Experienced author Graeme Lay distills half a century of short story writing into a collection that ranges across the islands of the South Pacific. The Pacific Ocean is an abiding presence. A beautiful young French woman finds and loses love in Fiji, a blood feud erupts in an island village, and coastal erosion exposes the gruesome remnants of an inter-tribal massacre amongst other stories.

This extract is from short story 'Blood.'

Extracted from Beyond the Reef, by Graeme Lay, published by Hanlon Publishing. $39.99

Ken, a Pākehā New Zealander, is married to Nga, a Cook Islander. Together they run a backpackers’ hostel on Aitutaki. Ken is restless and wants to leave the island, and Nga wants him to stay.

One night their son Riki is seriously injured in a motor accident and has lost a great deal of blood. He desperately needs a blood transfusion but has a very rare blood group. Is there anyone on the island with a matching blood group? The islanders put the word out: get your blood tested, to see if there is a suitable donor.

They came in cars, in pickup trucks, on mopeds, motorbikes. Someone rang Papa Upoku at his guesthouse and he came down in his mini-bus, collected twenty of them. In minutes there was a stream of vehicles, four-wheeled and
two-wheeled, moving along the straight road, past the church, through the villages, past the rugby ground and up to the hospital on the hill. There they formed three lines outside the waiting room, waiting their turn to be tested by
the three nurses who had come out to help, who were assisted in turn by the lab workers who were examining, testing rejecting.

Ken and Nga sat outside the room where Riki lay. Her eyes were swollen, and she was weeping softly into a handkerchief. He had his arm around here. ‘It’ll be okay love,’ he said, over and over. But his words sounded hollow, and she did not even nod in reply. Tom Panapa, Nga’s uncle, came up and hugged her. He stank of beer, and when they embraced his eyes filled, then overflowed. Still murmuring words of comfort in their language, he went down the corridor to have his test.

Ken forced himself to look at his watch. Ten minutes to nine. Doctor Newman had said that Riki could last perhaps another hour and a half, and he’d said that three-quarters of an hour ago. From the door that led to the testing room, the patrons of BJ’s were emerging one at a time, now very sober, shaking their heads dolefully. At nine o’clock the doctor returned, his thin face grim. ‘He’s very weak,’ he said, ‘pulse rate dropping.’ He looked at the floor. Ken nodded down the corridor, to where the last of the bar patrons were still shuffling forward.

‘Aren’t any of them suitable?’ Eyes still cast down, Dr Newman shook his head.

‘All common groups, I’m afraid.’

The three of them stood, distraught, helpless. Ken looked at Nga. Her eyes were red-rimmed. He wanted to say, ‘There’s still a chance’, but couldn’t bring himself to utter the falsehood. Besides, she had been a nurse, she knew, better than he did. He went to her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, burying his face in her thick dark hair, trying to block out the clear insistent image of their boy, weakening, fading, slipping away from them. In the distance, a door banged, footsteps running.

Dr Ropati burst into the room. He had a medical record chart in his hand and he spoke in short, excited bursts.

‘Found someone with Kidd group. On the island. Had a routine blood test, three months ago.’

They stared at him, hardly daring to speak. The doctor’s chest was heaving. At last Ken said, weakly, ‘Someone who’s still here?’

Dr Ropati looked down at the chart, peered at the name.

‘That I’m not sure about. It’s a man from Rapae. Name of George Tama.’

Ken swung his ute past the college, sped down the hill into Arutanga, pausing momentarily before turning right at the bottom of the hill. As he turned, the tires of the ute drove over a large red stain on the road, and bits of broken glass. Once on the straight, he pressed his foot down hard.

Where’s the money, George?
What money?
The money you took from the safe.
I never took any money.
Four hundred dollars in cash, missing. You had the safe combination. Give the
cash back or I phone the police. Either way, you’re out of a job, cousin or no
cousin.
I never took it. And you can stick your fucking job.

Since that day, four weeks ago, they had not spoken. The money had not been returned, and at Nga’s insistence, the police had not been notified.

George’s house was by the inner lagoon. Ken swung off the road, bounced the ute along the potholed track between the palms, reached the small house, leapt out. He could see the garish colours of a video screen through the uncurtained louvre window of the front room. Standing in the darkness, he hammered on the half-open front door. There was a shuffle of jandaled feet, a hacking cough, then the round dark face of George Tama emerged from the shadows. The face peered from the doorway, recognised the visitor, twisted instantly into hostility. He had a hand-rolled cigarette in his hand. But before George could shut the door in his face, Ken held up his hand, palm open.

‘George, please. It’s Riki. He’s had a crash, smashed his leg.’

The other man’s face became slightly less hostile. Ken took a step closer to Tama, went on, his voice forceful. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood, he needs a transfusion. Urgently. We’ve found that you’re the only donor suitable.’ He inhaled, loudly. ‘If you don’t give him some of your blood, Riki’ll die.'

George sniffed, frowned, looked past Ken. As he stared at the shadowy, unshaven figure, Ken thought, this thieving bastard has something inside him that can save my boy, and you will give it to him, you crooked prick, or I’ll have
you held down while I extract it from you myself. George reached out and tapped the ash from his cigarette on the door jamb. Ken clenched his fists until they hurt. At last George looked at him, gave a quick nod of his head.

‘Okay. Let’s go.’

They sat by the bed, staring silently at the inert figure. The two doctors stood on the other side of the bed, hands in their coat pockets. From time to time they glanced at the dangling pouch of crimson fluid and the tube taped to the boy’s arm. There was an air of calm, of resignation almost, in the room. No one spoke because words were now of no use. All that could be done had been done, the rest was now over to something or someone, else. Eyes closed, Riki was totally motionless. None of then looked at his leg which was under the frame, covered by a sheet.
His other arm, brown and sinewy, lay on top of the sheet.

Nga suddenly nudged Ken. ‘Look,’ she whispered. The fingers on Riki’s right hand were beginning to move, to clench, Slowly, very slowly, the fingers closed, tightened, relaxed, stretched wide, clenched again. Together, his parents’ eyes moved from his hand to his face. His head was tipped back, eyes still closed, his dark oval face enclosed by the stark white pillow. As they watched, Riki’s head turned, his eyelids flickered, opened, stared. He blinked a couple of time against the hard light above, turned away, focused. He saw his parents, blinked again,
smiled wanly. ‘What happened?’ he asked, his words slurring.

It was after midnight when they left the hospital. Nga sat close to him as they drove down the hill towards the village. The sky had cleared and it was broad and black and brilliant with the Milky Way a million shimmering stars. So often it was like that, Ken thought, cleared at night so that it seemed as if you could see into the sky forever. He put the truck out of gear and they coasted down the slope. He fumbled for Nga’s hand, found it, held it.

‘I’m not leaving,’ Ken said.

Beyond the Reef by Graeme Lay is available in bookstores now.