The Hana Du Rose Mysteries Collection

LOGAN DU ROSE-4

Michael sat naked on the toilet seat, the towel swathed around his neck. He stared at his groin. “She said I was big.” He smirked, vanity and lasciviousness already ingrained in his psyche like a disease. “She said it hurt.”

“I don’t wanna know,” Logan snapped.

“Didn’t stop her wanting it again.”

Logan crossed the tiny room in one long stride, gripping Michael’s face in one hand. He batted his brother’s flailing fingers away with his forearm. “I said I don’t want to know,” Logan repeated, his face channelling rage. “You make me sick!” With a spiteful twist he let go of Michael’s jaw and turned back to the sink. A weight of responsibility settled on his young shoulders and the futility of Rangi’s task felt like concrete around his neck.

Michael slipped from the bathroom, giving Logan a wide berth and wore a tee shirt and shorts by the time Miriam struggled through the door with a single packet of crackers for the three of them. Logan scrubbed the blood from the towel until the fibres threatened to come away from the material and his fingers stung red from the hot water and soap. He emptied the sink and watched the water drain away, seeing it as an analogy for the Du Roses. Rangi expected him to shepherd a family which had become out of control, each of the parts single minded and selfish. “Maybe Michael’s right,” he sighed. “There is no whānau anymore.”

Logan wrung out the fabric and hung it to dry over the tap in the shower. The blood stains looked dull and less noticeable. Logan ran a hand over his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger to stave off the growing headache.

“I got crackers, son,” Miriam said, poking her face through the gap in the door. “Come and get some.”

“Take your pills, Ma,” Logan said, forcing a smile onto his lips. “And you don’t need to eat crackers. I told you, I’ve got money. We ate crackers yesterday and your tablets have to be taken with a proper meal.”

“I’m fine,” Miriam said. The foundation powder on her chin bore a smudge across the middle, her moko tattoo looking like a dirty mark instead of the proud whakapapa of her French and Māori heritage. The sight made Logan’s blood rush and he ground his teeth. One day he’d have a tattoo across his entire shoulder and he’d slap anyone who mocked it. “I’m taking my pills now, look.” Miriam held up to two white specks and threw them into her mouth, swallowing without water. The cracker packet appeared through the gap in the door, orange and garish, the contents square instead of round. “Want some?” she asked. “You must be hungry. Come fill your tia.”

“I’m good, Ma, thanks. You have mine. Maybe I’ve got the upset Michael’s had.”

Miriam nodded, her brow furrowed and she pushed the door open fully. “Is that why you’re hiding in here?” she asked, her tone tender. She laid the crackers on the sink and held her arms out to Logan. He gulped and accepted her embrace. Rare and unusual for her to show affection, she crushed him to her, stroking his back and running her hands across the nape of his neck. Already on his way to being six feet tall, Logan bent to enfold his mother. She seemed tiny in his arms, a giant, formidable personality squeezed into a slither of Māori woman. Logan felt her tremble and realised they’d always connected differently, some other kind of affection passing between them.

“I’ve got my savings,” Logan whispered. “I’ll take care of us from now on.”

Miriam’s head shake rocked their embrace. “She’ll be right,” she replied, using the familiar Kiwi expression. It formed the comforting blanket which righted mishap, accident or tragedy. “You earned that money mustering and droving for the other farmers.”

“At school,” Logan whispered. “I earned it at school too.”

“How?” Miriam pushed at his chest, peering into his grey eyes with suspicion. “How did you earn it at school?”

Logan grinned, a schoolboy expression on his man’s face. He tapped his temple with a slender, scarred finger. “Using my brain,” he said. “I do their homework, write letters home. I have skills so I use them.”

Miriam ran the backs of her fingers along Logan’s jaw line, reaching up on tip toes to perform the tender action. He winced at first, used to ducking her physical brand of discipline, but the look in her eyes stopped him. “I love you, Logan,” she whispered, her voice so low he dipped to hear. “Whatever happens in the future, believe that one thing.”

He nodded, lost for words. He noticed the tendrils of grey springing from the black hair which rebelled in the tight bun at the back of her head. Miriam Du Rose was still stunning, lithe, grey eyed and dark. Her husband worshipped the ground she trod like a lost puppy seeking approval.

“I love you too,” Logan whispered, the words sounding clunky and unfamiliar on his tongue. Their impact rocked his soul, spoken once but destined not to be uttered again for another two and a half decades. “I’ll take care of you from now on, I promise.”

“Bless you, tāne,” Miriam said, pressing her index finger to Logan’s lips. She swished from the room in her long skirt and closed the door behind her, leaving her son feeling confused and alone.

Te Kupu Kaurangi - The Promise“Come, Logan, we need to hurry.”

“I know, Ma, I’m sorry.” Logan pulled his jacket straight, the bulging envelope in the inside pocket giving his chest a lopsided appearance. “I changed my dollars into pounds.”

“Oh, tāne! I’ll be cross if we miss the train for a few loose coins.”

Logan swallowed, the tattered brown envelope stuffed with paper money pressing on his heart and conscience. The New Zealand dollar lost a third of its value against the pound, hundreds of poems to other boys’ girlfriends used up in the unfair exchange. 1980s Britain still ruled the world in money, dominance and power and Logan felt a kindred spirit in the capitalist aura of London. He’d gone to the North Shore Grammar school with Michael as a poor kid with a scholarship for brown boys with potential - not its real title but the sentiment remained whatever the wording. Logan Du Rose intended to leave as a rich man.

“How’d you earn money again?” Miriam asked, bounding up the steps to the platform of the Docklands Light Railway station. Logan strode along next to her.

“I write better than most of them so they pay me to write to their rich parents and silly girlfriends. Most of them have more money than sense so I do their homework as well. If there’s something to be done, I do it. They look to me for leadership, so I provide it, for a fee.”

Miriam skidded to a halt on the flat and stared at Logan. A man wheeling a suitcase cursed at the abrupt blockade. “You’ll get caught,” she said, foreboding in her eyes. “They’ll throw you out. What then?”

Logan’s face lost its worried expression and a lazy smile crossed his lips. “They won’t catch me, Ma,” he said, his eyes bright and sparkling. He tapped the side of his temple and forgot himself, giving her an easy wink. “That’s what a brain’s for.”

He set off walking, realising she hadn’t followed. Her face looked stunned and her jaw hung with a slackness born of shock. Confused, Logan made the few strides back and tugged on her elbow. “Ma, what’s wrong?”

Miriam swallowed and allowed him to pull her into a walk. “Nothing,” she said, as though attempting to convince herself. “Nothing.”

“Well, something is.” Logan navigated the man with the suitcase who swore again.

“Bloody wogs!” the guy spat and Logan turned, hatred in his face.

“Yeah?” he said, his grey eyes blazing and the whites gleaming around his irises. He channelled pure rage, even though beneath the veneer he felt barely riled. “Wanna go at me?”

The middle aged white man swallowed a giant gulp and shook his head. Logan oozed the kind of danger it wasn’t worth engaging and the stranger conceded defeat and backed away.

Logan dragged Miriam on through the crowds until they reached the side of the platform, hearing the buzz of the automatic train as it navigated the final twist into the station. He bent closer to Miriam’s ear as their train whizzed alongside and the brakes gushed it to a halt. “What’s a wog?” he asked.

“Brown person,” Miriam mouthed and Logan’s brow creased in irritation. He searched the heads of the gathered passengers looking for the name caller, spotting him a distance away, still pulling his suitcase.

“I won’t be long,” Logan said, his body stiffening.

Miriam gripped his forearm in both hands, her bag trapped between their bodies. “No!” she said. “Learn to pick your battles in life, my son. Racism is not one of them.”

Logan nodded, his head old on young, broadening shoulders. He soaked up knowledge and wisdom like a sponge, internalising and compartmentalising information he might need later.

“Ka wani kē,” he acceded. “All right.” Logan’s eyes took in his mother’s vulnerability in the crowded station. Too olive skinned to be white but not brown enough to be black. At home she fitted in like a hand in a glove but in London she was a fork in the spoon drawer. Misplaced.

Logan reached for her writhing fingers, dragging them free of his forearm. “I’ll take care of you, Mama. I’m here for you and Dad. It’s my life’s work. I’ll make everything right.” He squeezed the fingers, infusing love and protection into his mother’s battered soul. “Fafau ahau,” he said. I promise.

The Girl on the Train“Nā ka kite anō iho aku kanohi i muri i a au e makenu ana te pāwhatitanga o te huarahi o te atua whiowhio haere o te Pākehā”

(Redemption Songs 1995:277).

“My eyes will see after you, traces of the broken branches on the pathway of the travelling railway train of the Pākehā.”

The train carriage was full and Logan and Miriam stood with the other people leaving the docklands area of London. At Tower Gateway they left the crowd and ran across to catch the Circle Line train bound for Westminster and St Thomas’ Hospital. Logan passed through the barriers and turned left after the station, trailing Miriam behind him. He saw the small garden on the right and the imposing structure of Tower Bridge just beyond, bored now of the architectural spectacle after almost two weeks of scurrying past. He took Miriam’s arm and helped her down the steps into the underground. Her skin looked grey and unhealthy, her nerves already frayed by concern for her dying brother and anxiety about the journey home.

Logan snagged the last available seat for his mother, forcing her into it with a firm hand on her shoulder. He gripped a metal support pole and swayed with the movement of the carriage as it tore through the black tunnel. The train emptied out like a drain at Monument station and Logan sank onto the ruined fabric next to Miriam. The bench seat opposite bore tattered fabric with the stuffing emerging past the frantic, psychedelic pattern of the cloth. “Guess they all switch to the Central Line here,” Logan sighed, squinting at the map of the underground opposite.

“Hmmmn?” Miriam turned a tired face in his direction and Logan smiled.

“Nothing, Ma. Don’t worry.” Logan sat back in his seat and stretched out his long legs, hearing the shoes squeak across the rippled metal surface. The train shuddered as the doors swished closed, beginning its never-ending, clockwise journey again.

“Excuse me.” The voice held a low, gravelly quality and Logan blinked at the sight of another brown face.

“Sorry.” The teenager apologised and withdrew his feet, placing them at right angles to his kneecaps and feeling his foot slip inside the left shoe. The man wore a turban and hurled himself into the seat opposite. He looked up, his gaze fixed on something to Logan’s right and the boy turned his head to follow his gaze.