The Hana Du Rose Mysteries Collection

ABOUT HANA-1-4

Hana sensed the tears surface and shame blushed her cheeks. Six people stared in silence at her discomfort. Gwynne handed the teenager over to a man Hana recognised as a parent. “Don’t let him go!” he ordered. With a nod, the man shoved him forwards up the stairs to the meeting room above the chapel. The teenager tripped twice and the parent kept a tight hold, using the boy’s arm bent behind his back like a rudder. Hana covered her face with shaking fingers but jumped at a gentle pressure over her wrist. Gwynne kept his voice light, the Welsh accent familiar and comforting. “Come on, let’s get you into the light. You’re bleeding.”

Gwynne’s knees oozed from his scuffle with the attacker and shards of broken pottery clung to his hairy legs.

“I’m so sorry, what a mess.” Hana pointed at his wrecked skin. “It’s my fault.”

As they breached the stairs and light bathed them in a yellow glow, Hana saw blood staining Gwynne’s cricket whites and a large run beginning in the hem of his creamy pullover. He guided her up the steps with a tentative hand in the small of her back, but Hana faltered at the top. “Please, can I just go home? I don’t want a fuss.”

“The cops are coming.” Gwynne seized Hana’s arm and moved her forward.

Hana held her breath as she stepped over the threshold, dreading an audience to her misery. The bright room above the chapel buzzed with activity, but its occupants averted their gaze from her stricken face. “Did you get the cops, Eddie?” Gwynne asked the head of the sports department. He nodded his frizzy curls in reply and continued to speak into his mobile phone. Two members of his department sat either side of the teenager like bodyguards. Hana eyed her attacker from her position by the door, studying his slumped body language. She readied herself to run if he moved, fixating on his black jeans and dark blue hoodie from beneath her lashes. Feeling for a reflex of hatred inside her chest, she discovered only numbness towards him. The teenager nursed his right arm and looked smaller in captivity than in the terror of the car park scene.

“Take a seat, Hana.” Evie Douglas, one of the school’s guidance counsellors indicated a chair near the kitchenette and set about producing tea-making noises with crockery and spoons.

Hana exhaled with relief and perched on the edge of the seat. “Where are the rest of the cricket team? I thought they might all be here.”

Gwynne frowned and patted Hana’s shoulder. He grimaced and wiped at the cuts on his knee with the fingers of his other hand. “No, thank goodness. 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 closed her eyes against the realisation that help might not have arrived on a different night.

Her hand shook as she dabbed at her lip with a tissue, grateful for the tea Evie thrust into her hand, the chipped mug wobbled without control and spilled hot, burning liquid onto her skirt. Gwynne sat next to her on one of the hard backed visitors’ chairs, scowling across at the teenager but saying nothing. A few times he shook his head and tutted. Hana felt grateful for the lack of conversation and concentrated on not letting her drink shake out of her hand.

The police refrained from using sirens but appeared within fifteen minutes with radios, notebooks, and questions. A female officer talked Hana through the event. She looked unsurprised when Hana apologised and brushed tears away. They rolled down her cheeks and swollen neck, spreading blood stains from her cut lip onto her blouse.

“We’ll take you to the police station on Bridge Street,” the officer said. “Perhaps one of your colleagues can drive your car home? I need the police surgeon to photograph your injuries and check you out. We’ve got a special unit; there’s no need to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive it for you,” Eddie McLay volunteered. “Evie will drop me back here for my car. Do you have a spare set of keys at home?”

Hana nodded. “Yes, I’ll take the front door key off the bunch and use Vic’s set tomorrow.” Her chin wobbled at the sound of her husband’s name. “Please can you leave mine in the mail room?”

Hana filled the uneventful journey to the police station with recriminations. Somehow, she managed to make everything her fault.

“Is there someone I can call for you?” the officer asked as the police surgeon finished examining Hana’s throat and lip.

Hana shook her head and winced as the doctor pressed her sore ribs. “Not broken,” the medic concluded. “Just bruised. Good news is they heal but the bad news is they hurt while they do it. They protect your breathing muscles which are always moving.”

“There must be someone,” the police officer pressed. “You won’t want to be alone tonight.”

“There’s nobody,” Hana admitted, staring at the tiled floor and pushing her misery behind a mask of indifference. “My son’s a policeman in the north and my daughter can’t come home in a hurry. She has a tiny baby and lives in Invercargill.”

With desolation pricking at her soul, Hana walked into the clinical waiting room at the front of the building. Darkness shrouded the street outside and she shivered.

“I’ll drive you home,” the police woman offered. “Unless you have a friend you can stay with?”

Hana’s spine tightened at the question and she sighed in defeat. “I don’t.”

“You could go to Anka’s house.” Gwynne rose from a grey, ripped bench. He smiled and his Welsh lilt sounded more pronounced because of his tiredness. His face showed strain. “I’ll drive you. They’ve taken my statement.”

The police officer nodded and looked at her watch. “Take my card,” she said, pressing the white rectangle into Hana’s fingers. “My name’s Shelley and I’ll be in touch.” Her gaze passed over Hana’s handbag, which sported a rip from zipper to seam and a missing pocket from the front.

“Please just take me home,” Hana begged and with a nod, Gwynne drove in silence. She offered halting directions and he made the turns until cutting the engine on her driveway.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked and reached for her hand.

“Yes.” Hana stared at his hairy fingers and covered the awkwardness by using both hands to squash her handbag closed and shove it under her arm. Gwynne withdrew his hand and let it fall into his lap. Hana glanced up at the dark frontage of her home. “I should start leaving lights on,” she rebuked herself. “I didn’t expect to be so late.”

Gwynne walked her to the door, standing back as Hana leaned in and put the entry lights on. “I can take a look around, if you want,” he offered.

“I’m fine,” Hana said, faking joviality and pretending to brush off the night’s events.

Gwynne narrowed his eyes with doubt. “You should have a glass of something strong before you try to sleep,” he advised with a smile.

The silence of her bedroom almost overpowered Hana as she readied herself for bed. Tears soaked her pillow as loneliness and exhaustion mingled in her tortured thoughts.

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