Rating: NC-17 - This story contains consensual graphic sex between a man and a woman. If this offends you, is illegal where you live or you are under 18, go somewhere else.
Disclaimer: The characters of John Lawless and Willy Kaa belong to South Pacific Pictures. The use of those characters in this story is not intended as copyright infringement. The rest of the characters in this story are from my previous Lawless stories or my imagination and are copyrighted by me.
Author's Note: While this story is not a direct sequel to Lawless, the NZ Tele-film it is a direct sequel to Guilt by Association. It does contain characters from and references to that story as well as to another Lawless story of mine, Arbitrary Fate. I would highly recommend reading both of those before this one is read. There is an additional author's note at the end of this regarding some of the information contained in this story.
John Lawless studied the three old photographs. David Carmody, Frances' father was in uniform, tall, strong, attractive and smiling pleasantly at the camera. Cliff Hanguma was lounging in front of an airplane dressed in fatigues. Despite his relaxed stance, he looked young, tired, irritated and his eyes seemed sad. Master Sergeant William Fulton was in full uniform and it was unlikely he was aware of the camera, as his face was only partially visible. He looked as if he was reading the riot act to someone in front of what looked like a parts hanger. Three very different men with three very different life paths, one dead, one missing and one still very much alive.
John raised his eyes to find Frances studying him as intently as he had been studying the pictures. He grinned, happy to be spending Sunday morning basking in her warmth, even if the task at hand was unpleasant. She smiled back, then dropped her eyes to the stack of papers in front of her.
It had been two weeks since they'd been together. As she had predicted, it was as if it had never happened. He had stayed with her that night and made love to her. Afterwards she had held him and given him the gift of the story of her life. She spoke of her past and he came to understand why she lived as she did. Then in the wee small hours she had sent him home with a kiss and a promise.
The next day, when he'd returned to discuss her father, she had behaved as if they'd never touched, never kissed, as if indeed they had never made love at all. He had felt embarrassed and guilty, but she'd ignored his discomfort and focused on the problem at hand. It had taken him a bit longer to get comfortable with her again, but Frances, being Frances, had waited him out.
Now, his healing had begun to take root and he found they could remain friends and that nothing had really changed. He was grateful for that and grateful for the distraction of work.
Frances had insisted on paying him for his time while he looked into her father's "death." He hadn't wanted to take her money at first, but she'd assured him she could afford it. Further, she had told him, with a wry grin, if she didn't pay him, how could she boss him about? He'd laughed and finally agreed.
So far, they'd contacted the government and requested, via the Freedom of Information Act, all kinds of papers and reports pertaining to the people and incidents surrounding that time. They were waiting for yet another packet, which the Air Ministry had promised them would arrive any day. In the interim, John had contacted Veteran’s groups via the Internet. He was looking for anyone who might have served with Frances' father. He hadn't found anyone yet who knew David Carmody, but he hadn't given up hope. He sent out e-mails, posted messages and continued to "surf" for information.
Frances did her part, going through all the papers in the house, digging out her father's letters and looking for useful information. She had found the photos of Hanguma and Fulton. "Well, this might mean something," she commented softly.
John looked at her. She held a yellowed piece of paper in her hand. "What?" he asked.
She paused for a moment, "This letter was written a few days before he . . ."
She took a deep breath, cleared her throat and began to read, "Dear Sue and ef, he always called me ef, I don't know why," she added with a grin. "Things are really heating up here in the jungle. It's a hundred degrees and stickier than a melted ice cream cone. Cliff and I got a new assignment today. Could be interesting. Really odd for a flyer since it takes place on the ground. Of course, I can't tell you about it, national security and such, but still, it's an odd job for a flyer and wingman. Should make a good story for the grandkids, especially if we pull it off. Who'd ever suspect sweet little old me of duplicity, eh?" She paused again and then commented, "The rest of it is personal. How much he missed us and such. What do you think?"
John reached out his hand for the letter.
Frances looked at his hand, then at the letter and finally with a shrug gave it to him. She watched him as he took it carefully and read it. His hair was pulled off his face in a ponytail. She could see strands of gray among the dark thickness. His eyes tracked the words on the paper and she followed the motion. His body was the most relaxed she'd seen it since she'd known him. The muscles in his neck were almost slack and his arms were calm. His mouth was relaxed and then it began to twitch and she knew he must have gotten to the personal part of the letter. He was obviously holding back a grin at the comments her father had made.
"Go ahead and laugh," she urged. "I know you want to."
He looked up and grinned. "It's sweet, Frances."
She eyed him speculatively. "You probably can't even imagine me as a teenager."
John's grin widened. "No, I can't. But even if I could, I don't see you being worried about not having a date for the dance."
Frances laughed. "It was a very long time ago. Thirty years, more or less. You were a baby then."
"1968?" he mused. She nodded. "You're not that much older than me."
"Twelve years older," she insisted, "an entire generation."
"Aren't you the one who says you're only as old as you feel?"
"Leave it, John." She cleared her throat before continuing, "So what do you think? Could that new assignment have anything to do with this?"
He shook his head. "It's intriguing, certainly. But we need to know more. I wish that stuff from the Ministry would arrive."
She nodded. Their eyes met in look of almost perfect understanding and she rose from her chair. "What time do you meet Eric?"
He glanced at his watch, "Fairly soon. How's he doing?"
"He's still disrupting class, misbehaving and generally being difficult. He failed his last exam too."
John sighed. "He's unhappy and angry," he insisted firmly.
Frances studied him. "Perhaps. He has an excellent mind, but he doesn't always use it. No matter what I try I can't seem to get through to him."
John grinned ruefully. "I'm working on it," he mumbled. "I'm working on it."
John studied Eric as he jumped the rope. The boy was tall and gangly, but there was an awkward kind of grace in his movements. John had been working with Eric for several weeks now, but didn't feel as if he was making any headway. The boy still fought not only on the rugby field but also with the other boys at every opportunity. John knew he'd already tried his hand at a little mugging and he was sure the kid was heading for major trouble. In addition, Frances said he was acting out in class and despite being incredibly bright, refused to apply himself at all. He was defensive and prickly whenever John questioned him. He was also isolated and, John thought, in a great deal of emotional pain. He still hadn't found a way to get the boy to confide in him.
Once Eric had accepted the offer to learn to box, John had asked to meet his mother. Eric said she was always busy working two jobs and brought him a note instead. John was sure it was forged, but for the moment, he let it go. First, he had to get the kid to trust him.
Eric was sweating profusely when he finished his jumps. "What's next?" he panted.
"The bag," John directed. He helped the boy on with a pair of gloves and then showed him how to punch the big bag. John held it steady and watched for a moment. Eric was hitting it halfheartedly as though he didn't care. "Eric," John instructed softly, "pretend it's Kevin."
"What?"
John laughed. "Normally, I'd never tell you to get angry, but in this case, I think it will help you get the feel. You want to pretend the bag is a person. I've seen how hard you can hit Kevin, use that same energy to hit the bag."
Comprehension dawned. Eric's eyes brightened and he began to slam punches at the bag, hitting it hard enough to make it move. The boy began to grunt with exertion, his shoulders hunched forward and John could see the anger begin to burn off him.
"Better, much better," John muttered as Eric punched the bag hard and it hit John in the stomach.
Eric paused and grinned. John grinned back and said, "I think that's enough for today. Why don't you take a shower? Then I'll take you home."
Eric nodded. He dropped his arms and stuck out his hands so John could untie the gloves. "Why you being so nice to me?" Eric asked in a quiet voice.
"Why shouldn't I be?" John suggested in return.
"You don't know me. You're not from around here. So why you doing this?" Eric's eyes were focused on John's face. His body had tensed again as if he expected to have to ward off a blow.
John thought for a long moment before he answered, his eyes met the boy's eyes evenly. The kid deserved the truth, if he could only find it. Finally, he explained, "When I was your age, I was a lot like you. Angry, always getting into fights, heading straight for trouble. A very wise man helped me. He taught me how to box. I promised him that someday I'd do the same for someone else. So I guess you could say I'm paying off a debt."
Eric nodded. He understood paying one's bills, much easier than he could accept altruism. "Like paying a bookie when you lose at the races?" he asked to confirm his supposition.
John grinned. "In a manner of speaking. Why did you think I was doing it?"
Eric shrugged. "I dunno. I thought maybe you fancied me."
John's eyes opened very wide. "Has someone been bothering you like that?"
Eric shook his head. "No. But you never know."
John nodded. He'd seen first hand, when he was a cop, what some people were capable of, what they could do to children. "Go take your shower."
Eric nodded and went. John began to put away the equipment.
Frances gazed apprehensively at the thick brown envelope. When she'd come home from school that Monday, the packet from the Ministry had finally arrived in the post. She was loath to open it alone. She tried to wait patiently for John. She'd already rung him, but he hadn't gotten home yet. She'd left a message on his machine.
She paced the small house unable to keep still. She wished he would hurry. She thought he was still a little uncomfortable about what had happened between them, but since she continued to behave as if it hadn't happened, he'd seemed able to move on. She was glad they had made love, but she had no desire for a relationship. John was a nice enough bloke, but hardly old enough or mature enough to be her lover. Sex had never been that important to her anyway.
She'd told him about the one great love of her life and how he had married someone else. That had been enough for her. After that, she was content to live her life through her pupils. There were all kinds of love in the world, she'd reminded him and she simply preferred Agape to Eros. She'd had to explain that to him too, but in the end, he'd understood. She thought he was probably relieved. As much as they were friends, they weren't suited to be lovers. Though John might have felt an attraction of sorts, she was sure that it was more gratitude than desire. So they settled into their friendship with nary a glance backward.
She was distracted from her reverie by a loud knock on the door. She rushed and pulled it open without asking whom it was, sure that it was John. She stepped back quickly at the sight that greeted her.
The man filled the doorframe with his presence. He was huge and muscular. He had a shaven head, red rimmed dark eyes, a thick mustache and an inch of stubble on his chin. His arms were thickly covered with tattoos and he wore black. Black T-shirt, vest, jeans and black boots. He was Maori and he looked angry.
She swallowed hard and hoped the fear that now coursed through her body didn't show. She opened her mouth to speak, swallowed again and then finally croaked, "May I help you?"
He studied the woman. She was old and not very pretty. She was overweight and dressed like an old maid. She had black hair and green eyes. John had told him the truth. He grinned and disclosed, "I'm Willy Kaa."
Frances watched as the grin changed his face. The menace vanished seemingly magically replaced by charm. His words filtered into her consciousness. "Willy?" she repeated.
He nodded. "You're Frances, eh?"
She nodded. So this was Willy. "Would you like to come in?" she asked.
Willy's grin changed again and his expression was now embarrassed. "No. I just . . ."
"Wanted to see for yourself," she finished the sentence for him.
He nodded and turned to go. "Don't leave," she suggested. "I'd really like to talk to you. John's told me a great deal about you."
He turned back, now mild incredulity on his face. "He has, has he? Any of it good?"
She smiled. "All of it. Please do come in. John should be here in a tick. Then," she added with a mischievous glint in her eye, "you can see us together and completely set your mind at rest."
Willy's eyes opened wider and his grin got bigger. "He said you had an uncanny knack for reading minds."
She laughed. "Not minds, Willy. Human nature." She stepped back and gestured for him to enter.
Willy took a deep breath and crossed Frances' threshold. When John arrived an hour later, Willy was sipping tea and it looked as if the two of them had been playing cards. John stood in the center of the room, his eyes wide with astonishment. "What are you doing here?" he asked Willy.
"He just wanted to see for himself," Frances answered. "Can you blame him?"
John shook his head. "You're both just full of surprises, aren't you? Willy, I can't believe you didn't trust me."
Frances again answered for him. "It wasn't only that, John. I think perhaps Willy may have wondered if I could help him as I've helped you."
Both John and Willy's jaws dropped. John was clearly shocked and Willy's skin seemed to darken with embarrassment. Willy looked at John and remarked, "She's psychic. No way she could have known."
John laughed. "Just you wait, Willy. She'll nail you sixteen ways to Sunday if you try to lie to her."
Frances felt as if she was in room with two teenagers. The two men had suddenly turned into boys. She was completely taken by how charming they were together. Their friendship had an innocent sweetness that completely belied who they were, how they met and how they lived. Their affection for each other was clear to see. It was, in it's own way, as much a gift, as anything else. She smiled at both of them and explained, "It's the teacher in me. Lots of experience with lying boys."
"Don't you believe her," John teased. "She's a witch. And she knows everything."
Willy laughed. "Too true, mate. She read my tea leaves."
"She what?" John's eyes widened further. He turned to stare at Frances as if he'd never seen her before.
Frances felt her face flush. "It was nothing. A game I used to play when I was younger. I was just trying to put him at his ease, that's all. He seemed a bit nervous."
Now John turned to look at Willy. He was still sitting on the sofa, in the place where John usually sat. He held a dainty teacup in his hand as if to the manner born. That was another thing. Willy drinking tea? He shook his head. "Don't tell me anymore. I don't think I can take it."
Willy laughed and set the teacup down. "Thank you, Frances," he mumbled. "It was very nice to meet you." He looked at John, grinned and then added, "You're right, she's a nice lady. Sorry I doubted you." He rose from the couch and headed toward the door.
"Willy," Frances declared, "you're welcome to visit anytime. I think we could learn a lot from each other."
Willy froze and then turned toward her. He studied her face. Her eyes were focused on him; they were curious and determined. He could see she really meant it. "I'd like that," he replied completely surprising himself.
"Me too," she confirmed.
"I'll let you and John get down to business then," he muttered as he pulled the door open.
"See ya later, bro," John called. "I'll be by the pub tonight."
Willy turned back, a huge grin on his face. "Sure thing. I haven't beaten anyone at pool all week."
John rolled his eyes and then grinned.
Willy nodded to Frances and left. When he was gone, she turned to John. "You never told me he was charming."
"Charming?" John echoed. He rolled his eyes again. "Not a word I'd ever have picked to describe Willy."
She laughed and began to clean up the tea things. "No, I don't suppose you would. He is though. I like him."
"I'm glad, I think." John was surprised to feel a little tinge of jealousy rush through him. He wasn't sure he wanted to share Frances with anyone. Then he laughed at himself. "I can be such an asshole," he mumbled.
Frances gave him a knowing look. "Yes, you can be, often actually. Still, you do have some nice qualities too. And I like your friend, but NOT more than I like you."
"Ouch," John groaned. He grimaced and added, "You really ARE a witch."
"Idiot," she retorted affectionately. "Your eyes give you away. They're far too easy to read."
John grinned. "Speaking of reading, where's the file?"
Frances let it go. She had made her point and she suspected even if John did not, that when he did finally move on with his life, her place in it would vanish. While they might be friends, she could never take the place in his life that a lover would and John would always need that place filled. He had an overabundance of emotion in him and he would always need someone to balance him. Right now, that someone was she, but someday, someone else would come along and replace her. Someone who could give him all the things she couldn't or wouldn't. She handed him the brown envelope.
"You didn't open it," he reflected. She shook her head. He looked at her but said nothing. He carefully undid the flaps and pulled out a thick file. He tried to hand it to her.
"Please, John, you read it."
He nodded and sat down on the couch. She paced behind him. "Frances," he commented after a few minutes, "you're driving me crackers. Why don't you make some tea?"
"I don't want any," she snapped. "I had plenty with Willy."
"Then go knit. Please do something, because I can't read with you bouncing around."
She shrugged and went into the kitchen. John could hear the clanging of pots and pans. It was worse than her pacing. With a sigh, he put the file down and joined her. "Frances, talk to me. Tell me what's got you so upset. You're acting like a cat with it's tail stuck in a door."
She turned to him a rueful expression her face. "I don't know. I just . . . part of me wants to know, but the rest of me doesn't. I don't want to believe my father was mixed up in anything bad. Or that he ceased caring about us. Abandoned us. I'm fairly sure that whatever's in that file won't tell us much, but . . ."
John went to her, put his hands on her shoulders and felt the tension in her body. "I promise you, if the truth is findable, I'll find it. I owe you that much. And whatever we find, we'll deal with it. Together."
She smiled, reached up and brushed his check lightly. "You're a good bloke. Thank you." She paused and then added, "You remind me of him. Did I ever tell you that?" He shook his head. She continued, "It's the eyes, chiefly. Dad had expressive eyes. Of course, he wasn't near as serious as you are. He liked a good joke, Dad did. But he also had a dark side. He'd get these moods . . ." she let the words trail off.
John had always wondered why she had offered to help him on such a short acquaintance. Then he'd been so grateful for her presence in his life that he had ceased wondering. Now he thought he knew. Was everyone always looking for the parent they missed while growing up?
In his case, he'd lost his father early on. First there had been Mick Sullivan and then Alan Snow had filled that role for a brief time. He still missed never having had a Dad. He thought idly of his Mum. He hadn't been to see her in weeks. Maybe now was time to make a visit.
"Thank you," he acknowledged, "for telling me that. I'll try not to let you down."
"You won't," she insisted confidently. "I know how good you are at what you do. Now I'll try not to make so much noise. Go read and then come tell me what it says."
John nodded, released his grip on her shoulders, and went into the lounge.
Frances sat at the kitchen table, gripping a spoon so tightly her knuckles began to turn white. She heard the clock ticking loudly, the refrigerator grinding, and then more dimly the sound of pages being turned. Still, she willed herself to stay seated, willed herself not to distract him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was only twenty minutes, John reentered the kitchen. He was carrying the file. "Well?" she asked her eyes full of worry.
He shook his head. "Not much information we didn't already have, but some more places to look. I want to go over this with you and then I think we need to ask the Ministry for more information. The file isn't missing anything that I can tell, but there doesn't seem to be anything extra either."
"What do you mean?"
"It's very bare bones. There are your Dad's service records, his missions and such, a letter of commendation from his commanding officer, but nothing about his last mission whatever it was. No clue as to what kind of ground assignment he might have been referring to. There isn't much about his death. Just the certificate."
"What about Cliff Hanguma and William Fulton?"
"Nothing here. We can try to request their files, also more information about activities in Bien Hoa and Phuc Tuoy. And I could talk to Fulton."
She nodded. "He's still in service. I'm not sure just how willing he'd be to discuss it. I have a sort of vague recollection of meeting him once. Long after he came home, maybe when Mother died. I think he came to the wake. I'll have to look at the guest book. If he was there, he probably signed it."
"Well," John mused thoughtfully, "you could be right about his not wanting to talk. He ended up as a POW for a year, eh?" She nodded. "Couldn't have been pleasant. Still, I think I should go see him anyway."
She nodded. "If you think so. Thank you."
He sat down at the table and placed the file in front of her. "No need to thank me. I haven't done anything yet," he added with a grin. "Leastways, not anything you couldn't have done on your own."
She grinned back at him and insisted, "You're here and it's a comfort. Also, unlike me, you have no emotional stake in this. You can look at it objectively and I appreciate that."
Her gratitude was embarrassing him. He rose from the table and mumbled, "I'm off to meet Willy. " He paused and then asked mischievously, "Any message for him?"
She smiled. "Don't drink too much, either of you."
John grinned. "That's like asking a camel not to drink water. Still, I haven't . . . I'm better."
"I know." She looked at him and suggested, "You know, John, Caro’s been gone for four months. I think it's time you start thinking about living again. The world is full of wonderful women."
He shook his head. "Not ready yet, Frances."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself."
He stared at her. "I'm doing all right. Really. Thanks to you and Willy." He paused and then asked slowly, "Have you met Eric's mum?"
She nodded. "Once or twice for conferences. He got to you, didn't he?"
He nodded. "He's like a simmering pot about to boil over. He told me she works two jobs. I know she works at the Hardcastle, do you know what the other one is?"
She shook her head. "I really don't know that much about her. She didn't tell me anything and Eric never speaks." She looked at John's face and added, "She's about your age."
"Frances," he grumbled, "don't go all womanly on me. It doesn't suit you. I'd never have pegged you for a romantic."
Frances grinned at him. "She seemed like a nice woman," she said slyly. "And you know how hard it is to raise a boy alone. I'm not quite sure what happened to Eric's Dad. She didn't say and I didn't pry."
"You're worse than Willy," he complained. "Before I met Caro, he was always throwing women at me. I can get my own girls."
"I have no doubt of that," she answered with a laugh. "No doubt at all."
John felt his face flush. "I've got to go. Beer's waiting."
Frances rose and showed him to the door. John stood there for a moment as if he wanted to say something, do something and then finally, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.
She grinned and shooed him out the door.
John looked around the pub and sighed. Willy was already two sheets to the wind. It wouldn't take much for him to get to the third. Not that John hadn't been there himself, only lately the desire to drink himself into oblivion held much less attraction. Still, he knew better than to say anything. He accepted the beer, but declined the shot of Jack.
They played a couple of games of pool, Willy growing progressively drunker. Finally, John begged off, slipping out of the pub as Willy began to hit on an attractive woman sitting alone at the bar.
Feeling at loose ends, John began to walk around the neighborhood. He wandered aimlessly for quite a while, strolling along the waterfront, breathing in the night air. The sailboats rocked gently in their berths in the harbor, silent testament to another life. As he walked, he turned over all the facts he had about Frances' father. He paused and realized he was in front of the Hardcastle, the pub where Eric's mother worked. On a whim, he went in.
Looking around him, he felt as if he'd stepped back in time. This wasn't a modern local with video machines and hard driving rock, but very like the working class pubs in Lower Hutt where he'd grown up. It was all dark wood and old-fashioned fixtures. There was a long oak bar filled with big burley men, dockworkers and sailors from the look of them. There was a group of laughing blokes by a dartboard and another group at the pool table. There was no loud music, just the muted hum of conversation. He was reminded of the pub where his Mum used to work.
He entered slowly, knowing that although he didn't look out of place, the regulars would peg him anyway. He strolled to the bar and settled onto a stool. He waited for the bartender to come over.
The man looked him up and down. He was huge and mean looking. He glared at John and then asked, "What you want?"
John could feel the hostility toward a stranger. "Beer," he answered. He laid a twenty-dollar note on the bar and waited.
The bartender glared at him again, looked at the note and shrugged. He moved over to the tap and poured a beer into a tall glass.
John swiveled on his stool and looked over the rest of the room. He realized he had no idea what Eric's mother looked like, nor did he know her first name. Her last name was Katawny, but he wasn't about to ask round for her that way. The pub wasn't that large, there couldn't be more than two waitresses, although at the moment he didn't see any. Maybe he'd get lucky. Then he realized he didn't even know if she was working that night.
He heard the sound of giggling from the farthest corner of the room and focused on the spot. He heard a loud voice make a crude remark, and then another giggle. He couldn't see the woman; blokes surrounded her. Then the crowd parted and she stepped out from between them.
She was a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall. Her brown hair was done in a braid, which hung down over her shoulder. She had wide brown eyes and thick black eyelashes. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth was making a little moue. Her figure was voluptuous; an hourglass curve with breasts that seemed too large for her body. She wore a short black skirt and a white blouse open at the neck. She had an apron tied around her tiny waist. She was beautiful and he knew her, though he hadn't seen her for a very long time.
He watched as she flirted her way away from the blokes and came to the bar. She went to the wait station at the other end and waited for the bartender to stroll over. She leaned over, gave him her order and then straightened up. She glanced backward at the group she had just left and grimaced. Then she glanced casually around the room and when her eyes lit on John, she did a double take. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open and then her body seemed to stiffen. She stared hard at him, as if she wasn't sure she was seeing what she was seeing.
He smiled at her, acknowledging the recognition, that he knew who she was.
She nodded and then the bartender brought her the drinks. John looked away and studied his beer. She looked good, but what was she doing in Auckland? Last he'd heard she was still living in Lower Hutt.
He sipped his beer then felt a light tap on his shoulder. "Evening, John," she said.
He turned to face her. "Evening, Shay."
She stared at him, her eyes meeting his. "It's been a long time. What are you doing here?"
"I was walking and got thirsty," he muttered. Somehow, he didn't want to explain his mission. "You look good," he blurted out.
"You too," she acknowledged. "The years have been kind to you."
He laughed. "I dunno about that. But you still look nineteen."
She gave him a lopsided smile. "You always were a terrible liar. Nice to know some things never change."
"Really," he insisted. "You look great. So you living here now?"
She nodded. "I've got to get back to work, but I finish in an hour." She paused. "If you'd care to wait that is."
"I'd like that," he agreed. "We can get caught up."
She nodded and began bustling about the bar.
John sat on his stool, his mission forgotten as he lost himself in memories.
Shay Briston, he'd met her at church, back when he still sometimes went. He had been nineteen and confused. He was working construction and boxing. He hadn't had a steady girl, keeping to the easy ones, not wanting to get involved. His Mum had dragged him to church one Sunday and introduced him to Shay. She was a nice girl and his Mum liked her. He'd liked her too. At least until he'd met Claire Johns. Then everything had changed. He shook his head at the callow youth he'd been. He was sure he'd hurt Shay badly. Still, it was a long time ago and she didn't seem to hold it against him.
He watched her move about the room, laughing with the patrons and he was reminded of their first date.
John had driven to Shay's house to pick her up. His car was an old junker, an ancient bright yellow VW bug, but it ran. He had knocked on the front door of her house and been invited in by her mother. He'd introduced himself to her parents and nervously waited for Shay. Her parents were curious about him. He knew he had a reputation and he looked more than a little dangerous because of his size and physique. Still, when he explained how he'd met Shay through his Mum at church they seemed to visibly relax.
Shay had finally appeared wearing a long white dress with pink ribbons at her throat. She was tiny and so very beautiful. Her long hair was loose and she’d waved it so that it fell softly around her face. She wore no makeup that he could tell, yet she was stunning. He sucked in his breath as he felt his body respond to her physical appearance.
She smiled at him and then at her parents. Her Mum asked nervously, "You won’t be late, will you?" Shay shook her head and led John out of the house.
When she saw his car, she began to giggle. "However do you get in there?" she asked.
He grinned and showed her. He folded himself up and pushed the seat all the way back. She laughed and got in on the passenger side. He liked her laugh, her giggle, although he usually hated girls who giggled. Shay seemed different, though. He drove them to a pizza place and once they were seated and had ordered, asked her, "So why’d you agree to go out with me?"
She opened her brown eyes very wide and asked in response, "What kind of a question is that? Why wouldn’t I go out with you?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. But well, most girls think I’m a . . ." he trailed off suddenly embarrassed about the reputation he knew he had.
Shay just stared. "You mean cause the girls think you’re a bit of a lad? Cause you’re so big? Cause you box? John, your Mum is one of the nicest ladies I know. You seemed like an okay bloke when we talked at church, not wild at all. So why not?"
Again, he shrugged. At least she didn’t say it was because he was pretty. He hated that. Actually, he realized, he hated going out period. He was always uncomfortable around new people. They seemed to have expectations of him and he never thought he was smart enough or classy enough for them. He knew he needed to get over it, but . . . Still, as he looked across the table at Shay, he could almost relax. She wasn’t acting as if she had any expectations of him at all.
"Tell me about your boxing," she requested softly. "Seems to me you’d be quite good at it."
"Why’d you say that?" he asked as the waitress delivered their beer.
She picked up her glass and took a sip. Some white foam stayed on her upper lip and John was taken with a desire to lick it off which surprised him. He watched as her tongue came out and licked the foam away and he felt his jeans tighten.
"Cause you move well," she answered slowly. "Very graceful like. And you are big," she added with another lopsided smile, "and all muscley and such." She paused and then added, "And I seem to recall when we were in school that you were always getting into fights, so you’ve had lots of practice."
He grinned sheepishly and felt his face begin to flush. "Yeah, well, Mick says I got potential."
"Who’s Mick?" she asked.
After that, she continued to ask him questions, digging into his life. She was interested and curious. She had a direct way of looking at him as if she really saw him. She was very different from the girls he usually hung with. She seemed genuinely interested in who he was, what he liked, what he was doing, and what he planned. He found himself telling her things he’d never told anyone else. All about Mick, his Mum and about his future plans.
By the time the pizza was gone, he had told Shay nearly everything there was to tell about himself. She had taken it all in and seemed to like him anyway. It had surprised him how much he enjoyed talking to her. He usually kept quiet and let the others around him talk instead.
He had driven her home, on time, and walked her to the door. The porch light was on and he thought he saw a curtain move as if someone was watching. It enchanted him that her parents cared so much. Well, he wouldn’t give them a reason to bar him from the door.
She leaned against the doorframe as if waiting for something. She licked her lips nervously as the silence between them lengthened. John could see concern move into her eyes.
He moved closer to her, but not too close and whispered, "I think someone’s watching us."
Relief moved across her face. "Dad, probably. He still doesn’t get that I’m nineteen."
John smiled. "I think it’s nice. I don’t want to give him an excuse to say I can’t see you again. I can, can’t I?"
She smiled back happily, "I’d like that."
"Me too," he agreed. He reached out and brushed her face lightly with his fingers. Then he bent his head and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. "I’ll ring you," he confirmed as he turned to go.
"Night, John," she whispered.
That first date had a sweetness and innocence to it that had lasted for a while. He sighed. Sometimes he wished he could go back and do everything over.
Finally, Shay took off her apron, handed her bank to the bartender and came to where John waited. "There's a coffee bar up the street that stays open late," she suggested.
He nodded, left a few coins on the bar and rose from his stool. He still towered over her; she barely came up to his chest.
She smiled that lopsided smile and then linked her arm through his.
"I saw on the telly that you had some trouble not to long ago," she remarked after they were seated and had ordered coffee. "I felt bad for you."
He gazed at her face. She hadn't lost any of the directness that she'd had when they were young. Going straight to the point. Her eyes were focused on him, clear, level, curious but sympathetic too. "Thanks," he mumbled. "It was . . . I'm still trying to come to grips with it."
"It must have been quite difficult to lose someone and be accused of their murder too. Still, you caught the one who did do it. Must have been some satisfaction in that."
"Satisfaction?" he echoed. He thought for a long moment. "No, not really. I was glad to get off the hook, but I'd rather have had Caro back. More like a sort of closure. Though really, it's still not . . ."
"Healed. Yes, I know what you mean. Some pains take a very long time to heal."
"I'm sorry," he mumbled with embarrassment. "I really treated you rotten, didn't I? I could use the excuse that I was young, but I doubt whether that's much comfort. Want to take a swing at me?"
She smiled and then laughed. "John, you were nineteen and about as mature as a twelve year old. I was little better. It wasn't all bad. I have some lovely memories."
He grinned and reached across the table. He touched her hand lightly and inquired, "You think everything seems better in retrospect? I know I hated my life when I was growing up, but sometimes I long to go back to those days."
"How's your Mum?" she asked. "I always liked her."
"She liked you too," he admitted. "She's fine. I'm going down to see her this weekend. So what have you been doing all these years?"
"This and that," she explained with a wave of her hand. "I stayed in Lower Hutt, then Wellington, then moved around a bit. Finally, I ended up here. Never could decide what I wanted to do."
"Did you ever get married?"
"Once, but it didn't take," she commented sharply. "We weren't right for each other. It happens. What about you?"
"You mean you haven't seen all the things I've been up to on the box?" he asked hesitantly. "Seems like my whole life the last few years has been splashed all over the papers and telly."
She smiled. "Well, I did hear about your trouble with the police. But I thought you were married."
"Divorced after my first little brush with trouble. Then . . . anyways, I'm single now."
She smiled again and looked him up and down. "You still work out regular."
"Gotta keep fit," he mumbled uncomfortably.
"You're a private eye, right?" He nodded. "Must be interesting. All kinds of cases and such."
He laughed. "Not like it is on TV. No fancy cars, no million dollar heists. Mostly missing persons, skip tracing, background searches. Not like the movies or novels."
She laughed. "No glamorous women?"
He thought briefly of Randa Franklin then shrugged. "No. A lot of it is boring and with computers you don't even have to do much on the street."
"Are you working a case now?" she asked. He nodded. "Can you tell me about it?"
"My client's father died in Vietnam or so she'd always been told. Now it turns out that may not have been true. So I'm looking into it, dealing with the Ministry, trying to get the truth out of them."
Shay nodded. She commented, "Sounds tough. Can you find out?"
"I dunno. But I'm gonna try."
She smiled again and then glanced at her watch. "John, it's been lovely catching up, but I'm knackered."
He nodded, signaled for the bill and then looked across the table again. There was something so familiar and comforting about Shay. In way, it was like stepping back into a less complicated past. "Can I see you again?"
She eyed him speculatively. "You mean, like a date?"
His eyes widened. Was that what he meant? He realized with surprise that it was. "Yes," he answered simply.
Her smile grew. "That would be lovely."
"Can I have your number?"
She looked taken aback at the request and then shook her head. "My phone's been acting up and I'm not home that much anyway. Let me ring you. "
He wondered why she was hesitant to give him her number and then decided to ask. "You aren't involved are you?"
She shook her head. "No."
He pulled a card out of his wallet, scribbled his home and mobile numbers on it and handed it to her. She looked at it briefly and then slipped it into her pocket. She rose from the table and offered him her hand. "Thank you, John. It's been lovely."
"Sounds like a piss off," he muttered unhappily.
She laughed. "It's not. I WILL ring you. I promise."
He rose and asked, "Can I walk you home?"
She smiled. "No. My car's around the corner. You can walk me to it."
He grinned and offered his arm. She took it. They walked two blocks and stopped in front of an ancient VW bug very like the one he had once owned. She turned, leaned back against the car and studied him. Her eyes searched his face seeming to look for something, but apparently, she didn’t find it for she said simply, "Goodnight, John."
He scrutinized her as he would a stranger. She seemed so untouched by life. Her eyes were still innocent. Her skin was unblemished, her cheeks rosy. Her mouth was just as luscious as it had always been and he was taken with a sudden urge to kiss her. He wondered how she'd react and then decided it didn't matter. He'd told Frances he wasn't ready to move on and he couldn't hurt Shay again.
"What are you thinking?" she asked softly.
He shrugged. "Sorry, I fade sometimes."
She reached up and touched his cheek lightly. Her fingers trailed over his skin and then brushed his lips. She pulled her hand back as if embarrassed.
He grinned. So she felt it too. Probably just a heavy dose of nostalgia for both of them. "Goodnight, Shay. Ring me. I'd really like to see you again."
She nodded and unlocked her car. John watched until she got in and drove away. When she was gone, he strolled toward home, his step a little lighter.
John's week was busy. He requested more files from the Ministry and tried to make an appointment to meet with Master Sergeant William Fulton. Apparently, the Master Sergeant was a very busy man. The soonest they could fit him in was the next Monday at ten o'clock. John accepted the appointment and continued to research the war. He was too young to remember it, but he found more than he ever wanted to know available on the Internet. By Friday morning he was in lousy mood and wasn't looking forward to the drive to Lower Hutt. The Air Ministry was dragging its heels on the new requests and Shay hadn't called him. He hadn't gone back to the Hardcastle to see her, because he was sure this was her way of getting even with him. Eric had skipped his boxing lesson, gotten into a fight and been suspended from school for two days. He blamed himself for it, as if he had somehow failed the boy, though he didn't know how.
Then the Friday morning drive from Auckland to Lower Hutt took longer than he thought. By the time he arrived, he was tired and more than a little grumpy. He was annoyed with himself and annoyed with the world, not the best mood in which to see his Mum. He knocked on the door of the little house, cursing the length of the grass, knowing he would have to mow it. He wished she would just hire a damn gardener. As he waited for her, he began to fume.
Finally, Jennifer Lawless opened the door. "Gidday, John," she muttered. She gestured for him to come in.
He did, glancing around the lounge with mild disgust. She still hadn't straightened the place from the last time he'd been there. Ashtrays overflowed, papers lay scattered, and beer bottles littered the room. He watched as his mother shuffled back to the sofa and sat down. 'God, she looks old,' he thought. Her once blond hair was silver gray. Her skin was white, faded, and crinkly. Her body was slumped, defeated, completely dejected. His anger over the condition of the house faded as his concern for her grew. He'd stayed away too long. She didn't have anyone else.
Jennifer saw the anger and then concern move over John's face. "So what brings you here?" she asked.
"I wanted to see you," he answered honestly. "It's been too long."
"Sit down." He moved some Woman's Weekly's off a chair and sat. "How are you?" she asked.
"Fine," he mumbled. "It's not me I want to talk about. It's you."
"Me?" she repeated with a bitter laugh. "I'm the same as I was last time you visited. "
"Mum," he whispered, "what happened to you?"
"I told you years ago, life happened to me. Just like it happens to everyone. Just like it happened to you."
He shook his head. "I don't believe that. When I was little you were so bright and so alive. Then you changed. Now you seem so beaten and sad. But I don't understand why."
"Don't you?" She studied him. Her son had been through so much in his life. He'd suffered so many losses and yet, despite his sober countenance, his serious mien, he never did seem beaten. He always seemed to bounce back, albeit a little sadder and maybe a little more guilt-ridden. Yet, unlike her, he kept trying to get it right, never giving up on happiness.
"I loved your father so much that when we lost him it was like I lost me," she explained finally. "When you were little it was easier. You needed me and I had you to live for. But as you got older, as you became your own man, you no longer needed me. No longer made me the focus of your life. This, I suppose, is as it should be. But it gave me too much time alone; too much time to focus on all I'd lost. Anyway, I guess that's why I . . . It’s not good to be alone."
He knew she was telling the truth. Knew that in his own way he had abandoned her. "I'm sorry, Mum. I should call and visit more often. I've been a rotten son."
She shook her head. "No, you haven't. John, you're entitled to live your own life. I worried when you were young. You seemed so determined to be with me. You never made friends and never joined any clubs. I was so relieved when you finally did. As much as I wanted you with me, I knew you needed to have a life of your own."
"But . . ."
"John," she interrupted sternly, sounding for once like the mother he remembered from his childhood, "you couldn't live your life for me. It wouldn't have been fair. Or healthy. Much better for you to have a life of your own. Even if it means you live far away and I don't see you much."
"Thank you," he whispered softly. "I do love you."
She smiled. "I know you do. And I love you too."
He glanced around the room and then remarked nonchalantly, "I ran into Shay Briston the other day. She's living in Auckland now."
"Did you, now?" she repeated her eyes sparking with interest. "She was a nice girl. Shame that didn't work out. Things might have been different."
He nodded, remembering the mess he'd made. "Yeah, well, I asked her out, but . . ."
"Turned you down?" He shrugged. "Then she's a fool. You're a good man, John."
"I dunno about that. I've made my share of mistakes."
"Who hasn't? You aren't perfect. No one is. Life is hard and you never really know how anything will turn out until it does."
"Still, seems like I've messed up more than most. The boxing, Marla, the cops. I can't think of one thing I've done that's actually come out right."
"Can't you?" she echoed. "You bought me this house. You've always made sure I've been taken care of. John, you've done lots of things right. Any mistakes you've made have always been mistakes of the heart. Not because you were angry or malicious, but because you were trying to do the right thing. Sounds to me like you've done everything right."
He shook his head. "I'm a hopeless muck-up. Everything I touch turns out wrong."
"Not true," she insisted. "You've had so much to overcome and you've handled it with grace. Despite what happened with the boxing, you turned it around and became a policeman. Then when you had your trouble with that, you turned that around and became a private investigator. As for Marla, well, I have to admit; I never did see what you saw in her. Never thought she was right for you, so I can't say I was too surprised when it didn't take. Still, John, you've made something of yourself. Even if you can't see it."
He gawked at her. "You really believe that?"
"I know it's true. When you were young, you were always so determined to get out. Well, you did. No mill for you. No living in a pub drinking yourself to death. I did worry; cause you're so like your father, but you made it, John. You should be proud. I know I am."
"What was he like? I don't remember much about him."
Jennifer Lawless had always dreaded the day he would ask. As a child, it had been easy to put off his requests. Tell him funny stories and distract him. As an adult, particularly one with John's intense need for the truth, it wouldn't be so easy. She swallowed hard. "Your Dad was a good man, like you he was serious and thoughtful, loyal to a fault. He had a strong sense of right and wrong and he felt things deeply. He was the son of a Maori chief and he gave up so much for me. Your Nana loved him nearly as much as I did and you know what she was like," she ended with a laugh.
"What about his family? It seems there was always just you and Nana. I don't remember any of his family ever being around. I know they weren't at the funeral."
She sighed. "You don't know what it was like in 1965. Your father was the oldest son of a tribal chief. He was expected to marry well and stay in the Auckland area. Instead he met me, we fell in love, and he wanted to be where I was. They cut him off when he married me. When you were born, I thought they might come round, but they didn't. Then when we lost Kenny, I told them. But . . ."
"They cut him off?" he repeated. She nodded. "Are any of them . . . that is . . ."
Jennifer nodded. She got up from the sofa and went into the bedroom. She came back with a small wooden box. She brought it over to John and handed it to him. "I've been saving these until you asked. Some things of your Dad's and some family history."
John slowly opened the box; not sure he was ready to learn about the past. It seemed like he'd hidden from it all his life. Never knowing his Dad had affected everything in his life. His search for his identity had always centered on himself. He had had to find his own way and there had been a certain freedom in not having to compare himself to a role model. Now at thirty-three, he found he wanted to know where he came from and who his family was. Still, there was the knowledge that he'd been rejected because of his birth. He'd always known he was mixed, but so were half his schoolmates. It had never seemed to mean anything. Never seemed important, but maybe it was.
Inside the box were a collection of photographs, some yellowed letters, a ring, and a pendant. He looked at the photos. They were of his Dad, his Dad and Mum, one of him and his Dad. There was also a picture of his Dad with ten other people, most likely his Dad's family. So that was the half of him he didn't know. "Was Dad from here?"
She shook her head. "No. I met him at the Arts Festival and it was love at first sight for both of us. He moved down here to court me."
"Court you?" John echoed. He looked at his Mum. As she spoke of his father, her face began to glow. The years fell away and he could see the woman she had been. "Tell me," he requested.
Jennifer Lawless shut her eyes and began to talk. As she told her son about meeting his father, about their romantic courtship and the love they shared she felt the years melt away. Suddenly it was the sixties again, life was simpler, choices easier to make. She let herself reminisce in a way she never did. The pain of the loss even after all these years was still overwhelming.
John let her talk. He listened to her soft voice, filled with love, describe the man he never really knew. The father who had died so young. He realized, as he listened, that not only had his Mum loved his Dad with a single-minded passion, but that she still missed him. He also realized that he had no idea how his Dad had died.
As his Mum continued to speak, detailing the first years of her marriage, the happiness when he was born, the way Kenny had made a life for them, John found a clearer picture of his father emerging. Her words were making Kenny Lawless finally come alive to the son who had never known him. He studied the picture in his hand. He could see the resemblance to his Dad. The dark skin tone, the strong jaw, the dark hair and eyes though his Mum was so fair. His Dad had been a good-looking bloke. Big and strong, thick like a tree. What had felled him at approximately the same age John was now?
Jennifer Lawless began to run down. Her retelling of her life with Kenny was nearly to the point where she had lost him. She stopped suddenly and looked at her son.
John's eyes were focused on the photo of himself and his father. He looked almost bemused, certainly curious, perhaps more curious than when she had started. Still, it was long past time for him to know the truth. "What is it?" she asked.
John looked up. His Mum was studying him the way she used to when he was little. As if she could read his thoughts, before the beer and life had changed her. She looked alive again as if the remembering had done her good. "How did he die?"
"It was a fight," she whispered. "At least, that's how it looked. Your Dad liked his beer, liked to go to the pub of an evening. One night he didn't come home. I was frantic, but you were young, I couldn't leave you alone to go looking for him. The next morning when he still hadn't come home I went to the station. Told the police, but they wouldn't do anything. Not for another day. Said he was an adult and he had to be missing for 48 hours before . . . They thought I was crackers and that Kenny was just off on a binge with his mates. I couldn't get them to listen," she added her voice breaking. A lone tear trickled down her cheek as she continued. "I kept hounding them and finally, two days later, they found him. Beaten to a pulp in an alley down near the Wellington docks. They said, despite how badly he'd been beaten, that it looked like he'd given as good as he got for a time. His hands were a mess, the knuckles swollen as if he'd been fighting. They never could tell me how he got down there and they never did find out who he was supposed to have fought with."
John stared at her. "Mum, why didn't you ever tell me this before? I could have done something about it. I could have pulled the files when I was a cop. Could have looked into it."
"John, it was all so long ago, even then. And what good would it have done? Kenny was gone. Nothing was ever going to bring him back."
"Justice," he whispered. "I could have found out who did it and brought them to justice."
"No," she muttered with a shake of her head. "That's just it. You couldn't have. Not then, not ever. You see, your Dad had found something out. Like you, he was smart and had a strong sense of right and wrong. Something was going on at the mill. It bothered him, but he was so loyal, instead of going to the police, he went to the person at the mill who he thought was responsible. And I'm fairly certain that's why he died."
John's jaw dropped. "You knew this and did nothing?"
"What would you have had me do? You needed a parent, didn’t you? What good would it have done for me to tell the cops? They wouldn't have believed me and I had no proof. What was my word worth?"
"Oh, Mum," he mumbled. He rose from the chair and went to sit beside her on the sofa. He took her hands in his and added, "You should have told me. I could have done something."
"They were powerful people, John. Do you think I wanted to risk losing you too? Wasn't it enough that I lost Kenny to them? I couldn't have borne losing you as well."
"I can do something now," he stated his voice filled with determination. "Who was it? Tell me everything you remember. I'll get the truth from them."
She shook her head. "No. For one thing, most of them are dead. Do you remember that fire at the mill about three years ago?" He nodded. "It killed most of the people who Kenny knew. The ones I suspected had been involved. The mill's been sold twice over now. There's nothing you can do. And even if there was, I don't want you to do it."
"Why not?"
"Best to let these sleeping dogs lie," she insisted. "It's long past and it seems to me, God has already extracted his retribution. It's not up to you to do it for him. Better for you to move on, try to find Kenny's family, your family and see if you can get to know them."
"You said they cut him off. Rejected me. Why do you think it would be different now?"
She smiled sadly. "Time has a way of changing things. Maybe his parents, your grandparents, if they're still alive, won't have changed, but there's bound to be others by now. Kenny had two sisters and two brothers, your aunts and uncles. They probably have children your age. You need a family, John. It's my fault you've been so isolated. I should have tried to contact them years ago, to make peace with them."
He shook his head. "Not up to you to make peace. You didn't do anything wrong. If they're that narrow-minded, that prejudiced, what makes you think they would have changed?"
"It was Kenny's parents who ruled that family, his father, the chief in particular. I don't think his brothers and sisters felt the same, but they did as they were told. And they are your family, your blood. You should get to know them, or at least try to. John, you've always been so alone. It's not right."
Was she right? Was he really so alone? He thought about it. He'd never really had a lot of close mates when he was growing up. At least not until the academy when he'd met Dave and Andy. Now there was Willy too and in her own way Frances. Maybe his Mum was right. He'd surrounded himself with acquaintances, but never really had a family. "Where can I find them?" he asked slowly.
She smiled. "They're all up near Auckland."
Very early Monday morning John drove straight from Lower Hutt to Auckland. He arrived at the building where Fulton worked right on time. Still, he was stuck waiting impatiently in the lobby. Though he had an appointment, he had to wait until summoned. All around him military personnel hustled and bustled as if they were bees in a hive. The frenetic activity would have made him believe they were at war if he didn't know better.
Finally, a trim young woman in uniform walked up to him. "Mr. Lawless?" she asked. He nodded. "Follow me, please." He followed her down a long hallway full of mostly open doors. She paused in front of a closed one and knocked. A deep voice said, "Come in."
She opened the door and gestured for John to enter. "Your ten o'clock, sir, " she announced.
The man behind the desk raised his head, looked at her and then at John. Master Sergeant William Fulton nodded and gestured in dismissal. She saluted and left, closing the door behind her. "Please have a seat," Fulton directed.
John sat down and stared at the Master Sergeant. Fulton couldn't have been more than fifty-five, yet he looked ancient. His face was gaunt, skeletal, the skin paper thin and heavily lined. He had brown eyes, almost black and they were haunted. "Thank you for seeing me," John acknowledged finally as the silence lengthened.
Fulton nodded absently and glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. He looked at it for a moment and then remarked, "You wanted to discuss Bien Hoa, I believe? Are you a journalist?"
John shook his head. "Private investigator. I'm here about David Carmody. At Frances Carmody's behest. She's his daughter." John couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw something move across Fulton's face as he said the name.
"Carmody?" Fulton echoed. "I'm sorry, I don't . . ." he paused and then added, "Oh yes. The confusion over the body from 2 Feb, '68."
That surprised John. He hadn't expected the ministry to have disseminated the information to just anyone. "Yes. She asked me to look into it."
"And just what do you hope to find after all these years?" Fulton asked.
"You tell me," John retorted. "You were there. How is it possible a mistake could have been made?"
Fulton studied the detective. He steepled his fingers and explained, "Actually, I wasn't there. I was leading a small convoy to Saigon with petrol and a plane when it happened."
"When what happened?" John prompted.
"When the base was attacked by the Vietcong," Fulton answered. He paused and then added as if it would explain everything, "It was the Tet."
"The Tet?" John repeated.
"The Tet offensive," Fulton elucidated. "The first seriously concentrated attack by the Vietcong on the South Vietnam ARVN government and the Americans. In any case, I'm very sorry, but I don't see how I can help you."
"We're trying to find out whose body it is. Ms. Carmody needs to know. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on the last few days of her father's life."
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I don't believe I can help you. While out on that convoy I was captured by the NLF and held for a year. I'm sorry."
It was a dismissal and John accepted it as such. He rose from the chair, thanked Fulton again for seeing him and went to the door. He reached for the handle and then turned back to ask another question. As he did so, he caught a look of utter anguish move quickly across Fulton's face then vanish. He was so surprised he forgot his question. He simply thanked Fulton again and left.
Now John was going over his notes. He was set to meet Frances in an hour and he wanted to have a clear picture of what he knew so far. He looked at the telephone on his desk, willing it to ring. He'd stayed three days with his Mum, going over everything about his Dad’s death. His Mum was convinced the people responsible were dead and that no good could come of his stirring up the past. With poor grace, he had agreed to leave it. Still, he wasn't sure if he would really be able to, but for now, he would try.
He had helped her tidy the house, and then finally began to tell her all the things he'd never said. He’d told her about Sonya and Caro. He felt like their relationship had reached a new place, no longer the inverted parent and child situation with him as the parent. Now, more equal, maybe even better.
When he'd returned he'd listened to all the messages on both his office and home phones. Nothing from Shay. He didn't know why it was suddenly so important to him to see her, he only knew that it was.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. The telephone did ring, startling him. He grasped it eagerly. "Gidday, John Lawless Investigations," he said.
"John?" the soft voice said, "It's Shay."
"Shay," he replied with relief. "It's good to hear your voice. I was beginning to think . . ."
She laughed. "Sorry. I've been busy and I didn't want to ring until I could actually make plans. I'm off tonight. If you're free maybe we could get together."
"I'd like that," he said. "I've got a meeting in an hour, but I should be free by seven. I can pick you up when I'm done."
"Seven works fine, but I have some errands to run. Why don't we meet at the Hardcastle?"
He wondered why she didn't want him to know where she lived. Still, "Sure, I'll see you at seven, then?"
"Definitely," she answered. Then she hung up.
John replaced the receiver slowly. She was a puzzle, she was. He shook his head at the telephone and began again to go over his notes.
Frances studied John carefully. He'd knocked at her door carrying a file and looking, well, pleased with himself was the best word she could think of to describe it. He was dressed in his usual casual garb, but there was something about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but which boded well for him. She stifled her curiosity to focus on the issue at hand. "Well," she asked after he sat on the sofa. "What did you learn?"
"What? No gidday? No how are you? No how was your trip?" he teased.
"You are in far too good a mood, John Lawless. If I didn't know better I'd swear you'd been drinking. But I can tell you haven't. So are you going to tell me or do I have to drag it out of you?"
John smiled, a real true smile, something Frances had only seen once or twice before. His dimples came out and he looked much younger and less weary. It was a very nice smile. She smiled back and waited.
"It was good to see my Mum. We talked about some things. You'd have enjoyed it. All that soul-searching and emotional stuff," he muttered. "Still, I think we made some progress, she and I. As to why I'm in such a good mood, well, I, um, I," he stuttered, unable to finish the sentence. He was afraid, suddenly that maybe it would upset Frances.
He need not have worried, she not only guessed, she was thrilled. "You have a date," she acknowledged. "Oh, John, that's wonderful."
He studied her. Her eyes were focused on his face, he could sense no concern, no fear, and she seemed genuinely pleased for him. He exhaled the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He nodded. "Yes, only I dunno if you'd call it a real date. I mean, I knew Shay long ago, when we were teenagers. So it's more like two old friends going out to catch up."
"I see," Frances mused reflectively. "An old girlfriend?" He nodded. "Sometimes that's the best kind. There's a safety there and a comfort level. Probably just what you need. I'm glad, John. It's not good to be alone."
"You sound like my Mum," he grumbled. "Why is everyone so concerned about me being alone? I've been alone most of my life. It's not such a bad thing."
"It's not such a good thing, either," Frances insisted. "I'm very glad for you. So what have you found out?"
John said, "Here's what I have. Your Dad was stationed at Bien Hoa. Bien Hoa, was the site of the initial buildup of United States air power following the Tonkin Gulf incident in 1964. During the War, because of the airfield's proximity to what was then called Saigon, it became the headquarters for the surrounding military region. According to the records, your Dad and Cliff Hanguma flew several missions out of there into the Phuc Tuoy province and also into the Mekong Delta. From what I can gather, there was no connection with Fulton on a military basis, that is to say, if they were friends, they would have met casually on the base. Fulton was in charge of a supply depot. As near as I can tell, the day your father "died" he and Hanguma weren't supposed to be flying. They were actually supposed to be off. His body was found in the supply depot run by Fulton. In none of the files I was able to get does it say anything about what their last mission was. In addition, Frances, part of the difficulty here is, we weren't paying close enough attention to the dates. The date of your Father's death is 2 February 1968, that would have been three days into the Tet Offensive. That whole area, Saigon, Bien Hoa, the countryside was one bloody mess with horrible fighting. "
"Was that when Fulton was captured?"
John nodded. "Yes. I saw him this morning. He said he was leading a convoy to Saigon when the NLF, the National Liberation Front, took him. He was very lucky, if he'd been an American; he probably wouldn't have survived. Apparently, since he was a Kiwi, they treated him slightly better. He was actually exchanged for some North Vietnamese prisoners. At the time, it was all kind of hush hush, since in 1969 the North Vietnamese were more than reluctant to give up any bargaining chip. It's a wonder that he was released at all frankly."
"It is odd," Frances mused thoughtfully. "Have you found anyone else who knew my father? Besides him I mean?"
John shook his head. "Not yet. I've contacted the Ex-Vietnam Services Association, the Vietnam Veterans Association here and left a very specific message on the Vietnam Veteran's Lost and Found board. Not only on the New Zealand board, but the American and Australian boards as well. Bien Hoa was a huge base with lots of military personnel. Hopefully someone who knew either your father or Hanguma will come forward soon."
Frances nodded. "What else did Fulton say?"
"Not much, Frances. He claimed not to remember your father, except he knew about the possible mix-up with the bodies. There was nothing in his behavior to suggest anything suspicious, except . . ."
"Except what?"
"Except I just got a feeling about him." John looked almost embarrassed as he admitted it. "I lived in a shadow world for eighteen months. I know what it is to play a role. And I just got the feeling that he WAS playing a role today. Also, I have a lot of questions. If the fighting started on the thirty-first of January, why was he making a supply run into the middle of it two days later? Why was your father at the depot at all? He wasn't scheduled to fly. What the hell was your father's last assignment? I've done a lot of research into the base and the war. There was an enormous black market operation in that area. Could the Ministry have been suspicious and asked your Dad to look into it?"
Frances thought for a long moment then reflected, "It's a shame Dad's commanding officer isn't still alive. He'd know. Unfortunately, he died several years ago. He was very kind though; he came to mother's funeral. Oh, I dug the guest book out. I was right, by the by, Fulton did come to the wake. I remember him quite clearly now. He looked like death warmed over, all skeletal and thin, with skin like paper. I thought it very odd, because he'd been back here for several years, but he still looked as if he was a prisoner of war, if you know what I mean."
John nodded. "I do know. He still looks like that." John glanced at his watch.
Frances asked. "What do you suggest we do?"
"I think I need to do some more digging and try to find someone else who was there. Surely someone will come forward soon."
Frances shrugged. "My father's been gone thirty-two years, another few weeks won't make much difference."
John nodded and rose from the sofa. "I'll let you know what I hear."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Have a good time tonight."
"How about if I just don't have a bad time?" he asked with a grin. "Frances, I have to admit, I'm a little nervous about this. I haven't gone out in years now I think about it. I knew Caro quite well before we became involved. And before that there was Marla. So I think it's been ten years since I actually went on a date."
Frances laughed. "John, you'll do just fine. Trust me. Besides, you said you knew her when you were a teenager. If she still likes you anyway . . ."
He rolled his eyes. "Trust you to get right to the bottom line, eh? Yes, I was pretty rotten to her back then, so I guess I have a lot to make up for." He paused and then asked seriously, "You think we ever get to fix our mistakes?"
"It sounds like you have a chance to," she answered just as seriously. "Take care this time."
He nodded. "You're a wonderful woman, Frances. I'm very lucky to know you."
She felt herself blush and muttered, "Just go, would you? I have a thousand things to do and you're in my way."
He smiled; again, that true brilliant smile and left. Frances stayed for a moment in her chair, watching the door close, and then with a pleased smile on her lips she picked up her knitting.
John waited at the bar, feeling out of place and out of sorts. He checked his watch for the tenth time. Fifteen past seven. Shay was late. Maybe she wasn't coming. Maybe this was her way of putting him in his place for what he had done to her years before. He sighed and took another pull of his beer. His eyes studied the line of bottles behind the bar, eyeing the Jack Daniel's with an almost lecherous gaze. A shot would go down well right about now. Still he hesitated. If she was just late and did show up, it wouldn't do to be drunk. He sipped more beer and tried to figure out why this was so damn important to him. He thought back to one of the last times that he saw her.
He'd taken her to dinner at the combination pub and hotel that Claire had introduced him to. They'd eaten and he'd consumed a bit more than his fair share of beer, not enough to be drunk, just enough to make him persistent. He'd even convinced her to have a whiskey. Then he'd convinced her to come to a room with him.
They had stood there looking at each other in silence. Finally he reached behind her head and pulled out the pins that held up her thick brown hair. The silken softness fell to surround her face, lightening the angles, softening the curves. He ran his fingers through her hair; it was satiny and thick, yet it felt like water running through his fingers.
Her eyes were wide and curious, her lips parted, her breath coming a shade too quickly. Her tongue snaked out to lick her lips nervously.
He stroked the soft skin of her cheek. She was so lovely, so sweet, and so nice. He knew she was scared. They’d never been alone like this before. Still, they’d been going out for a couple of months and he wanted her so badly. He was also desperate to get away from Claire. Now that he knew Claire was married, he needed to stop seeing her, screwing her, she was his boss' wife for Christ’s sake.
Shay stood there trembling with anticipation, her face now flushed, her body tensed. John continued to caress her face, his fingers gentle and tender.
Shay reached out with tentative fingers and brushed his lips with her fingertips. He kissed them, then flicked his tongue out to lick them and he saw her shiver.
Suddenly he pulled her to him, bent his head and kissed her. She was so soft in his arms, so different from Claire. Claire was fire, heat, passion, and desire. Shay was warm, willing, but timid and hesitant.
He kissed her softly, gently, his lips barely grazing hers. Her body melted against him, soft, so soft and sweet. Her lips rubbed against his, her tongue flicked out almost shyly to trace his lips.
He opened his mouth for her to let her warm tongue in. He wanted to drown in her sweet smelling hair, in her gentle warmth and her innocence. Anything to stop thinking of, stop wanting that wild garden of erotic delight that was Claire.
Shay put her arms around him, sliding them around his waist, pulling him close. She slipped her tongue into his mouth and then quickly out as if she was surprised by her boldness.
John tightened his arms around her. He could feel her soft breasts against his chest. She had great knockers, huge, almost too big for her body. He really wanted to see them and touch them. He ran his hands up and down her torso, brushing the outside of those firm mounds. She moaned into his mouth and pressed harder against him.
He knew she could feel him, hard against her thigh, but she didn’t back away. Her hands began to move over his back while she returned his kiss. Her mouth now seemed as hungry as his, her lips rubbing harder, her tongue sliding out again to touch his, to allow him entry.
He slid a hand between them, running it up her belly, toward her breasts. His fingers reached their target, finding an already hard nipple. He brushed it lightly with his thumb and felt her shiver in his arms.
Emboldened by this he pulled his mouth from hers and began to kiss his way over her neck. She was panting, her eyes glazed with passion, her chest almost heaving. John thought she had never looked so beautiful. God, how he wanted her.
He slipped his hands to her waist and pulled her blouse out of her skirt. Then as he stared into her eyes, he began to unbutton it, pausing now and again to kiss the sweet flesh he unveiled. She was moaning and trembling, but with desire, he thought. Finally, he had her blouse open. Her breasts were encased in an old-fashioned white bra. None of that fancy lacy stuff for her, but the kind of thing he saw in his Mum’s laundry. For some reason, it turned him on more than any of Claire's silky stuff did.
He reached up and as she nodded, he pushed her blouse off her shoulders, then reached behind her back to undo her bra hooks. He felt them pop then he gently removed that garment too. Christ, her tits were everything he’d thought they’d be huge firm mounds with beautiful pink nipples.
He began to knead one of them between his hands and then bent his head to her nipple. He licked that little nub, heard her moan and then felt her hands on his head, pulling him closer.
He took the nipple into his mouth and began to suck as her fingers stroked his hair. She was moaning his name and her body was moving, rocking against him. He reached up with his free hand and began to rub her other nipple.
She moaned again and her hands began to move over his body, now she caressed his arms, his back, whatever part of him she could reach. Her touch was light, but he could begin to hear and feel her urgency. He switched his mouth to the other nipple and began to fumble for the fastening on her skirt.
She didn’t resist; she helped him, responding to him willingly and hungrily. He found the zipper and her skirt dropped. She was wearing white briefs, very schoolgirlish. It was another turn on; not that he needed anything else to arouse him. He was already hard as a rock.
He moaned and released her nipple. She stroked his cheek, her eyes wide, misty, her mouth open, her tongue lying against her bottom lip.
He picked her up and carried her to the bed. She weighed almost nothing in his arms. She was light as a feather. He lay her down gently then quickly stripped. Her eyes widened further when she saw his nakedness.
He joined her on the bed, her arms opened to him in invitation, but it was a different invitation than Claire’s. This wasn’t a game to Shay, wasn’t a power play, it was warm and real. He felt a moment’s qualm, then she was touching him, stroking his shaft with tentative fingers and he was lost.
He groaned and kissed her then slid his mouth down over her neck, back to her knockers. He suckled for a moment and saw that her pelvis was moving and her panties were damp. He gently removed her hand from his aching dick and slid further down the bed and between her legs.
He kissed the soft warmth of her belly and began to gently remove those white briefs. Soon he had them down and off and he could see the beautiful curls of soft hair surrounding her opening. She was watching him with wonder and he thought some trepidation or fear. "I won’t hurt you," he murmured.
He bent his head and blew on her opening. Her body jumped. He pulled her mound to him and began to taste her as Claire had taught him. She was sweet, so sweet, her sex opened for him, inviting him in, wanting to accept whatever he offered. He slipped his tongue inside her; she was already so wet, he lapped at her juices delighting in the taste of her.
She moaned his name and arched up. He found her bud and licked it and then as he began to gently suck it, he slid a finger inside her. She seemed to stiffen for a moment and then she exploded, her body began to spasm and liquid splashed all over his face. He slid two more fingers in and began to move all three in and out while still sucking her clit. She was moving with him, moaning, mumbling, and coming again.
He was so turned on he slipped his fingers out, moved up the bed and positioned himself to enter her. He took his dick in his hand and carefully put it in. As he began to push up into her, she moaned and gripped him with her arms. God, she was tight, so tight, the tightest thing he’d ever felt.
He knew he wasn’t going to last very long. He held himself inside her then began to slowly pull out. She groaned his name and pushed back against him as if she didn’t want him to go. The pressure was intolerable. He couldn't control himself; he began to thrust hard and fast, his body screaming for release. She was writhing beneath him, her body matching each thrust, her arms around him, pulling at him, her fingernails digging into his skin.
He felt her again spasm around him and it was too much. He thrust hard and climaxed, his body trembling and shuddering on hers. When he opened his eyes and looked at her face, he was astonished by what he saw there. Her eyes were wide, glazed, her mouth was open and she was glowing.
She was stroking his hair and murmuring his name. He rolled so that he could hold her in his arms. She touched his face in wonder. She smiled that lovely lopsided smile and brushed his mouth with her fingers. "John," she whispered, snuggling against him, "that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt in my life. It was wonderful."
Her words took his breath away. He pulled her tight and held her, clung to her, desperate to escape into the simple joy of her warmth.
She sighed with pleasure in his arms and then, seeming emboldened by the experience, she began to explore his body. She was inexperienced and tentative at first, unsure really, of what she was doing, it seemed, but she was willing, loving, and giving. She made herself into a gift for him, looking only to give pleasure, to make him happy. In retrospect, he knew what kind of a gift she had offered him, but at the time, he was too young, too addicted to Claire to appreciate it.
He sighed for the fool he had been and what he had lost. He finished his beer. He looked at his watch, now it was half past seven. She wasn't coming. So it was a piss off after all. Well, he supposed he deserved it. He'd been a real dickhead to her. Using her and then just throwing her away without a backward glance. All for that bitch, Claire, who in the end had used him as surely as he had used Shay. With a shrug he rose from the stool and left the bar.
He stepped out into the warm night air. The scent of water drifted toward him, reminding him of yet another slew of things he'd lost. He paused for a moment, wallowing in self-pity and then shook his head. It did no good to have regrets. Obviously, he couldn't fix the past, now he needed to figure out what to do with his present.
"John," she said from behind him. "You're still here. I'm so sorry I'm late. My . . . something came up. I meant to ring, but then I wasn't sure if you'd be inside or out here. I took a chance and came along anyway."
He turned to look at her. The light of a street lamp haloed her. Her long hair was pulled off her face and her eyes had dark circles around them as if she hadn't been sleeping. Her face had a gaunt look as if she hadn't been eating either. She wore a simple summer shift of green. It was a good color for her. Still, despite the outwardly lovely way she looked, John could sense something was wrong. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You look . . ." He paused and then asked, "Do you want to go in?"
She shook her head. "No. I spend enough time there without going in for pleasure. I hope . . . I'm so late. I didn't spoil anything, did I?"
He grinned. "Not a thing. Where would you like to go?"
"How about that coffee bar?" she asked. "It's close by."
He nodded. They had taken just a few steps when Shay stumbled and fell against him. "You aren't all right, are you?" he muttered as he caught her. "Shay? Shay?" She collapsed in his arms. "Shay, what happened? You're in no shape to be running around. Let me take you home."
She shook her head. "No. I'm fine, really. Just give me a second."
He shook his head and tightened his arms around her. "You are not fine. If you won't let me take you home than how about the clinic or hospital?"
"No," she insisted. "I'll be fine. I just . . ." her eyes fluttered once and she passed out in his arms.
"Shit," he mumbled. What was he going to do now? He didn't want to take her into the pub and she'd already refused doctor's care. He knew he should take her to the clinic anyway, but she'd probably be pissed if he did. Somehow, he didn't want to think about what she might do when angry. While he was trying to decide, he found that he had carried her to his car. Not knowing what else to do, he unlocked the door, placed her in the passenger's side, belted her in and then took her to his house.
He carried her in and laid her on the sofa. Then he went to the kitchen and came back with a damp tea towel. She was breathing all right, but she wasn't awake. He placed the damp towel on her forehead and then muttered, "Shay? Shay? Come on, girl, wake up."
Her eyes fluttered and then opened. She tried to sit up but immediately fell back on the sofa. "John? Where am I? What happened?"
"You're in my house. You fainted, I guess. What happened to you that made you so late?"
"Nothing, honestly. I don't know why I fainted. Do you think I could have some water?"
"I think you should let me take you to a doctor."
"No," she insisted. "I'll be fine, really. If I could have that water though."
He shook his head. He couldn't force her, but he could make sure she didn't go anywhere until he was convinced she was all right. "Fine. Stay there and DON'T move. I'll be right back."
She nodded. While he left the room, she looked around. She lay on a brown couch. It was cozy and smelled almost new. There was a coffee table with a glass ashtray, some Steinlager coasters, and a few magazines on it. There was a large recliner in front of a TV and a small wood table with a lamp next to that. The walls were mostly bare, only a poster of Bob Marley adorned them. The room was simple, casual, uncluttered, very like John himself, at least the John she remembered. She liked it. She slowly began to sit up.
By the time, John returned she was sitting up. He handed her a glass of water and commented, "You look a little better."
"I'm sure I look an absolute mess," she muttered self-consciously. She noticed that her dress was pushed up high on her thighs. She pulled it down. "You carried me here?"
He nodded. "No other way to get you here."
She gave him that lopsided smile. "Thank you."
"Now talk to me," he insisted. "Tell me what happened."
"Honestly, nothing happened. I haven't been sleeping much and I don't believe I've eaten today. That's all."
"And you call me a bad liar," he muttered in an undertone. "Come on, Shay. If you're in trouble, I can help you. It's what I do."
She laughed softly. "I'm not in trouble, John. Really. You're making too much of this. Don't women faint in your arms all the time? Such lovely strong arms you have. Always did."
He grinned self-consciously and felt his face flush. "You're not going to tell me are you?"
"Nope, cause there's nothing to tell. But if you really want to help me, you could find me something to eat. I really haven't eaten all day and I'm starving."
He thought she looked adorable sitting on his couch, her color had come back and her eyes were clear again. He knew she was lying to him, but it was obvious she didn't trust him enough to tell him. Well, he couldn't blame her for that. They really didn't know each other anymore. Still he could remedy that. "I doubt if there's any food here. How about I ring for some pizza?"
She laughed again and remarked, "Perfect. Just like old times. Do you remember . . ." After John phoned for pizza, they began to reminisce. He let Shay lead the conversation, thinking it would be easier for her that way. She led him a merry verbal dance over their teenage relationship, stopping just short of the ending of it. Then as they ate pizza she began to pepper him with questions regarding his life. She dug around his past like a mole, picking up on all the things he'd have preferred to keep hidden. Still, as they conversed he remembered why he had liked her so much. She managed to keep him talking for so long that the pizza was gone and the hour quite late when he finally stopped.
"Well, you've picked apart my life," he grumbled. "Now it's your turn. What have you been doing since the last time I saw you?"
She delicately wiped her mouth with a napkin then gave him another of her lopsided smiles. "Working at the Hardcastle," she answered mischievously.
"You know that's not what I meant," he complained. "Come on, girl, give me something here. You have plundered my life, learning everything about me that wasn't already public knowledge. It's your turn. What have you been doing all these years?"
She giggled and teased, "What's the matter Mr. PI? Afraid of a little mystery?"
He smiled then and reached out to brush her cheek with his finger. Her skin was silken soft beneath his fingers. "I don't mind a mystery I can solve," he replied. "Something tells me you're not going to be easy."
"I never was," she murmured. "That was kind of the problem."
He knew exactly what she meant; he pulled his hand back with embarrassment. "Sorry. I know it's not much consolation, but I never meant to hurt you."
"I know that," she said. She studied him. John's long dark hair was loose and curled wildly around his handsome face. She could see several strands of gray hair in the dark thickness and in his sideburns as well. Somehow, although he was older, she thought he had become even more handsome than when he was a boy. His face, instead of being an almost pretty blank slate, was now lived in. It had character. The eyes were still the deep brown pools she remembered. They still showed every emotion, almost every thought that moved across his mind, but there was a depth there, a lurking haunted quality that told of his life experiences, of the pain he'd endured. A goatee and mustache now surrounded his mouth hiding the almost feminine cast of it. But the lips were still as lush, as sensual, as she remembered. His jaw was strong, so strong, you could see what a formidable person he had become. He wore a Henley shirt and it was open at the neck. She could see a smattering of lovely dark hair on the base of his throat.
She reached up and touched his face gently, brushing her fingers over his cheek, his goatee and then finally his lips. They felt so soft; kissing him had always been such a pleasure. She leaned in toward him, her mouth scant inches from his.
John wanted her, he just wasn't sure it was such a good idea. He didn't want to hurt her again and he knew he was in a way on the rebound. Still, as her mouth moved so close to his, he decided that kissing her couldn't hurt. What was one little kiss, after all? He leaned toward her, put his hand on the side of her neck and brushed her lips with his. It felt so good, so right, so sweet. He bent again and again grazed her lips. She gave a little sigh, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Now she kissed him, her lips pressed to his, her fingers tangled themselves in his thick hair. His lips felt so light against hers, she thought it was like kissing a snowflake. The soft sweetness simply melted against her mouth and then melted away. They kissed gently for a long time, exploring the old-fashioned tenderness of a remembered first kiss. John was so gentle, his fingers caressed the side of her face and neck, his other arm encircled her, pulling her close. She melted against him, feeling the hardness of his chest and the warmth of his embrace.
Kissing Shay was just as lovely as he remembered. She was still a soft willing bundle in his arms. She was such a tiny little thing, you'd think she'd be all bones and skin, but instead she felt like she was made of liquid heat. Her breasts lay warmly against his chest; he could feel the lovely pressure their presence generated. Her lips rubbed against his with a firm pressure, inciting his ardor. He opened his mouth and parted her lips with his tongue. He heard her soft moan and then her mouth opened to allow him entry.
Her fingers left his hair, trailed down his shoulders, then over those lovely strong arms, feeling the hard muscles and soft flesh. Her tongue found his and began to dance as her hands moved over his skin. She felt her body melting at his touch, in the way it always had, from the very first time he'd kissed her so long ago.
John pulled her even tighter against him, now nearly crushing those firm breasts of hers to his chest. As he continued to explore the warm cavity of her mouth, he felt his arousal grow and knew, from the way she felt in his arms, that it was happening to her too. Suddenly, he pulled back and looked at her. They were both panting; her eyes were glazed with passion. "Shay," he whispered. "I hurt you once. I don't want to do it again."
She touched his face lightly, "I know, John. But I'm a big girl now. I'm not a teenager. And neither are you."
"All the same," he said as he disentangled himself from her arms. "I think we should take this slow."
"When did you get all moral about sex?" she asked bitterly.
"When I learned how badly you can hurt someone by using it to avoid dealing with other things," he answered thinking about Sonya.
"And just what would our having sex be making you avoid dealing with?" she asked curiously.
"Whether I'm ready or not to go into another relationship. Shay, I did a lot of things wrong all those years ago, but one thing I did right, was care about you. I still do. I don't want to hurt you again and I'm not sure if I'm capable of . . . if I'm ready."
"Well, at least you've learned how to be honest, haven't you? A little too honest if you ask me," she muttered. "John, does everything in life have to be so serious? Haven't you ever heard of having a little fun?"
"Fun?" he echoed thoughtfully. "You know, I think I've forgotten how to do that, if I ever really knew how."
She gave him a lopsided smile and straightened her skirt. " Well then, I guess it's my job to teach you how to have fun. What are you doing Thursday night?"
He thought for a moment. "Nothing. Why?"
"How about taking me to Rainbow's End? We could go on the roller coaster, eat popcorn and fairy floss until we're sick and you can win me a prize at the games."
He smiled, his eyes crinkled, his dimples appeared and he looked just like a little boy on Christmas morning. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."
"Me too." Shay rose from the sofa and added, "You'd best be getting me back to my car, then. If you aren't going to change your mind and keep me for the night," she added with a mischievous grin.
He pulled her into his arms and held her close for a moment, "It's not that I don't want to," he murmured into her ear. "It's just . . ."
"I know," she murmured back. "You have a conscience now. At this particular moment, I almost wish you were nineteen again. You wouldn't have stopped."
He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "No, I wouldn't have. But afterwards, I would have wished I had."
She pulled back from him. "You regret that we were together back then?"
"I regret that I used you to try to forget someone else and then dumped you when I couldn't. I regret that I didn't place nearly enough value on you as a person or a woman, as I can today. But mostly I regret that I hurt you. I remember that last time I saw you. When I told you it was over. You looked so happy when we met that night. I just barreled in and dumped you without so much as a backward glance. When I left you looked so shattered, as if I'd broken more than just your heart. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn't help myself. I was so . . . I'm sorry, Shay. More sorry than I can ever tell you."
She studied his eyes. They were sad and so beautiful. "Such a load of guilt you carry," she murmured. "John, it was a long time ago. If it helps you any I have no regrets about it. None at all."
"How can you say that? What I did was wrong, I used you and then threw you away."
She laughed softly. "Poor John, do you always beat yourself up about everything? Lighten up, for Christ's sake. It was fourteen years ago. I long since got over you. Do you think you were so great that no one could ever measure up? That I held a torch all these years? Crikey, John, yes, you were my first, but you were hardly my last. If it wasn't for . . . just let it go, John. I have."
He gazed at her in astonishment. Her eyes were focused on his face, her gaze unwavering. It was clear from her expression that she meant every word of it. "You've forgiven me?"
"Long ago, John. Long ago. Now then, can you please take me to my car? It's late and I should be getting home."
He released her and nodded. As he dropped her off in front of her VW he asked, "Thursday night, then?"
She paused as she unlocked her car door and said, "I'll meet you at the park at seven. And I promise," she added, "not to be late."
"Are you sure you're okay to drive?" he reiterated. "I could follow you home, if you like, just to make sure."
She laughed softly. "Still trying to solve the mystery, eh? Come on, John; let me keep my little secrets. I promise, all shall be revealed by the time the program ends!"
He grinned. "I'll see you Thursday."
"And don't follow me," she muttered. "I'd really hate that."
It had occurred to him. Trust would have to be a two-way street. Despite the fact that she had said she'd forgiven him, he wasn't sure she really trusted him. The best way to earn her trust was to respect her wishes. He knew he could probably find out everything about her via his computer, but he would do as she asked. At least for now. "I won't. You can trust me."
"Too true," she muttered. "You're a regular Boy Scout these days, you are. I'll see you Thursday." With that she started her car and drove off. John waited and then when he could no longer see her, he drove home.
Tuesday morning John looked at his notes and then at the computer screen. He had found them, the Lawless family, his father's family, HIS family. They lived in a little town north of Auckland, a haven for Maori. His father's siblings had indeed married and produced large families of their own. Cousins apparently abounded. The question was what to do next. As far as he could determine the chief of the iwi, the tribe, and patriarch of the Lawless family, his grandfather, was still alive. His Mum had said he was the one behind the shunning. Did he really have a hope of getting to know any of them if his grandfather still felt the same? He sighed and picked up the picture again. Ten people he didn't know who he was tied to by blood. Ten people who had never seen him, some who might not even be aware he existed.
Willy had once told him they were brothers by the bond of friendship, even if not by blood. Yet in some ways, he and Willy were closer than any two blood brothers that grew up together could be. When Caro was alive, the three of them had formed an ersatz family. With her gone, he felt so alone, more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. It was true, he realized, he did need a family. A sense of belonging somewhere. Even what he'd shared with Marla hadn't given him that sense of togetherness and belonging that he'd felt with Willy and Caro. That sense of closeness, of being a part of each other.
He knew he could have created a family around himself of friends. He knew others who had done that. He had friends, Dave, Andy, Willy and Frances. Only Willy was like blood. He decided that whether he liked the idea or not, he was going to have to try to contact the Lawless clan. He picked up the telephone to dial, then thought better of it. It would be harder for them to say no to his face. Tomorrow he would make the drive.
He printed the computer screen full of names, addresses and phone numbers and checked his e-mail account. He'd set up a separate account for Frances' case. Still nothing. He sighed with frustration. They were going nowhere and he was sure there was somewhere to go. He sighed again and shut down the machine. Time to go to rugby practice and then he was taking Eric for a feed though the boy didn't know it yet. Eric had skipped two boxing lessons and John wanted to know why.
Practice hardly went smoothly; Eric was even more aggressive and combative than usual. John had to break up yet another fistfight between Eric and Kevin and finally, bowing to the inevitable, he just sent everyone else home.
Eric had tried to sneak off, but John had grabbed him by the collar and kept him there. He pulled the boy over to the terraces and demanded, "What's with you? I thought we were making progress."
Eric spat at him. John took a deep breath, wiped the spit off his face and reigned in his anger. God, the kid was just like him at that age. "Talk to me," he ordered softly. "Let me help."
"What do you care?"
John looked at him. Eric shimmered with anger, but John could also see a pain in his eyes he recognized very well. "You know," John said conversationally, "My Dad died when I was five. I never knew him, not really. It was tough growing up without a Dad. Really tough. Made me feel angry, cheated, pissed off all the time. I was mad at the world cause it was so unfair. My poor Mum, she had to work in a pub and all the blokes at school knew about it. They made remarks ALL the time. It used to piss me off something awful, always having to defend her. Seemed like not only did I get cheated out of a Dad, but out of a Mum too." He paused to glance at Eric's face. He could see the boy watching him with curiosity and comprehension on his face. "But you know, Eric," he continued, "all that fighting ever did was make it worse. Didn't bring my Dad back. Didn't make my Mum able to stay home. Didn't make me happy."
"So what did you do?" Eric asked.
"Well, like I told you, a very wise man taught me to box. The anger never really went away, but I learned to channel it instead. And the boxing gave me a kind of cache with the other blokes. After I'd been doing it for about six months, they all knew I could kick their ass, so they decide not to try me anymore. And I was able to make some friends."
"Hmm," the boy mused thoughtfully. "So you're saying the boxing made you happy?"
"I could lie and say yes," John answered with a self-deprecatory laugh, "but the truth is, it didn't. What it did let me do was stop wanting to hit things all the time. It gave me a way to stop being so angry I couldn't see straight. It let me focus on other things instead of always being pissed off."
"And you think I'm pissed off?" Eric asked defensively.
"Aren't you?" John echoed. "Maybe you aren't. Maybe I've got you figured all wrong and you just fight all the time cause you enjoy it. Maybe you'd rather spend your days beating the shit out of the other kids instead of having fun."
"You're not wrong," Eric whispered in a very small voice. He raised his eyes and John thought they looked a little misty as if the kid was trying to hold back some tears.
"Well, okay, then. What do you say we go grab some fish and chips and talk about a real schedule for you?"
"Schedule?"
"Yes, a regular schedule for workouts and lessons. You'll need to learn to eat right and do some stuff on your own as well as with me."
Eric nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
John grinned and then in a gesture that surprised him, ruffled Eric's hair affectionately. The boy was startled but didn't back away. In that brief moment, John felt for the first time, that he had actually connected with the boy.
The Wednesday morning drive to find his relatives took John forty minutes. The countryside he drove through was lovely, but he didn't see it. His mind was focused on what he was sure would be an encounter with rejecting relatives.
He arrived feeling nervous as a cat. His mouth was dry as a desert. Now that he was there, he wasn't sure where to start. It was a sleepy little town, looking almost as if he'd stepped a hundred years back in time. He supposed he should beard the lion in his den, but he was loath to do that. If he went to his grandfather and was resoundingly denied, then where could he go from there? He strolled around finally ending up in front of the pub. He stood there dithering for what seemed like hours until finally someone hit him. Bumped him actually.
It was a very old woman, her dark skin was almost translucent and her hair was white. She had a round face and she was wearing traditional clothes and jewelry.
"I'm sorry," he apologized as he helped her to her feet.
"My fault," she demurred. Then she paused, looked at his face and her skin seemed to go pale. She put a hand over her heart and breathed, "You can't be. You can't be."
John gripped her around the waist to keep her from falling again and fairly dragged her into the pub. He sat her down in a chair and went to the bar for a glass of water. He brought it back to her.
She was keening softly to herself and rocking in the chair. She stared at him in utter disbelief and repeated, "You can't be."
He realized then who she must be. She was at least thirty-five years older than in the photograph he had, but she had to be his grandmother. "Do I look so like him, then?" he mumbled. He sank to his knees so that his head was level with hers. "Do I? Are you Kenny Lawless' mother?" he asked for confirmation.
She nodded, swallowed some water and then mumbled, "You're his son?" He nodded. "I never knew what they called you. Polu wouldn't let me, let us, have any contact."
"John," he stated. "My name is John."
"John," she breathed his name like a prayer. "Kenny's son, John." She reached out a hand to touch his face as if she had to make sure he was real. "You look very like him, like enough to have given me a heart attack. Kenny's son," she repeated in wonder. "After all these years." She shook her head and drank another sip of water. "What brings you here?" she asked.
"You," he answered honestly. "I came looking for my father's family."
"I wondered," she mused thoughtfully, "if you ever would. We had no idea what became of you or your mother after Kenny died. When Polu refused to let us go to the funeral your mother never contacted us again. We had no way to know if you were alive or dead."
"From what Mum said, I didn't think you cared."
She gave him a knowing look. "Not all of us agreed with Polu's decision. You don't know what things were like back then, do you? Your father was the oldest son of the chief. He was expected to take over all the responsibilities of the iwi, the tribe. When he left us for your mother, Polu felt he had no choice. No amount of arguing could talk him out of it. In iwi matters, his word is law. Still, even if we couldn't be a part of your life, we always cared."
"What about now?" he asked tentatively. "I'd like to know about my father. About his family."
"Your family too," she insisted. "You're a part of us, even if Polu doesn't want to admit it. He hasn't changed over the years I'm afraid. We're going to have to handle this very carefully."
John gaped at her. If he understood what she was implying, she was about to disobey a direct order from what amounted to her commander in chief, in a manner of speaking.
She grinned. "Now that I've found you, you think I'm going to let you escape? Not a chance. It was fate my running into you. I never come to the pub, yet today, I had the oddest notion to. What would you have done if this hadn't happened?"
"I honestly don't know. I drove up here to meet you or some member of the family, but . . ."
She nodded. "I thought as much. Well, you're trapped now. Welcome to the whanau, the family, John." She touched his cheek again and instructed, "If you'll help me up, I'll take you to meet some of your cousins. The ones I know can keep a secret. At least until I can figure out a way to get around Polu."
"You're devious, you are," he muttered as he helped her to her feet. "In the meantime, what do I call you?"
"Call me Mama Abba. Everyone does. It's the advantage of being kuia, one of the oldest women around," she amplified at his blank look at the Maori word.
He laughed. "Mama Abba. I like it."
"You're every bit as charming as your father was. You married?"
"Not at the moment," he muttered.
"A big strapping bloke like you?" she mused thoughtfully. "Got a girlfriend?" He shook his head. "You gay, then?"
Again, he shook his head. "No. I used to be married, it didn't take."
"Marriage didn't take and no girlfriend? Why not?" she asked.
He laughed. "I'm working on it, okay?" Then he asked, "How come every woman I know wants to marry me off?"
She laughed. "You look like you need a keeper. "
"A keeper, eh? What makes you think I can't take care of myself?"
She rolled her eyes. "What bloke can?" she asked rhetorically. "You the same John Lawless that's been in and out of trouble for the last two years?" He nodded. "Well, you've had your share of it, haven't you? I'll just have to find you a nice girl. She'll settle you down, keep you on the straight and narrow."
"Um, Mama Abba, I can find my own girls. Honestly."
They had left the pub and walked a few blocks while they were chatting. She directed him to turn down a side street and then she stopped in front of a large white house. "Well, John, see that you do. And soon. Kenny was always my favorite, though it wouldn't do for the others to know. Which means, despite the number of grandchildren and great grandchildren I already have, I'd like some more. You get me?"
He grinned. He bent his head and kissed her forehead. "Thanks."
She smiled happily and instructed, "Wait here for five minutes. Then come knock on the door."
He nodded and waited as she walked up to the house. She pushed the door in hollering, "Sadie, get your bum out here."
John checked his watch and when the time was up he took a deep breath and knocked.
A tall Maori woman came to the door. She was in her fifties and bore a strong resemblance to Mama Abba. Her thick black hair fell to her waist and the smile on her face outshone everything. "John," she declared, "I'm your aunt Sadie. Welcome home." She threw her arms around him in a hug. Though he was surprised, he hugged her back. She led him into a huge lounge that was full of people. He found himself introduced to a slew of cousins and second cousins all of whom welcomed him with open arms and open hearts. He stayed in that room for quite some time; surrounded with emotion and affection as more and more relatives seemed to turn up. He began to relax and move about the room. He listened to the cadence of their talking, trying to understand some of the words he'd never heard before. He found Mama Abba holding court in a corner. When she saw him looking her way, she shooed everyone away and called him over.
"So? Whatcha think?" she asked.
He knelt on the floor by her feet and took her hands in his. "I think they're wonderful and so are you. How much trouble is this going to cause you?"
She grinned, pulled her hands away and waved them. "Them? They're the ones who can keep a secret. There are twenty more you haven't met yet. No worries, John. Besides," she added as she patted his cheek, "any amount of trouble would be worth it to see that look on your face."
"What look?" he asked.
"That look that says 'I've got a family. I belong somewhere.' Must have been difficult with just you and your mother. Well, you aren't alone anymore. You've got us now. Although," she reflected ruefully, "when the clan comes down to Auckland, you might wish it were back to just you."
He grinned, touched her face and remarked, "You're quite the lady, you are. My Dad was lucky to have you for a Mum. Thank you," he said again.
"You have to go, dontcha?" she asked.
He nodded. "I do. I'm working a case and I need to get back to it. But I promise, I'll come back."
"You see that you do," she insisted. "Or I'll come down to Auckland after you. Or maybe I'll let one of your cousins do it. I think Gina's taken a fancy to you and she's just a second cousin once removed."
He grinned ruefully. "You like to tease, don't you? If I can't have you, no other woman could ever measure up."
She fairly glowed at the compliment. "Oh yes, every bit as charming as Kenny," she muttered in an undertone.
He leaned over and brushed her cheek with a kiss. "Bye, Grandma," he mumbled.
"Wait," she requested as he straightened up and turned to walk away. He turned back. She was fumbling with something on her neck. Finally, she pulled it free. She grabbed for John's hand and pressed the object into it.
John looked at it. It was a bone carving on a leather thong. It had a bird's head and a human form in a sort of circle motif. He wasn't terribly familiar with Maori jewelry, but he thought it was a Manaia. "What's this, then?" he asked.
"It's a Manaia," she confirmed. "Your father carved it for me many many years ago. It holds his essence, my essence and now yours."
He tried to give it back to her. "I can't take this."
"John, I have worn it next to my heart for over thirty years. I used it to keep the place in my heart where your father dwelled warm. His son should have it, for he lives in you. Now you can both live in my heart again."
Her words astounded him. It was an amazing offering and he saw in her eyes that if he turned it down it would hurt her dreadfully. He closed his hand over the figure, then opened them.
He looked at it, looked at her and then slipped it over his head and around his neck. He looked at her again and saw she was crying.
"Mama Abba," he whispered.
She pulled him down, hugged him once, and then released him. "You'd better go before you embarrass me further. I have my place as matriarch to think of. One show of weakness a day is all I'm allowed."
He kissed her cheek again and whispered, "I'll be back." He found his aunt, hugged her goodbye and promised to return soon.
It was later than he had anticipated when John returned to his office, but his trip had been worth it. Of course, he'd only met part of the family and it was clear the other half wasn't going to welcome him, but still . . .
His day further improved when he booted up his computer and checked Frances e-mail account. A message at last. "Dear Mr. Lawless," it read. "I served at Bien Hoa at the same time as the people you mentioned. I think I may be able to help you. You may call me at the below telephone number. Sincerely, Geoffrey Willingham."
He picked up the phone and dialed. "Willingham residence," a female voice answered
"This is John Lawless, I'd like to speak to . . ."
The woman interrupted him before he could finish. "Yes, Mr. Lawless, Dad said to expect your call. I'm afraid he's not up to visitors tonight, but if you could come by in the morning? He's better in the morning. More lucid."
"Is he ill?"
"Not exactly," she said. "You'll understand better when you meet him. Here's the address."
He wrote it down and agreed to come by at ten o'clock. Next he rang Frances and filled her in. She was thrilled that someone had responded. He suggested she come to practice at three the next day so he could share with her what he learned. She agreed without asking any embarrassing questions, for which John was grateful. Despite her professed pleasure at his going out with Shay, he wondered what would happen if things developed as he hoped they would. He didn't want to lose Frances, he realized that he thought of her as family too.
Thursday morning John drove to Willingham's. The house on Remuera Road wasn't a house, it was a mansion. A huge white colonial with views of the harbor and Rangitoto. John drove up a long tree-lined drive and felt vaguely embarrassed about leaving his car parked in front. He was glad he'd worn something other than his usual jeans. He knocked on the door with a big brass knocker.
Within seconds, a middle-aged woman dressed in white pulled the door open. "Gidday," he said. "I'm John Lawless."
She stepped back and gestured for him to come in. "I'm Kris Willingham."
John entered a marble hall. The house reeked of money and sorrow. The entry was lush and yet all that cash couldn't keep problems away it seemed. He could almost smell the pain in the air. "Are you sure it's all right for me to see your father? If he's ill?"
She laughed softly. "It's fine. He's not ill. It's, well, as I said on the phone when you rang, you'll understand when you meet him."
She began to lead John through a maze of corridors toward the back of the house. As they moved through the grandeur, he caught glimpses of paneled rooms, rich tapestries and the trappings of significant wealth. The corridor they walked down was lined with portraits, some looking as if they were hundreds of years old. "They your ancestors, then?" he asked to make conversation.
She laughed. "Hardly. They came with the house. Dad made his money with patents. He's kind of, well, WAS a kind of genius inventor. Dad was always a little eccentric, he was an orphan, so when he got rich, he decided to buy himself some history."
John shook his head as if to comment on the things people did with money. Kris saw it and murmured, "Don't be too hard on him. He earned his way in the world, but he keenly felt having no past. So he invented one for himself. He's renamed every one of these portraits and written an entire family history about them. I know it sounds crazy and maybe it is, but it's harmless enough. At least he's not claiming to be really related to this one," she said as she paused in front of a portrait of the Duke of Marlborough. "He renamed this one Colin and called him a pirate."
John had to smile. As delusions went, it did seem rather harmless. Still, did that mean . . . "He hasn't lost touch with reality, has he?"
"Dad's memory is as keen as it ever was. His mind is just as sharp. Look," she said as she gestured toward a door at the end of the hall, "I'd better explain. Dad's in a chair. He lost both his legs in Vietnam. In the last few years, he's taken to drinking. He starts at about noon and by six is completely snookered. That's why it's best to see him in the morning. He's sober and rational now. He should be able to answer your questions with no difficulty."
John nodded. "Post traumatic stress syndrome?" he asked.
She laughed. "Hardly. A taste for gin more likely. I never met a man better at relieving stress than Dad. Or at passing it on to others. I think it's the loneliness chiefly. It started after mother died. At the time, I was living in Christchurch and he was alone. Now, well, I'm here, but, he won't stop."
"Thank you for telling me," he remarked. "Shall I go in?"
She nodded. "He'll be glad of the company. I'm off to work. Tell him I'll see him when I get home."
John nodded and walked through the open door into an electronic playground. There were at least five computers up and running. A wall of televisions was tuned to different channels. A huge worktable was covered with electronic and technological components.
The room was so full of frenetic activity, that at first he couldn't see Geoffrey Willingham. Then he noticed a thick white head of hair bent over the worktable. He coughed softly, then again louder. When that drew no response, he said, "Gidday." Still no response so finally he shouted, "Gidday, Mr. Willingham. It's John Lawless. You were expecting me."
The snow-white head rose and a pair of the brightest blue eyes John had ever seen stared at him. The face remained blank and expressionless for a moment, and then comprehension dawned. "You're here to talk about the war," he mumbled. He dropped the items he'd been working with on the table and then rolled out from behind it.
John could see a powerful upper body; a blanket covered the lower. The wheelchair was fancy with all kinds of gadgets on the arms. Willingham gestured for John to come to him, then pulled a handle and the chair turned and began to move toward the back of the room. John followed him and was relieved to see a table and chairs.
"Sit down, sit down," Willingham exclaimed cheerfully. "I don't get many visitors. Would you like a drink? I have gin, beer, gin, beer and more gin."
John shook his head.
"A little early for you?" Willingham asked. "Well, not too early for me." At John's look of astonishment he added, "She told you I didn't start until noon, didn't she? She's wrong. I start from the moment I get up in the morning. Brush my teeth with it, I do. Still, what the woman doesn't know, she can't use against me, eh?"
John shook his head, a little too shocked to speak.
"Think I'm a crazy old drunk, do you?" Willingham asked, uncannily reading John's mind. "I'm not. Kris," he gestured toward the house as if his daughter were still in it, "thinks I drink because I'm lonely. She's wrong. I drink to kill the pain and the memories. Such a lot of nasty memories. When her Mum was alive, she could always jolly me. But now? Kris is pretty humorless. Still, she's a good daughter." He paused for a moment, drank a shot of gin, then eyed John speculatively. "You married?" he asked.
John shook his head. Now that he was closer, he could see Willingham wasn't nearly as old as he'd thought. The white hair made him seem ancient, but his face was only minimally lined. Originally John had pegged him for his late sixties but now he revised that estimate down to the fifties. "About David Carmody," he began.
"That's right. You wanted to talk about Bien Hoa. The base there. Something that happened about the time of the Tet. Isn't that right?"
John nodded. "Yes. There seems to be some confusion as to who died in that supply depot on 2 February 1968. For years they thought it was Carmody, but now . . ."
"Can't say I'm surprised. The bloody place was a mess for weeks. When Tet started, we were caught completely unawares; half the base was on leave. It was a bloody brilliant move by the Vietcong. Bloody brilliant. Took the Americans forever to get Saigon back. They never really did, no matter what they said. It was the beginning of the end for them, only it took the bloody yanks another six years to lose that war. Couldn't see they lost the day they entered the country."
"Um, yes," John interrupted. "Now you said you knew Carmody?"
"I never said that. Actually, I never met the man or his mate, Hanguma. The one I knew was Fulton. Master Sergeant William Fulton," he repeated bitterly.
"What about him?"
"Biggest prick this side of the ocean. Son of a bitch liked to use his position to lord it over everyone. Never met a man more hated than him."
"Really?" John prompted. "Everything I've seen suggests just the opposite."
"Is that so?" Willingham downed his glass of gin and poured another. "Let me tell you a story, then we'll see who has the right of it."
It took Willingham over an hour and two more full glasses of gin to get it all out. When he was done John understood why he drank and why the memories were so nasty and why, even after all these years, they were killing him. When Willingham had finished John asked, "Why wasn't anything done about it?"
"He was a hero when he came home. He'd spent a year in a POW camp. He looked the part too. We needed heroes, that was a very unpopular war. You're far too young to remember. The Americans took the worst of it, but NO ONE wanted to be there. The government decided to hush it all up. Felt it was better to let the sleeping dogs lie than face the anger of the people. And they were probably right."
"Still, couldn't you have?"
He looked at John, an expression of utter despair on his face. "Don't you think I ask myself that question every time I look in the mirror?"
John rose from the chair and as he did, he felt Willingham's eyes on his legs. As disgusted as he was by what he had learned, he realized that he could walk away. Perhaps, as his Mum had said about the people who had caused his Dad's death, God had extracted his retribution already. John graciously thanked Willingham for his time and managed to see himself out. He knew he couldn't take the story at face value, despite the ring of truth and sincerity it had carried. But there was plenty of it he could check. He had about three hours before seeing Frances. Time enough to see if the story was true.
John sighed with frustration. He had thought it would be easy to find the truth; he had names, places, dates and times, but it wasn’t quite so simple. He went back over the story Willingham had told him.
"Fulton ran a supply depot, one of several on the base. His depot handled airplane parts, jeep parts, all manner of parts. The security was loose and the place was rife with petty pilfering. I worked in maintenance and I was in and out of there all the time. In the beginning, it seemed harmless enough. Then things began to vanish. First petrol, then some parts, a few tires some components. Then it got worse. Suddenly we didn't have enough parts to fix the jeeps or planes. At that point, I thought I should do something, only I didn’t have any proof. And I wasn’t sure who was responsible. At least, not then anyways."
"The day Tet began everything seemed to happen at once. Half the base was on leave the other half was taken completely unawares. Everyone who was there was busy. I ended up helping in the supply depot cause the bombs were knocking our stuff out of the sky faster than we could put it up. I didn’t know it at the time, but the brass was already suspicious. I guess they asked Carmody and Hanguma to try to find out what was going on, cause I heard they were snooping around the day after Tet started."
"Fulton must have caught them. Now you have to understand, I didn’t know any of this at the time. Some of it I pieced together, some of it I discovered later and the balance I'm guessing. On the morning of 2 Feb, under cover of the fighting, Fulton decided to run his biggest scam ever. He’d gotten hold of an American jet, I don’t know how and he was going to have it trucked to a buyer. A drug runner. Carmody and Hanguma must have discovered it. Hanguma’s death was probably an accident. It was HIS body in the depot. I don’t know how the tags got switched, unless it was Carmody thinking that they’d find the body and realize something was going on, but while Fulton was out with the truck, the depot was hit by a bomb and Hanguma’s body was burned."
"Fulton had this little convoy with the plane and Carmody was hiding in the back. Fulton took it off base intending to meet his buyer and he was trapped. The VC caught him and was very pleased to have the plane and two POW’s."
"Carmody didn’t last long the VC killed him almost right away. They hated flyers. Fulton was able to survive because he’d been making deals and supplying the VC with parts for a year. He was a collaborator. After a year, they finally let Fulton go."
John had already found evidence of the corruption and stealing from the base at Bien Hoa. He’d been able to dig that out of the American records. He’d found proof that Fulton was in charge of the depot and that after he was gone the pilfering had stopped. It was circumstantial at best though. So many had died that he would be hard pressed to prove anything. He had no way to prove any of Willingham’s other allegations, unless Fulton decided to cooperate. Somehow, he doubted he would. He almost dreaded telling Frances although he was convinced they did now have the truth.
At practice that afternoon while the kids ran through their drills he filled her in. She was shocked by the story, but not completely surprised. She was relived that her Dad hadn’t been involved in anything bad, but saddened at what happened to him. She asked him to wait a day or two before confronting Fulton so she could think on it. He agreed and watched her leave, sure that she would go home and grieve alone.
Practice ran fairly smoothly until the end. Then Eric seemed to lose control and he again went after Kevin. John pulled him off, sent the other kids home and again sat down on the terraces with the boy. "What happened?" he asked softly. Eric looked upset, more upset than angry.
Eric shook his head and dropped his eyes.
"Did he say something about your Mum?"
Eric raised his eyes. "His dad saw her with some bloke the other day. Said they looked real cozy and she’s been . . . that she's always been . . ."
John didn’t need to hear more. He could guess and knew that it would eat Eric alive, just as similar comments had eaten at him. "Eric, when did your Dad die?"
"He's not dead. He left us. When I was little. Two."
John's eyes widened, he'd thought Eric's father was dead. "He doesn’t come round at all?" Eric shook his head and the pain of the betrayal was clear in his eyes. John felt his heart twist at the pain Eric had to live with. At least in his case, his Dad wasn’t gone by choice. No wonder the kid was so angry. To know his father was alive and didn’t care! Did his Mum have any idea what was going on here? "Eric, have you talked to your Mum about this?"
He shook his head. "Why? He left her too. Probably hurts her worse than me. Besides, these days . . ."
"These days what?"
"She has got a bloke, I think. Leastwise, she went out the other night and she's going out tonight."
"What do you do when she’s out or at work?" he asked curiously.
"Stuff," he answered evasively.
"What kind of stuff? You aren’t trying to mug anyone, are you?"
He shook his head. "Not after that time you stopped me. I watch the telly, play video games."
"You alone every night?" John asked.
"Pretty much," Eric confirmed.
John nodded. The kid had too much time to think and too much time to get into trouble. "I want to meet your Mum."
"Why?"
"Talk to her. Maybe see if I can help in some way." He looked at Eric and was afraid for the boy. When he had been growing up it was a different world. A safer world. Now, Eric’s life was at risk every day.
"Help how?" Eric was getting defensive again. "You’re not going to get her in trouble for leaving me alone are you? I can take care of myself."
"Nothing like that," John said. "I swear. I told you, my Mum used to work in a pub too. I know about being alone. I dunno how I can help. That’s why I want to talk to her. So will you take me to see her?"
"Not tonight. She . . . she was looking happy this morning. I haven’t seen her look that happy in a long time." He paused and then added, "I just . . ."
John smiled. "I understand," he said. "Tomorrow then."
John hurried to Rainbow's End. Traffic on Great South Road was bad and he was running a little late. He worried that Shay wouldn't wait.
When he arrived at the ticket booth, she was already there. She wore tan shorts and a white blouse open at the throat. He could see the very grownup hollow between her breasts but somehow she still looked young, innocent and beautiful. Her hair was up in pins and he wanted to pull them out and bury his face in it with a passion that surprised him. "Evening. Sorry I'm so late," he apologized.
She glanced at her watch, then at him. "Not too and it was worth the wait." John wore khaki pants and a red shirt. His hair was pulled back in a partial ponytail with the sides softly curling around his face. Still, she thought his eyes had a look about them. "Are you all right?" she asked.
He gave her a weak smile. "It's been a tough day. I'm ready for some fun. That is, if you're still willing to teach me."
She gave him a lopsided smile and offered her hand. "First rule of having fun," she instructed, "is not to try so hard."
He took her hand, led her to the booth and bought them both tickets. As they entered the park he asked, "What's the second rule?"
She giggled. "Relax. Don't think. Just feel." She paused and then added, "Look around, John. What do you see? Smell? Hear? Let the sensations assault you, overwhelm you. Indulge that inner child the TV commentators are so fond of talking about."
He closed his eyes for a moment to better concentrate on the sounds and smells around him. He'd learned that trick as a cop. Eyes could deceive. He breathed deep; he could smell the sweet sugary scent of fairy floss, the rich buttery flavor of popcorn. The scents were so strong; he could almost taste them. There was a hint of honeysuckle he thought might be coming from Shay and a stronger scent of human being in general. He heard the loud discordant music of a calliope, barkers shouting in a cacophony of greetings and pitches. There was a clanging sound like a ball hitting a bell, the hissing of neon and underneath it all, the enthusiastic screams from the Coca-Cola roller coaster.
He opened his eyes and looked around. It was still light and the neon on the rides looked old and cheap. There was the huge roller coaster, the Bumper Boats, dodgem cars, the Enchanted Forest Log Flume, a Ferris wheel and a merry-go-round all in sight. Despite the almost shabby way the daylight made the rides look, the patrons seemed thrilled with their adventures. The faces of the children glowed.
He could see a row of kiosks where the games were. He had heard a ball hitting a bell. Ten feet away was the strong man attraction. He turned to look at Shay and found the expression on her face delightful.
She was grinning with unrestrained glee as if she had been on his mental journey with him. "What's first?" he asked. "Rides? Food? Games?"
"What's your pleasure?" she asked softly. Her eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously.
'To make love to you,' he thought. Aloud he said, "Are you hungry?" She shook her head. "How about a ride, then?"
"The roller coaster?" she asked excitedly.
"Um, could we start with something a little slower and not quite so high," he muttered.
She studied him for a moment. "You're not afraid of heights are you?"
He shook his head and felt his face begin to flush.
"You've never been on one, have you?" she guessed. "John, you've never even been to an amusement park before, have you?" He shook his head again suddenly feeling unaccountably embarrassed.
"You poor deprived man," she murmured. "No wonder you're so serious. You've missed a lot!" She paused and then squeezed his hand tight. "No worries. I'm an ace at this. I'll teach you the ropes." And with that, Shay took charge. For two hours, she dragged him through the park, on to every ride, watching with glee as he attempted to fold himself into the tiny dodgem cars. She made him try all the junk food, and laughed hysterically when the pink sugar goo of the fairy floss got all over his goatee. She teased and taunted him into playing all the games and kept her amusement in check when he got quite frustrated because he couldn't win anything. Eventually he shrugged it off, he suspected they were all rigged.
When they got to the strongman game though, even the rigging couldn't stop him from being successful. He won her a little teddy bear. She accepted the prize solemnly as the occasion demanded. John looked so damn proud like he'd achieved a great feat. She then suggested they go for another ride on the Ferris wheel.
It was full dark now and the neon no longer appeared cheap or tawdry. It lit the night with magic. As their car rose high on the wheel they could see the lights of Auckland below them, the tall spire of the Sky Tower, the glistening glow of the moon on the bay.
It was very romantic and John felt himself being carried away. He pulled Shay into his arms and kissed her, his lips coming to rest on hers in a passionate embrace. She returned his kiss with a matching fervor. The kiss seemed to go on forever, their mouths searching, savoring, hungry, capturing the other's soul.
"Excuse me," the barker said with a loud cough. "The ride's over. You need to get off now."
The couple broke apart and Shay began to giggle. John felt his face flush with embarrassment. Then as the barker's words filtered through, he got even more embarrassed. He got off the ride and turned to help Shay out of the car.
"You forgot this," the barker said. He handed Shay the little bear. "Happens all the time," the barker added with a wink.
John felt his flush deepen, but Shay just grinned and led him away from the wheel.
She paused finally and murmured, "That was fun, eh?"
He pulled her back into his arms and held her tight. "Yes," he whispered into her hair. "Shay?" he whispered her name like a long forgotten prayer.
She knew what the question was though he hadn't asked it. "I'll follow you home in my car."
He kissed the side of her head and then partially released her. He kept an arm around her protectively as if he was afraid to let go, as they walked out of the park and to the parking lot. "You'll follow me?" he reiterated when they reached her car.
"I know where you live," she admitted with a laugh. "If I get separated in traffic I can find it."
He nodded, kissed her once lightly and then watched as she got in her car. He found his own and drove home as fast as he dared. After he parked, he saw her car coming down the street. He waited for her and they entered the house together.
Once inside he was suddenly nervous and afraid he was making a mistake. "Shay," he mumbled. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."
She pulled him over to the sofa, pushed him down on it and then crawled into his lap. She took his face into her hands and enlightened him, "You talk too much." Then she kissed him hard and passionately; her fingers tangled in his hair and forced his mouth to hers.
John kissed her back, losing himself in the feel of her body against his, of her mouth, so sweet and fresh. It was like stepping back to a simpler, happier, easier time. He wrapped his arms around her and let go. All the pain, the regrets, the concerns began to melt away in the exquisite pleasure of kissing her, of being kissed by her. He focused on the way their lips rubbed together and the sensual caress of her fingers.
Soon the hunger between them grew, the kiss expanded, their hands explored. Their bodies began to rub; their skins tingled with arousal and desire. John moaned her name like a forgotten prayer and pulled his mouth away. "God, I want you," he whispered.
"Then take me," she whispered back.
He pulled her hair free of its pins and buried his face in the silken thickness. Her body pressed to his, her breasts rubbed against his chest; her hands ran up and down his arms. He kissed along the soft skin of her neck and dipped down to tease the hollow of her throat. His tongue flicked down further, his lips caressed her skin, and his hands began to pull her blouse out of her shorts. She moaned in his arms and arched toward him, pushing her breasts closer. Quickly he undid the buttons on her blouse and slipped his hands underneath to feel her skin with his fingers. He rubbed his lips and goatee down her cleavage then along the creamy top of her breasts.
She moaned his name and pressed her breasts against his face, burying him in the firm mounds. She pressed her groin to his and he could feel she was damp. He groaned and whispered, "Shay, are you sure? I can't promise . . ."
She pulled back from him panting. She looked at his face and then shook her head. "Not only do you talk to much, you think too much. Christ, not everything in this life has to be so bloody serious. It's just sex, John. It doesn't have to be life and death."
Only for him, he realized that for the last few years it had been almost exactly that. Of the few women he had been with, half of them were dead. He realized suddenly, that that was part of his fear of this. "Shay, I . . ." How could he even begin to explain it to her. She might have known him when young, but she didn't really know him now. And he barely knew her. What her life was like. Despite her protestations that it was just sex, he wasn't sure if he believed her. But more than that, it wasn't just sex to him. It needed to mean more than that.
She was watching him, trying to guess at the thoughts flitting across his face. All she could really see clearly was his confusion and fear. She climbed off him. She moved to the center of the room and began to re-button her blouse. She asked, "I'll go then, shall I?"
"I don't want you to go," he muttered unhappily.
"But you don't seem to want me to stay either," she retorted bitterly. "Christ, John, this would be a lot easier if you bloody well knew what you wanted."
"Life would be easier too," he muttered. "I'm sorry, Shay. I do want you, but I have a horror of hurting you again and . . ."
"And you don't seem able to take anything casually, do you? Everything with you is such serious business."
"I'm sorry," he again apologized wretchedly. "I don't mean to . . . Christ, I'm such a bloody fool."
Shay stared at him sitting there, his face was miserable and his erection was clearly visible. Suddenly her anger was forgotten. John was not that long ago boy; he was a man, a sensitive, serious, thoughtful man, who truly wanted to do the right thing. She went back to the couch and sat down again. She lifted his face and stared into his eyes. "Very well, John. We'll take this slowly. No rush." She traced his lips with gentle fingers. "You're just so damn hard to resist," she mumbled.
He felt his face flush. "Shay," he tried to explain, "I spent a long time living with secrets. Pretending to be someone else. I swore I wouldn't do that again. I know we knew each other long ago, but it's not the same as now. I need to know more about who you are now, before there can be any kind of us."
She sighed. She'd been afraid it would come to this. "John, not tonight, okay? Another time, I promise. I just . . ."
Now he touched her face, caressing her soft silken skin with the tips of his fingers. "You need to trust me again," he admitted softly. "I have to prove I can BE trusted."
How could she tell him? It wasn't only trust; it was . . . she sighed again. "I should go. This isn't going to get us anywhere, except MORE frustrated."
"You're not going to disappear from my life again?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. John, I wasn't the one who did the disappearing, remember?"
"I'm sorry. I just don't want . . . now that I've found you again . . . shit," he mumbled even more miserable than before.
She took pity on him. She kissed his forehead, rose from the sofa and confirmed, "I'll ring you in a day or two. When I know my schedule."
He rose to tower over her. "Give me your number."
She shook her head. "No. Don't push it, John. Just as you have your concerns, I have mine."
"I don't want secrets," he reiterated. "You can tell me."
"No," she stated, "I can't. Not yet. Just leave it. For now, just leave it."
He shrugged. "For now," he agreed his reluctance evident and obvious.
She gave him a smile, brushed her fingers across his lips and said, "You can't have it all your own way. You're asking me to trust you. You have to trust me too."
He nodded. Shay stood there for another moment and then pulled his head down and kissed him hard. She put her arms around his waist and pressed against him, then pulled back.
He shook his head and asked, "Whatcha trying to do to me?"
"Let you know how I feel, you idiot," she muttered. "I'll ring you," she added and then almost ran out the door.
John woke up the next morning incredibly irritated with himself. After Shay had left he'd tried to sleep, but his mind kept going over everything. His state of arousal was such that eventually he'd had to take matters into his own hands. Not that it had actually satisfied him. He was SUCH a dickhead, he thought that Friday morning as he showered. Why did he always have to make everything so hard?
He went to his office to do some more research on Fulton, but found himself thinking of Shay instead. He was tempted to run a background search on her but restrained himself. Finally, he gave up, shut off the PC and drove over to the school where Frances taught. He got there in time for her lunch period.
He found her in the cafeteria and dragged her outside. "Do you want to go with me when I talk to Fulton?" he asked.
"Yes," she verified. "I need to see his face. John, I was up most of the night wrestling with this. I don't expect we can do anything about it, but Hanguma's family should be told. I don't even know if . . ."
"He didn't have much," John answered. "Just parents. He hadn't married yet."
"Well, that's a blessing, I suppose. Still, they'll have to be told."
John shook his head. "No, they both died in an auto accident five years ago." He paused and studied her for a moment, "Are you sure you want to do this?"
She nodded. "Yes. It's important to confront the past, to face things head on. No good hiding just because it could be unpleasant or painful."
"He'll probably deny everything, you know. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose by telling the truth."
"All the same," Frances demurred, "we'll know. And he'll know we know."
John nodded. "I've got his home address. Probably better to do it there. He might be more willing . . ."
She agreed. "I'm going to bring the photos too. Make him see their faces again."
"Frances," John advised her gently, "unless he's a complete psychopath, I doubt he's forgotten. You always remember the faces."
She eyed him speculatively. "Do you?"
He nodded. "I never killed anyone in the line of duty but the ones who've died on my watch, or because of me, yeah, I see them. In my nightmares and sometimes otherwise."
She put a gentle hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, John. It's hard, isn't it? You think you can just move on, and yet, you'll turn a corner and run smack dab into a wall. A wall you never even knew existed."
She'd gotten it exactly, but then Frances usually did. "Too true," he muttered. "When do you want to do this?"
"How about tonight? I'd just as soon get it over with."
He nodded. "He probably doesn't get home until six or so. I'll pick you up."
She nodded and went back into the school. John, now at loose ends, got back in his car and began to drive. He drove aimlessly around Auckland for a bit and unconsciously ended up in front of the Hardcastle. He parked and entered the pub. It was crowded, but he didn't see her. He went to the bar, ordered a beer and asked, "Shay around?"
The barkeep leered at him. "Not till nine. She works the late shift on the weekend. She's something, ain't she? I ain't seen you around before."
"I'm an old friend," he muttered. He left his beer and a fiver on the bar and walked out.
Eric didn't show up for practice that afternoon. When John asked around he found out Eric hadn't been in school that day either. He wondered what had happened and why the boy hadn't shown. He figured that after he and Frances had their meeting with Fulton he could run over to the block of flats where Eric lived and check up on the boy.
He picked up Frances at quarter till six and drove out to the house in Sandringham. They knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Still, the lights were on and there was a car parked in front of the little yellow house. John looked at Frances and suggested, "Why don't we check the back?"
She nodded and they followed a gravel footpath to the back of the house. Fulton, dressed casually in tan shorts and a khaki shirt, was sitting on a bench in the middle of a flower garden. His eyes were vacantly staring at some blooming roses, but John doubted he could see them.
Fulton exhibited no surprise at their appearance; it was almost as if he expected them. Frances said, "I'm David Carmody's daughter."
Fulton looked at her and blinked twice. His eyes came into focus and he confessed softly, "I know."
"Why did you do it?" she asked.
"Why did I do what?" he repeated blankly. Then he paused and asked, "Would you like some tea?"
Frances could see, from the corner of her eye, that John's entire body had tensed. He also looked as if he wanted to say something. She gestured to him to remain silent. "Tea would be lovely," Frances answered.
Fulton nodded and instructed, "Wait here." He rose from the bench and went into the house via a screen door. Frances sat down on the bench that Fulton had vacated.
"Why did you do that?" John asked. "We had him."
She shook her head. "Had him? He wants to talk, John. But he's afraid. Making the tea will give him time to get his thoughts in order."
"How do you know he won't run?"
She stared at him. "Run where?" she asked rhetorically. "He's been running for thirty some years. Don't you see? The guilt is all over him. He's ready to confess."
John shook his head and paced the small garden. He didn't agree with Frances' assessment, but he had to admit, she was usually right about people. Still . . . She sat with her hands folded in her lap looking calm and confident. They said nothing and as the twilight faded, the silence lengthened and John was about to go in the house when two things happened almost simultaneously. They heard the sharp whistle of a teakettle boiling and then a loud report like a gunshot.
Frances face went white. "What was that?"
"A gunshot," John confirmed quietly. "It sounded like a gunshot."
"No," she moaned. "You don't think? I never meant. What have I done?"
"You haven't done anything," John insisted. "Stay here and let me go look." She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded. Then she began to rock on the bench.
John entered the house through the back door. It led to the kitchen. He saw the teakettle and turned it off. Then he went looking for Fulton. He found him in the combination den/office. As he had suspected, Fulton had killed himself.
The former Master Sergeant had taken his gun, placed the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger. The gun was still gripped in his right hand. His head lay on his chest, the blood dripping on to the desk.
John studied the desk for a moment. Fulton's left hand lay on a book and an envelope. The envelope was addressed to Frances. Although he knew he shouldn't mess with the evidence, he went around the desk and slid the envelope and book out.
He looked at the body and found that still he couldn't feel any pity for the man. Life was unfair and war even more so, but that was no excuse for what they'd learned. Still, he suspected that Fulton had paid for his mistakes for thirty-two years.
He left the room. The body wasn't going anywhere and there was Frances to consider. She was still on the garden bench, rocking slowly, keening to herself. She looked up at him and asked, "Is he . . ."
John nodded. "Yes." He studied her. Her face was pale; her eyes had a haunted look, as if she felt completely responsible. He sat down next to her on the bench and took her face into his hands. "This is NOT your fault," he insisted. "You did NOT put that gun to his head."
"Yes, I did," she whispered. "If I hadn't come here. If I hadn't insisted. You'd never have let him go into the house alone."
"Frances," he declared gently. "He was already dead. Inside. He was just looking for an excuse to physically end it. This is NOT your fault."
She shook her head. "It IS my fault," she insisted. "If I hadn't accused him. I . . ."
John gathered her into his arms and asserted, "Frances, it's not your fault. You are not responsible. He did some horrible things; he's been paying for them for years. He's probably wanted to do it for a long time. You just gave him a convenient excuse."
"I don't believe that," she muttered. She pulled away from him. "What's that?" she asked.
She was looking at the envelope and book. "He left this for you. Before I call the police you should read it."
She shook her head. "I can't. You do it."
He nodded and opened the envelope. The enclosed letter was an apology of sorts, a disorganized rambling of a man lost in guilt, regret and depression. It made an odd sort of confession. In it, he said how sorry he was, how none of it was meant to happen, how badly he felt about it. He said the journal would explain it all.
John tried to hand the letter to Frances, but she refused to take it. A lone tear fell down her cheek and John tried again to comfort her. She shoved him away and asked, "What did it say?"
"To read the journal."
"Read it," she ordered sharply.
"Now?"
"Now!"
John opened the book gingerly. The ink was faded in places and the story, in some ways, all too familiar. The further into it he read, the more saddened he became. It only took him thirty silent minutes to read the devastation of Fulton's life, but it felt like thirty years. As usual, there were fourteen sides to every story. When he shut the journal, he found Frances' eyes glued to his face. She was watching him carefully.
"Frances," he muttered, "he was a good man once."
She nodded. "I assumed as much. No one starts out as a killer." She reached out, brushed her fingers over John's cheeks as if wiping away a tear and requested, "Tell me."
John did. The journal brought the story to life. When Fulton had arrived in Vietnam, he had been young and idealistic, full of enthusiasm. It had taken only a month for him to learn the truth. This wasn't a war of right and wrong, of good versus evil, but a massacre and a catastrophe. They weren't fighting soldiers; they were fighting women and children. His first leave in Saigon, he saw how the ARVN treated their "charges." How the children begged in the streets. How the only way young girls could survive was by prostituting themselves.
He began to drink and do drugs. Then he was assigned to the base at Bien Hoa. He made friends there with the woman who owned the brothel right outside the camp. The pilfering started out simply and innocently enough. She needed petrol to take a child to a doctor in Saigon. Then it was tires. Then it was some fan belts and some gear shift assemblies. Soon he began to supply her with all manner of things from the base and he was in too deep to stop. The lines had all become blurred. He no longer knew who was friend or foe. Who the enemy was. Was it them? Was it the Americans? Was it him?
For a moment, John was reminded of what he had gone through while undercover. How very easy it was to turn from the good guy to the bad. From idealistic to cynical. From the hunter to the hunted. He understood, instinctively, what had turned Fulton and he was saddened by it.
When Tet started, Fulton had been due to end it once and for all. Five days before Tet he had confessed his part in the pilfering to his commanding officer and they had assigned Hanguma and Carmody to help him catch the other spies on the base. The VC knew too much of what went on, knew what kind of supplies were available, there had to be others and the Americans as well as the Kiwis wanted them.
The Americans had arranged for a plane and a supply of petrol for it, to be available to be given to the VC. The plane wouldn't fly, it was missing an essential engine part, but the VC didn't know that. Hanguma and Carmody were to be his backup. He and Carmody never made it off the base with the plane. Under the cover of fighting, the VC came and captured them with the help of some local spies, including his "friend" from the brothel. They found Hanguma in the truck, killed him, and then burned the hanger. Carmody HAD switched tags with him, in case something went wrong.
Fulton and Carmody were taken by the NLF and when Carmody couldn't make the plane fly they had tortured and then shot him. Fulton had been held for a year, some of the time he was tortured and other times he was displayed like a prize. He never had understood why he was allowed to live, but the NLF commander had a sadistic streak and Fulton suspected that he enjoyed the thought of the emotional torture Fulton felt.
When Fulton returned to New Zealand, he was hailed as a hero. He wanted to confess all; he went to his superiors and begged them to let him tell the story. They were just as adamant that it could never be told. A botched operation between them and the Americans during some of the bloodiest fighting of the war was NOT going to go public. They bribed him with a lifetime commission and swore him to secrecy for the good of his nation. He'd felt so guilty he'd agreed. He'd wanted to end his life for years, but knew he couldn't, not without telling the story to someone. Finally, someone came looking for the truth, and now he could go to his rest.
It was a horrible story, made worse by the way Willingham got his facts wrong and blamed Fulton. Worse because Fulton had been so completely isolated within himself and the service. Though he was not technically or even emotionally responsible for the deaths of Hanguma or Carmody, he had carried them with him for thirty-two years until finally, when coming face to face with Frances again, he gave up.
John explained all this to her and then announced, "We need to call the cops."
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"They're all dead. Fulton, Hanguma, my father. It's an ugly story, a horrible story, but publicizing it would serve no purpose that I can see."
"What about the truth?"
"Truth?" she echoed bitterly. "Whose truth? The government's truth? They'll deny it and we have NO proof. My truth? My father is dead. He did die in Vietnam and that hasn't changed. Leave it. Let them rest in peace. All of them."
Her words took his breath away. He had expected righteous anger, a call to arms, a fury to go public. Instead, he found generosity of spirit and forgiveness. "Are you sure?"
She nodded. "Yes, I'm sure. We’ll take the letter and journal and burn them. No one else need ever know. It serves no purpose except to open old wounds."
"You're an amazing woman, Frances," he commented. Then he added, "I still need to call about the body."
"You can make an anonymous call from a pub, can't you?"
John shook his head. "You're something, you are."
She rose from the bench and said, "Take me home, please."
John drove Frances home. He wanted to come in with her, make sure she was all right, but she insisted she was fine and that she wanted to be alone. John ignored her request and walked her to the door.
She studied him for a long moment. "You aren't going to do as I ask, are you?"
He touched her face lightly. "Did you walk away from me when I hurt?"
She took his hand and held it for a moment. "No," she conceded. "But it's not the same. John, we're not the same. You need . . ." she paused, took a breath and added, "you need things in your life that I don't want in mine. You need . . . attachments . . . people to be close to. I much prefer to handle my emotional moments alone."
"You're the one who said it isn't good to be alone," he murmured.
"No," she demurred with a shake of her head. "I said, it wasn't good for YOU to be alone. Not the same thing at all. So please, do me this favor? Let me be."
"Frances, I don't . . ." He studied her eyes. She looked so damn sure of herself. He knew she had to be hurting, knew she had to feel guilty, but he also knew that if he forced his presence on her, she'd be angry. She did have the right to deal with her emotions in whatever way she saw fit, even if he thought it was wrong. "I'll go on one condition."
She gave him a weak smile. "Making deals now? Very well. What's your condition?"
"That tomorrow you and I go out for a proper tea somewhere and talk about this."
"A proper tea?" she echoed. "You going to put on a suit?"
"If you make me," he muttered. "I can't believe I just said that," he added in an undertone. "Is it a deal?"
She nodded. "Thank you, John. Thank you for caring."
"I do care," he confirmed. He pulled her into a hug and then quickly released her. "You're like family, Frances."
She eyed him speculatively for a moment and then unlocked her door and went into the house.
He stood there for another moment then shrugged. He couldn't fight her, he knew some things had to be handled alone. Still, he was in no mood to be alone himself. Then he remembered that he had planned to meet Eric's mother that night. He drove to Eric's block of flats.
The boy and his mother lived in a first floor flat. John climbed the set of stairs and knocked on the door. No answer. He could hear the sound of a video game coming from inside so he knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.
"Eric," John yelled, "open the bloody door. I can hear you."
A minute passed, then another, finally the door was pulled open a crack. Eric peeped out. "What you want, then?" the boy demanded.
"Why weren't you in school? You missed practice too. Are you ill?"
Eric shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."
"You gonna make me stand out here?"
"No need for you to come in, is there?"
"You were going to introduce me to your Mum, remember?"
"Probably not a good time," Eric muttered. "She's in a mood."
"Then it's a great time," John insisted. "Come on, Eric. Let me in. Your neighbors don't need to know your business, do they?"
Eric shrugged again, looked behind him and then opened the door a bit more.
John pushed his way into the flat as he heard a voice say, "Eric, who's pounding on the door?"
John's jaw dropped and his eyes went wide as Shay, wearing a long yellow bathrobe and rubbing her hair with a towel walked into the lounge. As he stood there with his mouth open, he realized she didn't seem that surprised to see him.
She looked at him and continued to dry her hair. Eric looked at John, then at Shay and said, "Mum, this is John Lawless. You remember, I told you about him."
Shay nodded. "Yes, Eric, I remember." She took a step forward and said, "Shay Katawny." She offered her hand as if he was a stranger.
John was still trying to recover from the shock. Shay was Eric's mother? Why did she want to pretend she didn't know him? What was THAT about? He closed his mouth and then opened it again to say, "Nice to meet you."
"Mum," Eric mumbled with embarrassment and more than a little irritation, "go put on some clothes."
John felt his face begin to redden, although Shay seemed amused.
Shay smiled and suggested, "Eric, why don't you offer your friend something to drink? I'll be back in a tick and then he can tell us what he's doing here." Then she turned and left the room.
Eric looked at John and observed, "You look like you've seen a ghost. My Mum's not that bad."
"Your Mother is beautiful," John blurted out. Shit, probably the exact wrong thing to say. He wanted Eric to trust him, having a hard-on for his Mum, probably wouldn't be the best way to achieve that.
Eric nodded. "She is, isn't she?" he conceded proudly, apparently not put out with John's opinion. "Want a Coke?"
"Sure," John agreed. "Do you mind if I sit down?" he asked.
"Go ahead," Eric answered. "I'll be right back."
John sank gratefully down on the couch, still trying to adjust to the fact of Shay being Eric's mother. Obviously, Eric had told Shay about him and just as obviously, Shay had hidden that from him. Why hadn't she wanted him to know? Where was the shame in having a son from a previous marriage?
When Eric returned with the Coke, John looked at him, really looked. Eric was almost six feet tall, though Shay was tiny. He had brown hair that waved a bit and big hazel eyes. He had a flatish nose and a very full mouth, but then, so did Shay. "How old are you?" John asked.
"Why?"
"Just curious. I mean, I know you're thirteen, but when's your birthday?" John repeated, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I'm thirteen and a half, my birthday's in March, 15 March," Eric answered with a smile. John had only ever seen the full-out smile once before, Eric's eyes crinkled and two dimples appeared.
John felt the room begin to spin. Oh Christ, it wasn't possible, was it? His mind went back in time. They'd always used protection, hadn't they? He was always worried about that, he'd seen too many of his friends get buggered up that way. He was sure he'd been careful. Then he remembered . . . that first time, at that little hotel, he'd been so turned on, in such a damn hurry, he HAD forgotten, hadn't he?
Shay entered the room and her eyes focused on John. She could see it on his face. She thought back to the night he had broken up with her. That morning she had confirmed that she was pregnant. She was thrilled and couldn't wait to tell him, to share the blessed news. She was sure he would be pleased. Sure that they could build a life for themselves and their child. Instead, he'd feed her a cock and bull story about being too young to get serious, about how what had happened between them was a mistake and that he didn't think they should see each other anymore. She had known he was lying, but she wouldn't use the child to hang on to him. Not if he wanted to go. So she hadn't told him then, hadn't intended to tell him ever. It was fate that had brought him into Eric's life and then back into hers. Now she would have to deal with it.
"Eric," she requested softly, "Do you think I could have a few moments with your friend?"
"Go ahead," the boy said.
Shay smiled. "Alone."
"Whatcha want to be alone for?" Eric demanded defensively.
Shay went to her son, ruffled his hair and replied, "To talk about you, of course. I'm sure that's why he's here."
John found his voice long enough to answer, "Yes, Eric. That's right. I'd like to talk to your Mum. About the boxing."
Eric shrugged and went to his room. Shay walked over to the sofa and sat down next to John. She waited for the anger she assumed would appear. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. Then John finally asked, "Is he . . . Shay . . . Christ, he's my son, isn't he?"
She nodded and her body tensed waiting for the explosion. John could see it and he knew that in the mix of emotions he was feeling there was anger. But for once, something else was paramount. "He doesn't know, does he? He thinks it was your ex?" She nodded. "Did your ex know?" Again, she nodded. "Damn it, Shay," he demanded. "Talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" she asked helplessly.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"When would have been a good time, John?" she asked rhetorically. "They day I confirmed it, which was the day you dropped me. The day he was born? I'd married Phil by then. Maybe it should have been the day you married Marla? When would it have been a good time for me to just drop by and mention, John, you have a son."
"You should have told me," he insisted.
"Why? What difference would it have made? You were determined to go and I sure as bloody hell didn't want to keep you if you didn't want to be with me. I know you, you'd have insisted in that bloody serious way of yours, to marry me so he could have your name. You might even have tried to make a go of it, but you'd never have been happy and eventually you'd have resented not only me, but him as well. I haven't done so badly by him, have I? He's got clothes on his back, food in his belly, a place to live. And I LOVE him."
"I had a right to know."
"A right?" she echoed. "Why? Cause your sperm met my egg? I think not. The act of creation doesn't give you any rights."
"He's my son, for Christ's sake," John hissed. "Didn't I, don't I have a right to be a part of his life?"
She stared at him. "Are you telling me that's something you want?" she asked in a very small voice.
"Yes," he answered. "I didn't have a Dad. I know what that's like. Eric's a mess because he doesn't have one. He feels it deeply. But now, he doesn't have to feel that pain, not when . . ."
"John," she breathed his name softly. She put her
hand on his arm to restrain him and added, "You can't tell him."
"Why not?"
"He thinks Phil is his Dad. He thinks this is the first time we've ever met. How would you explain it?"
"I dunno. But doesn't he deserve to know the truth?"
"And what truth is that?" she asked bitterly. "That when we were young we had sex a few times and conceived a child. That I kept the secret of his birth from his natural dad until now? That Phil left because he couldn't handle raising someone else's kid? John, before you go in there and turn Eric's world upside down, you'd better think long and hard about it."
He realized she was right. What he wanted, what he needed was irrelevant. Eric was the only one to be considered here and what was best for Eric was the only possible course of action. "Oh god, Shay, I'm so sorry. I never even once thought that this could have happened. I totally buggered up your life. How can you even stand to be around me?"
She laughed softly. "You gave me the most precious gift in the world. Eric. I love him more than anything. My life is so rich because he's in it. I've always been grateful to you for that."
John felt the room begin to spin again. He was being overwhelmed with emotion. "I have a son," he whispered in wonder. He paused and then asked, "What do we do now?"
Shay studied him. "That's up to you and also I think up to him. He likes you quite a lot, you know. He respects you too, though I doubt he's let you know it. Still, he talks about you all the time. It's John this and John that. You have a good start at building a relationship there. Maybe for the time being, you shouldn't try to change it."
"I just . . ." he paused and looked at her eyes. "I'm gonna want some say in things. And I can help out, you know, financially. He says you're working two jobs."
She nodded. "I work three day shifts at Farmers and then five night shifts at the Hardcastle. But John, I can't take your money. And you're under no debt here."
"Shay, I'm sure if your ex doesn't come round, he also probably never paid you a penny. Eric needs to spend more time with you. He's lonely, angry and hurt ninety-five percent of the time. If I can help get the two of you more time together, then I've done right by him. I need to do right by him and by you," he added softly.
"That's sweet," she muttered in an undertone. "Let me think on it. We've never taken . . . I've always supported us myself."
John looked at her with immense respect. "You're a strong woman, Shay. But you don't have to do this alone anymore. Even if I can't tell him, I know he's my son. I want to help. Want to be a part of his life."
She nodded and sighed. "Where does this leave us?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "It changes things. You've kept this secret from me all these years. I need to adjust to that. To see if . . ."
She nodded. "I care about you, John. Partly as the boy I remember, partly as the man I've come to know now, but mostly because of your son and the parts of him that came from you. He's very special, Eric is."
John nodded. "I know. There's always been something about him . . ."
She smiled. "I could see that you cared from the things he said. And I was glad. Very glad. John, I'm sorry I kept this from you, truly I am. But . . ."
Whatever Shay had intended to say she never got the chance. There was a loud cough from the corner of the room and the two looked guiltily in that direction.
"How long have you been standing there?" Shay asked.
Eric shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. "Just got here, honest. Am I in trouble?"
"Trouble?" Shay echoed. "Not at all. In fact, as it turns out, John and I are actually very old friends. We knew each other in Lower Hutt, a long time ago. We were just catching up."
Eric's face lit with a smile, his dimples appeared again and John realized they shared the same smile. "So it's okay then," his son said. "I can keep working with him?"
"Yes, Eric," Shay replied. "You can."
"Bewdy," the boy whistled.
John rose from the sofa. "Eric, have you eaten yet?" The boy shook his head. "Shay, do you mind if I take Eric out to get something to eat? I know you're working and I don't have any other plans."
"I think that's a lovely idea, if Eric would like to go."
"That'd be cool," Eric agreed.
John grinned at him. "Maybe after we eat, we can go to a flick, if you'd like."
Eric nodded, his face fairly glowing with delight.
Shay grinned at them both. "So I guess you're all set then, eh?" Eric nodded. "Best get a jacket though, you know the cinemas are cold."
"Mum," he moaned.
John smothered a smile and ordered sternly, "Do what your Mum says. You know she's right."
Eric ran from the room. John and Shay stood there silently; each absorbed by their own thoughts. When Eric returned John took one look at him and felt his heart really begin to beat for the first time since Caro had died. He turned gratefully toward Shay and over his son's head, mouthed the words, thank you.
She smiled and nodded as John and his son left the flat together. When they were gone, she collapsed on the sofa and let tears of relief flow from her eyes.
The End
Author's note: I had a great deal of help with the "facts" of this story, particularly in regards to Vietnam and the Maori culture. I have tried to portray what happened in Vietnam during that time as accurately as possible, although the specific story I told regarding Frances' father, to the best of my knowledge, did not happen, other facts are true. The Tet offensive did begin on January 31, 1968 and lasted for quite some time. Two NVA/VC battalions did attack the air base at Bien Hoa, crippled over twenty aircraft, and left over 170 casualties. Further fighting at Bien Hoa during the Tet brought the death total in Saigon to nearly 1200. The black market DID thrive in both Saigon and the bases and there were many Americans as well as Vietnamese involved in it. Any factual errors are mine and not anyone else's.
As for the Maori, I did extensive research on their culture as well as confer with someone who lives in New Zealand. While these days, the likelihood of what happened with John's father is slim, in 1965; it was still possible, particularly if he was the son of a chief. Again, I have tried to make my facts as accurate as possible, any errors are mine and are unintentional.
The particular Manaia described in this story is one representation of the messenger between the domain of the earth and the spirits. It holds great spiritual energy and guards against evil. There are several different kinds of Manaia with different meanings to them in Maori culture.
Some Maori words used in this story: iwi = tribe, whanau = family, kuia = female elder