Chapter 5
Mid-February arrived and the weather broke, bringing with it disappointment and the reminder that summer waned. Autumn threatened in a nonchalant, foreboding way. Crickets began their endless night calling, which added to the heaviness as something enjoyed, dwindled.
The morning started 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. Pressure increased with her workload for the guidance counselling staff, who required her to make appointments and take their phone calls while they led sessions for the 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. Little else occupied her life apart from church, work and a passion for knitting strange things which never turned out like the picture on the pattern. Hana recognised a need for change and kept delaying the dreadful hour.
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 buses, no hint of foreboding found a foothold. A storm brewed overhead, stripping out the daylight and creating a lonely, eerie atmosphere around Hana’s lone car. As she neared the passenger side, Hana sensed danger too late, already distracted by the sound of shifting feet grinding loose gravel near the front tyre.
Hana’s blood pounded in her ears and throat as a figure loomed up, seeming to rise out of the ground. The air choked with pervading evil. She smelled alcohol as a female voice swore at her, “Give it here, bitch!”
Hana’s handbag jerked away from her, taking her upper body with it as she clung on. Instinct made her turn her body sideways and let out a small cry, refusing to let go. In response, she received a violent push from the woman, who let out another curse. Clutching her bag tighter, Hana released the less important item in her arms and there followed the startling crash of breaking pottery. The office plant hit the concrete floor and smashed into myriad tinkling pieces, needing resurrecting rather than repotting. Her attacker started at the noise and hesitated, but she wasn’t alone. “Get it away from her!” the female hissed and renewed her tug-of-war action.
Hana heard heavy male breathing behind her and then the pressure on her handbag as he prised it from beneath her elbow. He jabbed her hard in the ribs with a sideways punch but still she clung on, revived by a fleeting picture of the contents of her bag. Her breath came in heaves of pain as he shoved her hard enough to dent the side wing of her passenger door, but her fingers clawed at the smooth leather. A lipstick popped from an open pocket and cracked underfoot and Hana gave a fortifying yank, fighting for her wallet, her keys, her driving licence and the picture of her daughter’s new baby. She gripped her bag with determination, slipping grasping fingers inside the zipper of the front pocket and resolving not to lose; whatever the cost.
As adrenaline helped Hana face the danger, her attackers assumed human shape. The large white female possessed a hard, unkind face and her large male companion maintained crazed look of purpose in his vivid blue eyes. The woman drew so near to Hana’s frightened face, she nauseated her with gin laden breath. Hard fingers closed around Hana’s throat, constricting and pinching whilst the male rived harder at the handbag. He grunted as he tugged at the leather strap, hearing the stitching tear beneath her shoulder.
“Let go or you’ll be sorry!” The woman’s stench made Hana hold her breath, negating the effect of the throttling. She heard the pottery crunch underfoot and clung to her bag with everything she possessed. As her head crashed back against the vehicle bodywork, she bit her lip and tasted blood. 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 ended. A grunt followed and his body dropped to the ground. Oxygen flooded into Hana’s airway and she bent over gasping, still clutching her bag with a hysterical sense of achievement. Through her peripheral vision, she caught sight of the woman’s large shape waddling across the grass towards the road. She croaked out a warning but the ensuing chaos covered her feeble squeak.
When she looked at her feet, the male attacker lay prostrate on the floor, his right cheek pressed into the gravel. “It’s not over!” he growled and fear tightened her chest to painful proportions.
“Shut it!” A dark figure sat astride him, bending his thieving arm up his back. The sound of running and voices streamed from the lighted chapel as others arrived on the scene, milling around and joining the confusion. “Help me get him up. Don’t let go.”
Hana took a step backwards as several pairs of hands reached in to haul her attacker upright. She contacted the wide wing mirror for the second time that day and stifled a groan of pain. The urge to get into her vehicle and drive away felt overwhelming and a dreadful tremor began in her knees as the adrenaline withdrew. The media studies teacher pushed himself off the floor and Hana recognised Gwynne Jeffs’ friendly smile. But as the face of her attacker turned towards her, Hana saw a frightened teenager, eyes darting around with undisguised panic and the act of bravado gone.
Hana stared around, struggling to control the unfortunate tremble in her legs. She sank backwards against her car, but taking the pressure off her legs just sent the shudder into her lower back. Her fingers strayed to her throat, which throbbed and felt sore to the touch. Her chin felt damp 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 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 ca
r 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 shook his head and padded 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 now 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 in the morning?”
“Is there someone I can call for you?” the officer asked after 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 that 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, looking 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. “No.”
“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.” She 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.
Gwynne sighed as he started the engine of his truck and it roared to life on the steep gradient of Hana’s driveway. Disappointment ate away at his heart. Disappointment and regret at the state of the world. His phone rang and he grappled to retrieve it from his jacket pocket. “Hey Eddie,” he said with a sigh. “Yeah, I just dropped Hana home.” His brow furrowed at something the other teacher said and his reply sounded terse. “No, she didn’t invite me in. Stop it, man. She’s had a terrible shock.” He backed the truck out one handed into the dark street and shook his head, watching for traffic. “Yeah, it makes ya sick, doesn’t it?” He trapped the phone between his chin and shoulder and cranked the gear leaver into first. “Hana didn’t recognise the kid; she probably never came across him. Yeah, of course I told the cops. I had high hopes for that boy and then his parents pulled him out of school.” Gwynne swore and checked the road at the intersection. “I’m on my way home. Don’t say anything to Hana for now. See what the cops do.”
He turned right and drove home, his heart heavy for a multitude of reasons.