One Heartbeat

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

A crowd gathered in a fast-food restaurant on Greenwood Street in Hamilton, loud, hungry and covered in slick brown mud. The staff looked unhappy, descended upon without notice by the 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 to the back. His tracksuit pants dripped mud onto the tiled floor. “That hurt,” he grumbled to the dumpy man standing next to him. “Pete, did you see him sit on my head during the game?”

“Shut up or he’ll do it again just for the hell of it.” Pete gave the thick-set man the side eye. “He isn’t safe outside the chemistry lab. A Bunsen burner is the only thing he should be allowed to play with.”

“And even then only under supervision.” They smirked with a sense of shared conspiracy and Pete stepped up to the counter to take his turn. He shot a glance over his shoulder and scanned the queue. Then he leaned forward and whispered his order.

“What, sorry?” The teenage boy behind the counter leaned closer. “Was that a supersize burger or normal?”

A shriek sounded from behind Pete and his eyes rolled heavenward. “Damn it!” he cursed.

“Peter North!” a woman yelled, jumping the queue to slap the top of his head. “Have you forgotten our diet?” She ordered him a chicken salad with a fruit bag and he came away from the counter with a frown on his face.

“I ran around for ninety minutes, Henrietta,” he whined. “I’ve burnt the calories in advance.”

She shook her blonde curls and put her arm around Pete’s shoulder. Chunky fingers ruffled his sandy hair and disturbed the parting at the back of his head. “Let’s sit and share your fruit bag,” she soothed, dragging him away from the promise of a cheeseburger.

The team gathered at one long table where they continued their excited conversation. The players resembled swamp creatures and the unpleasant brand of orange soil on their clothes and skin carried a rank smell. Other customers wrinkled their noses and moved away. Pete sniffed an armpit. “Do I stink, Henri?” he demanded, forcing his armpit into her face. “They need to look at the drainage on our home pitch.”

“You smell of rose petals, my love,” Henrietta lied. She turned her face aside and pushed a finger underneath her nose.

“It used to be a flax swamp.” The chemistry teacher sat next to Pete and gave him a back slap which made him choke on a grape. “Our school is the oldest in the city and started when the first settlers came from the garrison. This rain isn’t helping though. The water table is too high. I’m sorry they called the game off before full time. It’s a good job we got ahead enough for the other team to concede the win.”

“I’m not sorry the referee called it off,” Pete grumbled. He lifted a piece of apple to his lips and the chemistry teacher jabbed his elbow, sending the fruit skittering across the table. Pete wrinkled his nose and looked at Henrietta for help.

“Here come the Du Roses.” Her attention remained fixed on the sliding doors and her blue irises sparkled. “Hana looks soaked to the bone.” She stood up and waved to the woman dashing through the doors and her hip banged into Pete’s shoulder. Another grape left his fingers and rolled away. “We’re over here, Hana!” she yelled, deafening everyone in close range.

Hana Du Rose’s auburn hair reached her waist and flickered under the harsh strip lights. Thin and elegant despite the waterproof jacket burying her under layers of warmth, she waved in return. Her eyes sparkled with enough green to contain a hint of emerald. 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.

Henrietta hollered, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Get your food and come over!”

Hana smiled as the whole restaurant winced at her companion’s volume. “Okay,” she mouthed. “Logan’s just parking the car.”

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. He shook his dark head and rain droplets scattered around him in an arc. The baby laughed, her rosebud lips parting to show tiny front teeth. Logan Du Rose wore the same soccer strip as the others. Black shorts with a black-and-white striped shirt displayed the letters of his team, ‘WPSB Staff and Old Boys.’ A round red insignia graced the front left while the back of his shirt read ‘Du Rose’ and a number four.

“You’re soaked.” Hana reached up and wiped the water from his brow. Her English accent differed from the cacophony of New Zealand vowel sounds. “Pity Larry didn’t turn up to open the changing rooms. You all needed a good shower.”

“Yep. Dunno where he is.” Logan turned a hundred-watt smile on Hana. He leaned closer to her and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Shall I just order drinks? I don’t want to eat fast food.” His hand strayed to pat his muscular stomach and he wrinkled his nose.

“Good idea.” Hana left him to order at the counter and drifted across to sit with the raucous crowd.

“Hana, did you see my goal?” a young man shouted from next to Pete.

She smothered a laugh and nodded. “Yes Tama, it looked spectacular. I didn’t know you’d been practicing scoring with your bum!”

Everyone on the table laughed and spoke at once.

“Did you see Pete’s goal?” cried Henrietta, patting him on the head with a meaty hand and dunking his face into his salad.

“That was an own goal!” Tama jeered and Pete pinked with embarrassment, muttering into his lettuce leaves.

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!”

Murmuring began as the team conceded their muted thanks to Pete for standing in as a defender. Curiosity surrounded the mystery of Larry Collins’ absence. “He might have forgotten,” someone suggested.

“Or had too much wacky baccy last night,” Pete snorted.

Tama kicked him under the table and shot a nervous look at Logan as he put the cups of fizzy drink on the table next to Hana. “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 huge man with a streak of orange mud across the bridge of his nose. He performed a superb impression of the groundsman, standing up and yelling in his best Larry Collins voice, “Get off that bloody crease!”

“Drama teachers,” Logan whispered in Hana’s ear. She clamped her teeth over her lower lip and smirked.

The gathered crowd laughed and moved on to other topics. Tama rose and stole the baby from Hana, cuddling her into his broad chest. She smiled up at him and made a gurgling noise. “Come on Phoenix, let’s have some fun away from the rents.” He returned to his seat and ate one-handed, feeding her ice-cream sundae in secret and snorting at the dreadful face she made against the coldness. Despite the faces, she waved her little arms and opened her mouth for more. Hana gave a sigh and leaned sideways against her husband, her fingers reaching out and twirling the wedding band on his finger.

“Did you enjoy your secret deodorant shower, Logan Du Rose?” She smiled up at him, scenting the strong maleness hidden beneath the haze of spray.

He shrugged and his gaze flicked to her lips and back to her eyes. He released a frustrated sigh. “No. The truck stinks now, so don’t hurry your drink.” His eyes flickered shut as he pressed his lips over hers. He released a groan. “Having Tama living on the sofa is killing me.” His lips traced a line along her jaw and he sighed into her hair. “He’s like a human contraceptive.”

Hana laughed and her fingers coasted across the tattoo peeking from his sleeve. It ended above his elbow with italic script swirling through it like a lace fringe. Mud stained his face and neck, but he smelled good.

“Sorry we’re late.” A man with Indian heritage slotted himself onto the bench opposite and faced Hana. “Hey, Mum.” He turned to help a tousled haired boy lift a laden tray onto the table. The child seized a packet of fries and plonked himself on Logan’s knee without invitation. He swung lime green soccer boots back and forth under the table.

Logan nodded to his stepson. “Bodie.” He turned his attention to the child in his lap. “You don’t want to eat that crap, Jas,” he said. He winced at the grease coating the boy’s fingers.

“It’s tasty.” Jas dangled a bunch of fries in front of Logan’s face and grinned when he jerked backwards. “You played great, Poppa Logan.” He reached up and kissed the underside of Logan’s rough chin. He wrinkled his nose at the feel of stubble. “Daddy didn’t play so good though.” He looked sideways at his father. Small fingers stuffed another handful of chips between his lips despite the limited space. “You’re not s’posed to let goals in Dad.”

Hana leaned across to run a hand through her son’s dark hair. “But Jas, he kept heaps out. He only let one in!” She gave Bodie a conspiratorial smile.

“Yeah, thanks Mum. I’m glad someone appreciated my efforts.” He eyed his wrapped burger. “This won’t help my game much though.”

Hana looked along the table, shaking her head as she saw Tama still 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!” Jas hopped off Logan’s knee and followed, grappling at his crotch and sliding on his tiny boot sprigs. She waited at the door and held her hand out. “I don’t need it,” Jas reassured her, though he didn’t let go of the front of his shorts.

“You obviously do,” Hana retorted. She pushed the door open and gave a shake of her head as the child opened his mouth to protest. “No, I’m not going in the men’s toilets. It’s this or nothing, mate.”

Logan sipped soda through a straw and stared around the restaurant. He missed nothing, his watchfulness a lifelong habit born of necessity. As Hana and Jas disappeared through the toilet door, a couple in their late-seventies arrived. They ordered at the counter before sitting nearby. The woman limped and the man carried the tray containing coffees and a muffin each.

“Tourists,” Bodie said, nodding towards them. He moved with Hana’s slender grace, but shared his features with her late husband.

“Yeah.” Logan observed them with interest. “Poor buggers. Do you think their travel agent forgot to tell them autumn is wet and winter is cold?”

Bodie rolled his eyes. “Probably. Everyone in the northern hemisphere assumes New Zealand is hot all year around.”

“Where do you think they’re from?” Logan slipped his straw between his lips and took another sip of his drink.

“Policeman’s intuition,” Bodie said with a smug grin. “Their clothes look European. Not expensive, but different.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I can see that. I wanted specifics.”

Bodie snorted. “No idea, mate.” He blinked. “Why, what do you think?”

“English.” Logan jerked his head upwards. He pointed his straw towards the woman’s coat. She’d taken it off and let it fall backwards over the chair while she leaned forward to sip her coffee. Her hand shook. “Look at the tag in the back of her coat. Marks and Spencer. That’s an English brand.”

Bodie’s lips parted and his brow furrowed. “Oh.” He swallowed. “You’re good, man. You’d make a good cop if you weren’t so dodgy.” He smirked at Logan and the other man ignored his veiled insult.

He concentrated on the elderly couple, perplexed by something. A familiarity in the man’s movements made him doubt himself. Thin and distinguished looking, the man sat as though the crowded restaurant didn’t faze him. His calm contained a hidden authority which Logan recognised as one leader to another. His grey hair ran to white in a gentle, even way, cropped and neat above bifocal glasses.

“Do you know him?” Bodie asked. He reached across and snagged one of Jas’ chicken nuggets. “You look like you do.”

Logan shook his head and paused. “No. But yes. The man seems familiar.” The sense of déjà vu rippled through him like a warning bell.

Bodie shrugged and helped himself to more of Jas’ abandoned food. “They look harmless enough.”

Logan nodded and went back to his drink, shuttering his eyelashes so he could watch the woman without detection. She looked delicate boned and seemed more uptight, jerky movements betraying her anxiety. She’d pulled her greying hair into a severe bun and she flapped and fidgeted while her companion perused the free newspaper.

“Hana’s a long time.” He shot the comment sideways, reluctant to remove his attention from the couple. “I might send Henrietta in after her.”

“She’s got Jas with her,” Bodie replied. He rolled his eyes. “He’s fascinated with the hand dryer. The motor blew up at the one in the cinema when I let him go in alone.”

“Then don’t let him go in alone.” A darkness infused Logan’s grey irises and he risked a sideways glance in Bodie’s direction. “You need to rein him in, man. He’s getting unmanageable.”

Bodie shrugged. “I can’t. Amy won’t let me.” He grinned as sauce dribbled off his chin.

Logan shook his head. “Don’t leave it too late. He’s a good kid, but he needs boundaries.” He turned away, his gaze flicking towards the elderly couple and then the toilet door. Hana’s absence sent a prickle of unease up his spine and he pushed his drink away.

In the toilet, Hana struggled 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 rest of the black mop. “It’s sucked it into the filter,” she said. “It won’t come back out.” She tried to fit her finger into the drain hole and failed.

“He doesn’t like being bald!” Jas wailed and Hana fought her growing irritation.

“Then you shouldn’t have stuck his face inside the dryer,” she replied. It took a mammoth effort to keep her tone even. “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 speak to them.”

Jas allowed Hana to lead him into the restaurant. She kept hold of his hand, noting how he pushed his Action Man inside his coat. Pale plastic legs protruded from a naked bottom but his bald head remained hidden. “Now?” Jas pleaded. “Can Daddy get it back now? He can arrest them if they won’t help, can’t he?”

Hana saw Logan’s face light up with the special smile he kept only for her. She rolled her eyes and tried not to betray her inner annoyance as the grumbling child trailed after her. She stopped so fast, Jas ran up her heels and Action Man escaped his coat and skittered across the tiles. Jas yanked his hand free and went after him.

The sight hit her like a physical blow, taking her breath away so she froze on the spot. The colour drained from her face and her body refused to obey the simple instruction to run. Her legs trembled beneath her as the realisation struck her like a vehicle collision. Logan moved in her peripheral vision, rising from the bench and picking his way towards her. But he wasn’t the only one.

The male tourist rose from his chair, his eyelashes fluttering over vibrant blue eyes. He lifted his glasses up and sat them on his head. He peered at her and Hana shook her head. “No,” she gasped. “No.” Her brain did mental somersaults as it tried to offer reassurance. She’d spent a lifetime imagining the moment only to discover it would never happen. Her mouth opened and closed as though she gulped for air and her gaze flicked towards the doorway as a family entered and brought in a breeze from outside. Hana craved the fresh air like a healing balm, promising herself if she could just get outside she’d be okay.

“No, Daddy! Ask them now!” Jas protested. Action Man’s backside mooned to the restaurant as oblivious, Jas covered the bald head with his fingers.

“Mum?” Bodie ignored him, rising and watching Logan’s journey through the scattered seating. “What’s wrong?”

The tourist struggled with the extra chairs near his table, his face ashen and unreadable.

Hana’s lips moved as she murmured to herself. “This isn’t happening, Hana. Get a grip. It’s a coincidence.”

Logan reached her. “Hana, babe, what’s wrong?” The anxiety in his eyes hiked her panic and words failed her. She gripped his hand to reassure herself. The bizarre hallucination would end if she could just hold on to him. “Hana?” He looked down at their joined fingers, seeing her knuckles showing white through the skin. The tourist kept coming, picking his route with determination as a new spring entered his step.

Hana’s eyes widened, imploring Logan for help. His other hand closed over her shoulder and he squeezed life into her frozen bones. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. She’d gone before he could catch her, fleeing the restaurant with her jacket billowing out behind her. She put her hands over her ears and focussed on the doors sliding open and closed before her, picking up enough speed to make it through the narrow gap. They hissed closed behind her and she dodged moving vehicles, drawing an angry horn blast in her wake. She became the broken teenager of almost three decades ago and shame washed over her. Panic made her abandon her baby and guilt mingled with terror. But she couldn’t go back. Fear pinned her to the gritty floor of the car park.

Logan found her crouched next to their truck with her face in her hands. Rain fell on her head in sheets and soaked her hair. “What’s wrong, babe. Tell me?” he begged.

Hana opened her mouth and then closed it, knowing she sounded crazy. He’d never believe she had just looked into the face of her dead father.