The Hana Du Rose Mysteries Collection

LOGAN DU ROSE-5

A woman struggled with the lurch of the train, slumping next to her companion with little control. Her skin contrasted starkly against his, her porcelain tones a natural complement. Logan stared, his eyes fixed on the soft auburn curls which tumbled around her face to stroke the crest of her full breasts. Her eyes were a fiery green and glinted like emeralds. She turned to the man in the seat next to her, laying her delicate fingers on his thigh. “Is this the most direct route?” she asked, her accent English and the tones gentle and lilting.

“No,” he replied, his voice harsher than the one he used when asking Logan to move his legs. “But I need to see my brother first. Might as well take all the s**t in one day and be done with it.” He moved his leg and the woman’s fingers slid to the seat where they found a rip and settled. She pushed her index finger into the hole as her brain disengaged and to Logan’s alarm, a single tear rolled over the crest of her lower eyelid and plunged down her cheek to bounce from her jawline and soak into her dress.

Logan watched her, tense and troubled as the girl tried to hide her misery. She withdrew her finger from the seat filling and brushed her arm across her cheek. Guilt and fear mixed in her expression like roiling waves of confusion and she took deep breaths to calm herself. More tears fell and she turned her back on the carriage, facing the blackened windows as she moved her body away from her companion in a silent, unnoticed protest.

Something in Logan’s heart cracked and a newness flowed out, filling his body and rendering him immobile. He sifted through its effects, recognising nothing except for the fragile thread of protection he felt for Miriam. But the nagging, persistent ache felt worse than the irritating need to keep his mother safe; it was bigger, crazier and far more terrifying. He balled and flexed his fingers into fists, imagining the feel of the man’s jaw bone against his knuckles and liking the sensation the more he focussed on it. As though sensing his animosity, he turned and his gaze connected with Logan’s. A blue bruise budded where the angular cheekbone met his eyebrow and a thick scab nestled between the fine, dark hairs. The man looked away from Logan’s gaze and ran his tongue across the inside of his lower lip and winced. It seemed that he’d taken a beating and somehow blamed the woman.

The red-haired woman turned forwards again, wiping her eyes on her cardigan sleeve. She seemed oblivious to the cold air which wafted onto the train from the platforms at Cannon Street and Mansion House and the carriage began to fill again. Logan stretched his legs out, making it difficult for anyone to stand in front of him and block his view and he felt Miriam’s eyes on the side of his face. He’d seen few redheads in his small world and the woman fascinated him. The spiteful strip lights in the train’s ceiling cast shadows and highlights in her hair, making it dance and flicker as the curls moved. Her black cardigan pulled tightly across her shoulders as though borrowed from someone smaller. It gave him kinship with her, his overlarge shoes calling out a coded signal of unanimity.

The buttercup yellow dress she wore suited the earthy tones of her hair and accentuated the perfection of her skin. Logan studied the neat, slightly pointed nose and full pink lips. Her darkened eyelashes stroked the air around her cheek, glittering with salt water from her tears. She scrubbed at her cheeks, rousing colour before her hand fluttered over breasts which pushed at the yellow fabric. Her palm rested over the neat bump of her abdomen. The green eyes grew soft as Logan covered his surprise with an awkward throat clearing and his stress tell of running a hand through his dark waves. She stroked the outline of her unborn child and her lips moved as though in prayer.

Her companion turned towards her, his brown eyes dark and accusing. “I hope you’re not gonna snivel all the way there,” he hissed, condescension in his tone. “There’ll be enough to cry about when we get there.” He squinted at the map above Logan’s head, his face impassive. “If we ever get there.”

Logan shifted on his seat at the same time as his lips parted and his fists balled, an automatic reaction to the man’s cruelty. He scooted his bum forward on the seat and locked his knees, ready to stand. Miriam’s hand on his arm shocked him and halted the path his mind had set itself upon. “No,” she whispered. “Not your business.”

Logan looked at the fear in her eyes and swallowed the knot of hatred in his throat. Miriam leaned closer, her breath smelling of the last of the crackers, wheat and peppery. “You promised you’d look after me,” she hissed. “This isn’t how.”

Stung, Logan nodded, allowing his fists to uncurl and his fingers to grip the seat. He watched the woman from beneath his dark lashes, channeling his fury into creating another rip in the fabric beside his thigh. The man’s comment unpicked the last of the woman’s resolve and she sniffed, tears creating a river down her cheeks. The rise of her dress created by her baby bump grew damp as the back of her hand and the soaked cardigan sleeve failed to stem the flow.

When Miriam moved, Logan jumped, too fixated with staring at the pregnant woman. He gaped as his mother drew a handkerchief from her pocket and stretched her arm across the divide. “Here, kōtiro,” she said, the New Zealand vowel sounds jarring in the hum from the train tracks.

The redhead stared at the pale blue offering, the fabric neatly folded and pressed in the brown fingers. Navy kiwi birds danced around the edge in a timeless maneuver, unconcerned for their fate.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, obscuring the glitter of the grey irises in his surprise. He bought his mother the handkerchiefs from a souvenir shop in Auckland on a school trip, knowing how much she loved the little rare birds. He’d pictured the cloth shoved deep in her cavernous apron pocket as she kneaded bread at the kitchen table. He opened his mouth to protest, silencing the clamoring of brain and heart as the porcelain fingers stretched across the carriage, near enough for him to touch in the moment before they seized the handkerchief.

“Thank you,” the girl said, dabbing her eyes and pressing the soft blue cloth to her face.

The fingers which clutched the hanky were devoid of rings and Logan glared at the man opposite as he sulked and scowled in his corner, aiming glances of disdain towards his partner. Michael’s words in the bathroom came back to him, re-enforcing both men’s lack of caring for those they damaged. Logan’s chest tightened with emotions he couldn’t name, wanting to snatch the girl’s wrist and yank her from the carriage, making promises of safety and comfort he had no way of keeping. His brain turned cartwheels of possibility, running through scenarios which presented themselves and then faded into unreality.

Miriam’s act of standing shocked him and Logan put his hands out as though to defend himself. “It’s our stop,” she said, pressing her handbag closer to her side.

Logan shook his head. “No!” he hissed, urgency in his face. “Not yet.”

“It is, tāne. Up!” Miriam demanded, tugging on his jacket sleeve.

His mouth opened and closed and Miriam’s eyes widened, fearing a medical episode of some sort. She slumped back into the seat next to him and leaned in close. “What is it, son? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t,” he said, a catch in his voice. “I can’t get up.”

The doors swished closed and the train picked up momentum. Miriam gaped out at the Westminster sign disappearing as the train plunged back into its tunnel. “We missed our stop,” she said, her voice rising and drawing attention.

The man next to her flicked his newspaper and turned to speak to her. “Get out at St James’ Park and jump on the next District Line train. You’ll be back at Westminster in about fifteen minutes. No harm done.” He leaned further forward and stared at Logan. “You all right, mate?”

“Thank you, he’s fine,” Miriam said, staring at Logan and pleading with her eyes for him not to cause a scene. Logan gaped like a fish and watched the emerald eyes opposite turn in his direction. He held his breath as the woman smiled and he felt the New Zealand sunshine wash over him, comfort and warmth and pure essence of rightness. His lips turned upwards in response before she glanced away, the connection broken.

“Now, Logan!” Miriam insisted, yanking him to his feet at the next stop. Her tone was the one she used at home which indicated an imminent clout around the ear and Logan instinctively ducked. It was enough weakness to allow his mother to tug him towards the open door and out onto the platform.

Before Logan could react, the doors swished closed and the overwhelming source of light gathered speed, gone into the tunnel before he knew it. The sense of loss floored him, accompanied by a grief so strong it drove him to the cold, draughty ground like a felled bull. Logan clung to a pillar in the underground station beneath St James’ Park and vomited on the flagstones.

The Sting of Matenga“I’m so sorry.” The nurse dressed in the St Thomas’ uniform wrung her hands and chewed on her bottom lip. “We rang your hotel, but you’d already left.”

Miriam covered her face with her hands and her shoulders heaved. Silent crying. The worst. Logan put his arm around her but she elbowed him in the ribs. She blamed him and he knew it. A few short minutes earlier and his uncle would have been awake and asking for them. Now there was a white sheet over his olive face and the monitors were gone, wheeled along the corridor to prolong someone else’s imminent demise. “Sorry, Ma,” he said, his face ashen and his voice a husky whisper.

The nurse gave him a wry smile and pushed Miriam into the seat next to the bed. “Your son and I will fetch some water for you,” she said. She reached for Logan’s forearm and he shied away, an unnatural blaze in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said for the second time. “I don’t like to be touched.”

Unnerved, the nurse beckoned with a crooked finger. “This way,” she said. “Let’s leave her for a moment and fetch something to drink.”

Fatigue and hunger gnawed at Logan’s ribs, wishing for once his brother was in charge. Michael’s hangover would have made a miraculous recovery the moment the door closed on him. Logan neither knew nor cared which of the lucky travelers would witness his s****l prowess while he and Miriam said goodbye to a dead man. The transient nature of the hotel brought easy pickings and Michael feasted well during their fortnight’s stay, having s*x with whoever appeared amenable. It looked from the outside like an illness, a mania similar to Miriam’s but one which satiated itself with orgasms instead of throwing pans and screaming nonsense.

“Are you okay?” the nurse asked and Logan stared at the kitchenette, a blank look on his face.

“I was sick,” he said, “at St James’ Park station.” He shook his head to encourage common sense to return, realising the location was irrelevant.

The nurse raised a hand to pat his left biceps and then withdrew it, remembering. She filled a white plastic cup and pushed it towards him.

“Thanks,” Logan said. “How do I get back to Ma?”

“It’s for you,” the nurse said. “We’ll take one to her in a minute.”