her handbag as he prised it away from her. She had a fleeting picture of the contents of her bag; her wallet, her keys, her driving licence, the picture of her daughter’s new baby. She gripped her bag with determination, intending not to lose the maniacal tug of war.
As adrenaline helped Hana face the danger, her attackers assumed human shape. The large white female had a hard, unkind faces and her large male companion had a crazed look of purpose in his vivid blue eyes. The woman drew so close to Hana’s frightened face, she could smell her alcohol laden breath. Hard fingers closed around Hana’s throat, constricting and pinching whilst her companion rived harder at the handbag. He grunted as he tugged at the leather strap, trapped between Hana’s body and the car and still looped over her shoulder.
“Let go or you’ll be sorry!” The woman’s breath was acrid with swallowed spirit and Hana saw the pottery crunch underfoot, momentarily considering the poor plant, crushed beyond help. As her head crashed back against the vehicle bodywork, she bit her lip and tasted blood in her mouth. Hana gagged on the metallic tang and choked for breath.
“Hey, what the hell...” A sudden shout sounded in the guilty silence of the car park and the man’s grasp on the bag finished. There was a grunt and his body dropped to the ground. Simultaneously her throat was released and she bent over gasping for air, still clutching her bag with a hysterical sense of achievement. Hana caught sight of the woman’s large shape waddling across the grass towards the road but when she looked at her feet, the male attacker lay prostrate on the floor, facedown. Another dark figure sat astride him, bending his thieving arm up his back. The sound of running and voices streamed out of the Chapel as others arrived on the scene, milling around and joining the confusion. The figures on the ground stood up and Hana recognised the uppermost of the two as Gwynne Jeffs. But as the face of her attacker turned towards her, Hana saw a frightened teenager, eyes darting around with wariness and badly disguised panic.
Hana looked around, wondering what was expected of her as her whole body trembled. Without thinking, she reached up to her throat, which throbbed painful and sore to the touch. Her chin seemed wet and her trembling fingers contacted stickiness. Hana fumbled in her handbag seeking a tissue and her fingers closed on the familiar glossy paper, out of which beamed her ecstatic daughter Isobel and her sleeping baby Elizabeth. With a force stronger than a body blow, it hit her. “They tried to steal my handbag.” Her voice sounded disjointed and strange.
Hana knew she was about to cry and embarrassment and shame blushed her cheeks. Six people stared in silence at her discomfort. Gwynne roughly handed the boy over to an athletic gentleman who manhandled him up the stairs to the meeting room above the Chapel. Hana put her hands over her face but jumped at the gentle pressure over her wrist. A voice spoke softly to her. “Come on, let’s get you into the light. You’re bleeding.”
Gwynne’s knees oozed from his scuffle with the boy and shards of broken pottery clung to his hairy legs. “I’m so sorry, what a mess,” she pointed at his wrecked skin. “I feel terrible. It must hurt.”
As they breached the stairs into the open room above the Chapel, Hana saw blood staining his cricket whites and a large run beginning in the hem of his creamy white pullover. He guided her gently up the steps but Hana faltered at the top. “Please, can I just go home? I don’t want...”
“The cops are coming.” Gwynne seized Hana’s arm and moved her on. It was not as awful as she anticipated. Eddie McLay, head of the sports department spoke on his mobile phone calling the police, while two of his burly colleagues sat either side of the figure clad in black jeans and a dark blue hoodie. The boy nursed his right arm and looked smaller in captivity than he had in the terror of the car park scene minutes before.
Evie Douglas, guidance counsellor and manager of the cricket team, produced tea-making noises in the small kitchenette. Hana exhaled with relief. “I thought I would be met by the curious faces of the Under-16’s cricket team.”
Gwynne shook his head and released Hana’s arm. He grimaced and wiped at the cuts on his knee with his fingers. “Nope. Just a management briefing. We heard sounds from outside and went onto the balcony to investigate. I’m glad we did now.” He threw her a sideways smile. Hana replied with a grateful nod.
Hana hand shook as she dabbed at her lip with a tissue, grateful for the tea Evie thrust into her hand, although the chipped mug wobbled uncontrollably and spilled hot, burning liquid onto her skirt. Gwynne sat next to her on one of the hard backed visitors’ chairs saying nothing, just being there with her and Hana was grateful for his lack of need for conversation.
The police didn’t use sirens but came within fifteen minutes with radios, notebooks and questions. A female officer talked Hana through the event. She looked unsurprised when the tears rolled down Hana’s cheeks and onto her raised and swollen neck, spreading blood stains from her cut lip onto her blouse. Hana went to the police station on Bridge Street and one of the teachers drove her car home, whilst the police woman photographed her injuries in a special suite reserved for female victims of crime.
“Is there someone I can call for you?” the policewoman asked.
“No,” Hana realised, looking crestfallen. “There isn’t. My son, a policeman, works
up north and my daughter can’t come home in a hurry without great upheaval and inconvenience.” With desolation pricking at her soul, Hana went out into the clinical waiting area, escorted by Shelley, who offered to drive her home to an empty house.
A figure rose from a grey, ripped bench. He smiled shyly and came towards Hana, his Welsh lilt more pronounced because of his tiredness. Gwynne’s face showed strain. “Can I drive you home? They’ve taken my statement.”
Hana’s smile was genuine as Shelley released her into Gwynne’s capable care, along with the handbag which sported a rip between its handle and body and a missing pocket from the front.
Gwynne drove Hana home in silence, her head spinning with the night’s events and the busyness of the police station and statement taking process. Hana was grateful for his company and told him her address. Fortunately he knew her area of town and found the house. Outside, Hana sat for a moment looking up at the dark building. “I should have left lights on,” she rebuked herself. The darkness made it worse.
Gwynne walked her to the door, making sure she put lights on and was comfortable being there. “You should have a glass of something stronger than tea before you try to sleep,” he advised with a smile.
The silence of her bedroom almost overpowered Hana as she readied herself for bed and tears soaked her pillow as loneliness and exhaustion mingled in her tortured thoughts.
Gwynne sighed as he started the engine of his 4 x 4 and it roared to life on the steep gradient of the Flagstaff house driveway. Disappointment ate away at his heart. Disappointment and regret at the state of the world when a teacher had to make a statement to the police condemning one of his most promising former students. He backed out into the quiet cul-de-sac and started out for his own home, way out in the middle of nowhere, exactly where he liked it.
Chapter 6
Hana arrived at work late the next morning, flustered and apologetic, having failed to cover up the angry welts on her throat or the tender cut on her lower lip, despite desperate efforts in the mirror. Angus accosted her as soon as her feet hit the parquet floor of the reception area. “A quick word, Hana,” he said, welcoming her into his inner sanctum.
Hana sent up a silent prayer he wouldn’t require the gory details and wasn’t disappointed. “Take a few days off on full pay while your injuries heal,” Angus suggested.
Hana took a moment to contemplate her empty home and far too much time spent gawking in the mirror at her sore parts, generating endless self-pity and misery. “No thanks. If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep busy. I’ll go home if I feel unwell, I promise.”
Her morning went fast and Hana was thankful for the activities which kept her mind off last night’s events and the disquiet she found creeping into her thoughts at inopportune moments. She took a phone call from the nice police lady around mid-morning. “We’re still pursuing our enquiries, Mrs Johal. The youth apprehended last night won’t talk. He’s going through the magistrates’ court this afternoon, but I think he’ll just get a slap on the wrist or youth custody. I’ll keep you updated though.”
Hana thanked Shelley for her promise and fervently hoped she wouldn’t. She had a desire to put the whole thing behind her and never hear another word about it. On that note, she avoided the staff room when she knew it teemed with people and gossip, choosing to take her short breaks in the relative safety of the student centre.
Logan Du Rose sat at the table nearest the ranch slider, marking exercise books with a frown as Hana slipped past. She skittered as fast as she could without drawing the attention of his unnerving grey eyes, trying to get to the post room in the lull between period bells. She tried not to look and fanned her face at the thought of his striking Māori profile and toned, muscular body. Logan ran his right hand through his hair and from the corner of her eye, Hana noticed the dark, glossy curls tumble over his long fingers.
“Oh, bloody hell!” There was a crash as the double doors at the end of the staff room banged open and a large, fleshy body cannoned into Hana, sending her flying backwards into the staff whiteboard.
Hana grunted in pain as her back contacted the metal and it bent underneath her. The staff member she collided with drew herself up to her full height and glared at Hana with spiteful, gimlet eyes. “You support staffs is useless,” Alberta Lenska screeched in her broken English. She waved a chemistry text book in Hana’s face and her heart quailed as she sank back towards the wall and staff white board. Alberta was a terrifying Russian woman capable of reducing both students and staff to tears with her jaded outlook on life and unsmiling persona. She could be both cruel and unforgiving and Hana had seen enough whiplash injuries from her violent tongue to know she was not to be tangled with.
“It was an accident; I’m sorry,” Hana breathed as the woman loomed in front of her. She pressed herself backwards, smelling the whiteboard marker pen as it transferred itself to her white blouse.
“Just get out of way!” Alberta bit. “I need to see board!” She advanced, shoving Hana roughly aside and Hana’s face reddened with embarrassment as she saw Logan’s distinctive cowboy boots appear behind the Russian.
“What’s your problem?” he asked, staring the chemistry teacher down from his greater height advantage. “You don’t talk to people like that!”
He offered his hand to Hana and she gripped the long fingers, allowing herself to be pulled free from the tiny space, edging round the chemistry teacher’s florid body and finding her flushed face close to Logan’s chest. He kept hold of Hana’s hand and leaned in towards Alberta’s face, his voice deep and resonant. Hana gulped. “If I ever hear you speak to anyone in this school like that again, I’ll put in a formal disciplinary complaint.”
Alberta bristled and stuck her nose in the air. “Nobody listen to support staffs,” she smirked. “They is nothing. Is been tried before.” Her multiple chins wobbled and the blonde bun bounced on the back of her head. She glanced in Hana’s direction with a look of sly victory. Logan jerked his head towards Hana.
“Not her, me!” He took a step closer to Alberta and Hana shimmied sideways, unable to break the grip of his hand on hers. “I’m not scared of you, lady. Do you wanna test me?”
The colour faded from Alberta’s face and the chemistry book shook in her hand. Hana steeled herself for the woman to throw one of her familiar tantrums, but for once it didn’t come. Power surged from Logan’s body and the other two staff members in the room watched in fascination as Alberta shook her head. “No. You is not scared of anyone.” She lowered her eyes to Hana’s face and wariness replaced spite. “Excuse me,” she said to Hana with a modicum of politeness and waited for her to move.
Hana exhaled a ragged breath and shifted from in front of the list of events on the whiteboard. Her whole body trembled and she peered in confusion at Logan’s hand. His olive fingers were long and beautifully formed, but ruined by myriad cuts and scars which criss-crossed the flesh as though he’d pushed his hand through glass. She felt the scarf at her neck slip and snatched her hand back, working the soft material into a knot to cover her throat injury. The cut on her bottom lip began to bleed and she pressed her top teeth over it, desperate to hide her weakness from him. “Thank you,” she whispered in a small voice. Without looking up, she turned and ran from the room.
The English teacher’s grey eyes bored into her back as she let the double doors slam behind her, taking refuge in the bathroom instead of the post room.
Seeking refuge in the furthest cubicle, it was a good job she couldn’t see the back of her white blouse which now bore the words ‘Swimming Sports’ backwards in purple whiteboard marker. Hana peered at her hand in confusion, aware of the thrill of electricity which still coursed through her fingers. She lifted them to her nose and smelled the faint scent of aftershave and despite herself, she smiled.
Chapter 7
The next day heralded the visit of a liaison officer from one of the North Island catering colleges and Miss Henrietta Dawlish arrived on the dot of twelve
o’clock, in plenty of time to set up in the common room. Anka phoned Hana from reception, holding her hand over the receiver. “That massive woman’s here,” she stage whispered. “And I think she’s even bigger than last year.”
Anka pulled a face from behind the counter as Hana glided downstairs and shook Miss Dawlish’s meaty hand. Then she turned her attention to a dying student bearing the hallmarks of ‘Sickness-of-PE-Disease’, gripping the counter and gesticulating towards the sick bay. “I’m not ringing your parents again!” Anka exclaimed. “You’re gonna have to do PE at some point in the next five years.”
Miss Dawlish’s talks were not interesting and it was hard to attract boys to listen. Last year, a rainstorm provided the incentive but students were disappointed with the failure of Miss Dawlish to provide actual edible samples from her copious briefcase. “She ate ‘em herself,” one boy had remarked. “Then she ate the baker.”
“Such a long way up,” the woman puffed, hauling herself up the stairs and clinging feverishly onto the banister. Henrietta’s mound of fluffy hair breached the last step attached to her nodding and perspiring head. She reached her destination gasping and pretended to look through the floor length windows. “What a lot of stairs,” she complained, even though nothing had changed since last year. She showed no real interest in the panoramic views of the rugby, soccer and cricket fields, using the time to catch her breath and mop her brow.
“I’ll fetch you a glass of water...erm, in case your throat gets dry,” Hana offered, wincing at the spreading sweat stain under the woman’s armpits. Making for the water cooler, she noticed North sitting on the veranda picking fluff out of his belly button. Hana debated slipping out and reminding him he was in full view of the common room and its sixty occupants. Anka wandered in for her lunch break and Hana called to her. “Please could you go and stop him making a fool of himself. The Year 13s are watching him out of the window.”
