All Saints: Love and Intrigue in the Stunning New Zealand Wilderness (The New Zealand Soccer Referee Series Book 1)

All Saints
The New Zealand Soccer Referees

K T Bowes

Amazon
Edition Published by Hakarimata Press
Copyright 2016

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Disclaimer

This novel is a
work of fiction, entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any
similarities to actual persons, living or dead, businesses and events are
purely coincidental.

All rights
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the express written permission of the author. This work is the intellectual
property of the author writing as

K T Bowes.

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Acknowledgement
To the hardworking volunteers who turn out every Saturday and keep the beautiful
game safe. Businessmen, grandfathers, fathers and sons, uncles, cousins and brothers
don soccer strips and run out onto the pitch. When they cross the white line
they turn into savage beasts in the pursuit of the size 5 ball and a harmless
game becomes less about camaraderie and all about life and death.

You, the
referee are the enemy of their peace; abused, challenged and ridiculed. Yet without
your whistle, the game could not begin.

My jaw ached like someone slammed me in the chin with a sledgehammer,
the false joviality wearing thin. The bride glided across the dance floor, her
body pressed close to her handsome groom and the silky white cloth streaming
after her. My jaded mind worked overtime, drawing an analogy of spilt milk. She
would wake up alone one morning and face the fact she’d turned her
serial-cheat-boyfriend into a serial-cheat-husband.

“Ursula?” The use
of my name drew me back to reality; a football club room in the ass end of New
Zealand and I fixed the wavering smile back into place.

“Sorry, what?”

The bride’s mother
faced me, flaccid cheeks and an eyebrow raised in challenge. “I said, doesn’t
she look beautiful?”

My eyes strayed to
the whiteness of the wedding dress and the lie of the fabric stretched taut
against the swelling mound between pelvis and navel, straining to escape with
every lurch on the dance floor. “Yep,” I answered. “She looks amazing.”

The officious woman
nodded with satisfaction and asked the same question of the person seated to my
left. Their gushing reply held more genuine enthusiasm and I turned my face
away to hide my smile, knowing she’d sit there for ages just to hear further
sycophantic praise until the speaker ran out of platitudes.

The man to my right
leaned closer and lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. “Does she realise her
precious little girl’s carrying a passenger?”

I glanced back at
the mother and shrugged. “No idea. She will soon.”

He chuckled and
nodded in agreement, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket. As
though drawn to the rustle of the box, the woman whirled round and fixed a
beady eye on the guest. “You can’t smoke in here, Mark Lambie. Go outside the
back door!”

He rolled his eyes
and nudged me on the arm. “Want some fresh air?”

I blew out a breath
and nodded, scraping my chair back. “I’m not sure how fresh it’ll be with you
polluting it,” I grumbled and Lambie grinned over his shoulder. He downed a
tumbler of brown fluid and shoved the guest nearest the door, leaning down to
growl in his ear. “Give us a shout when the food comes out.”

“The rabbit food or
the proper stuff?” the man replied and Lambie roared with laughter.

“Screw the lettuce
leaves, man! I want the real stuff.”

The man in his
early twenties grinned and then noticed me following, his face expression
assuming a more sombre look. “Hi Ursula,” he said, sympathy etched into the
lines on his forehead.

“Hey Craig,” I
replied and forced back the false smile, fixing it into place and pushing through
the fire exit after Lambie.

I let it close
behind me with more of a slam than I intended and chewed my lower lip to stem
the pain of the niceties. Lambie seemed drunker out in the sunlight and lurched
around like a skittle trying to light his cigarette, finally inhaling a massive
drag as the end flared orange. In his late fifties, overweight and unfit, he
resembled a tramp in his oversized suit and I felt a flash of compassion but
through my own depression. I steadied his uncoordinated list with a hand on his
arm.

“You’re a bloody
good girl,” he slurred, drawing on the ciggie as though it held oxygen and not
cancer. “I didn’t think you’d come today. I told yer dad yer probably
wouldn’t.”

“Why’s that?” I
stared up at the huge New Zealand sky and wished myself anywhere else but
Auckland on a Friday night. Rush hour boomed in the distance as the city
emptied like a sink hole, ready to fill back up first thing Monday morning.
Lambie put his arm over my shoulder, as much for his benefit as mine.

“It’s too soon,” he
said, his words slurring. I smelled the whiskey on his breath and the scent of
bitterness rotting him from the inside out. “Your Pete’s not been dead a few
months. It’s too soon to be at some crappy wedding with a knocked up bride.”
His voice caught and I swallowed and pushed him upright.

“Get it together,
Mark,” I said, my voice stern. “Pete died at the end of last season. It was
September, bro. We’re in April and the start of a new season. It’s a fresh
start for all of us.” I gritted my jaw and inhaled a deep breath, smelling the
sea air and craving a walk on the beach. My toes peeked from my strappy
sandals, begging to be released into the surf instead of cooped up in shoes at
a wedding I hadn’t wanted to attend. “But you’re right,” I conceded. “I didn’t
want to come.”

“First premiership
game tomorrow,” he said, huffing on the cigarette again. “And we’re gonna lose.
Without Pete we can’t stay up in this league; we can’t do it.”

“Rubbish!” I gave
Mark a shove and then let go, deciding he’d either sprawl longwise on the
cracked car park or rally. He rallied. “I don’t need this!” I said, my voice
rising. “Just get it together, bro.”

His eyes looked
glassy as they stared at me, his lips pulsing around the pink tongue which
peeked out. The man was a heart attack waiting to happen, sweat beading on his
forehead and his greying hair slicked back like plough furrows. “Sorry,” he
gushed. “Pete was the love of your life.”

My snort sounded
cruel and I regretted it as the sound reached my ears. “But I wasn’t his!” I
retorted. “Did I ever mention all the Saturday nights when he didn’t come home
after a game? Or the messages on his phone from the strays he met at the clubs
while he celebrated a win? Probably not. Yeah, I miss him, Mark. I miss being
married and hanging onto the hope that my husband might change and settle down.
But I don’t miss being second best, I don’t miss lying awake wondering why I’m
not good enough to come home to when he’s forcing himself onto someone else in
the back of his car or behind the bins outside a nightclub. What’s to miss,
Mark?”

Understanding
dawned in Mark Lambie’s eyes and they widened to double the size. “You knew?”
He sounded surprised and I wanted to laugh, holding onto the awful urge lest he
dial for an ambulance to take me to the psych ward of Auckland General. “He
used to get so drunk. We always tried to make him come home with us but him and
Pike, they couldn’t seem to stop.”

I nodded, familiar
with the after match revelry which left the soccer team hung over and uncommunicative
most Sundays during the season. In the summer most of them were nice guys,
husbands, fathers, boyfriends and sons. During winter they turned into
monsters, screaming and swearing during games fuelled by testosterone and
topped off with a trip into town, win or lose. Peter Saint acted that way all
year round, his behaviour never altering through the changes of the season. I
suspected Mark Lambie knew only half the story and as my stomach roiled in
complaint, I knew I wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him.

“Shit!” Spit
exploded from Mark’s mouth as he slumped against the brick wall of the club
house. His breath caught in hitches and his chest heaved. “I wanted to tell you
so many times.” His voice emerged as a wail and I glanced towards the exit,
hoping nobody came to investigate. I’d suffered enough humiliation for one
lifetime.

“Mark!” My voice
sounded commanding, forced from my chest cavity as though calling my thirty-one
class members back to order after a windy playtime. “Get it together, dude!” I
snapped. “I don’t need this today.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry!”
Mark groaned, wiping snot and tears on the sleeve of his jacket. He lurched
upright with effort and dropped the cigarette on the ground. “Does your dad
know?”

The sneer fixed
itself on my face before I could stop it. “What do you think?”

Mark touched me on
the shoulder. “Yeah, we pretty much all guessed you didn’t wanna marry Pete.
It’s hard to resist the pressure they put on ya. I should know what they’re
like. I dropped out of coaching this year but when Terry and yer dad get
involved, my word counts for nothin’.” He dragged on the cigarette again. “They
came to me during the break and said I had to; promised it would all be
different if I came back.”

I laughed and the
sound carried across to the building, drawing the attention of the table
members nearest the door. “I can’t believe you fell for it. There’s no way
they’ll back off and let you coach. They’ll have something to say about every
single decision you make. Just like always.” That went for my life too.

Mark’s face
puckered in distress and he pushed the cigarette into his mouth, puffing as he
struggled to light its successor. “You’re so beautiful, though,” he murmured.
“I dunno why he’d go into town when he had you at home. You look like a model
with your dark hair and gorgeous face.” He glanced down at my dress, his eyes
widening. “And the rest of ya is perfect. All the lads think so.” He lurched
again and I winced at the backhanded compliment. Lambie shook his head and his
eyes tracked back to the door. “I need another drink,” he stated, an addict in
the making. “It’s the only way I’m gonna get through this season.”

The smile
disappeared from my lips, replaced by regret. “Mark! If it’s making you so
upset, then tell them no.” I snatched the ciggie from his fingers and he
ignored the interruption, reaching for another. His body swayed in the process,
his knees threatening to buckle.

“Can’t,” he
replied, dragging on one while lighting the other with his eyes closed. The
raucous cough wasn’t unexpected.

“I’ll talk to Dad,”
I offered. “This is ridiculous.”

“No, please don’t!”
Mark swallowed and his eyes filled with tears. “You can’t. Bloody promise me,
Ursula!”

He yanked the tie
away from his neck and cast his eyes around the car park as though searching
for something. I followed his gaze and saw a tall man around my age leaning his
bum against a white car. He looked familiar and I wracked my brain for his
identity. Fine boned and muscular, his trousers sat nicely on a neat bottom and
he crossed his feet at the ankles and stared at the floor as he spoke into a
cell phone. Mark fixed his eyes on the smartly dressed male and then gripped my
upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh. “Promise?” he begged and I
nodded. I watched the man’s lips moving as I propped Mark up one handed,
guiding him backwards to lean against the rough brick.

“Who’s that?” I
asked, masking my interest with a bored tone.

“Foxy,” Mark
replied, hawking up a ball of phlegm and spitting it into the gravel.
Disgusted, I let go of his arm and he tottered on unsteady feet as the fresh
air exacerbated his drunkenness.

“Yeah, really
helpful,” I muttered. “Tells me everything I wanna know.”

Mark lurched and
the back of his head hit the wooden windowsill behind him. I looked around for
help and weighed up the consequences of summoning aid from inside. As I turned
towards the doors, Mark snatched at the bottom of my dress, hissing, “Please,
no,” as he splattered onto the gravel.

“Don’t be
ridiculous,” I said, nudging him with the toe of my sandal. “Get up or I’ll
call for help.”

“What’s going on?”
The stranger appeared next to me, eyeing Mark from an elevated position. “Too
much of the pop, Lambie?” he asked.

“I wanna go home,”
Mark replied, grovelling with his face in the sharp stones.

“I’ll get Uncle
Terry,” I said, smiling in apology at the handsome male whose elbow brushed my
upper arm.

“No!” Mark wailed,
tugging on the bottom of my dress. A seam gave way at the back and my spaghetti
strap dug into my shoulder, causing me to let out a hiss of annoyance and
embarrassment. I felt pleased with my new lace bra but wasn’t thrilled at the
thought of it being on show.

“Hey, dude, let
go.” The stranger squatted and gripped Mark’s fingers in his, prising them away
from my hem. He grabbed Mark by the shoulders and sat him up against the side
of the club house. “Sit there a minute, man.” Standing up, he turned his
attention to me. “What’s the story?” he asked.

I took a step back,
sensing blame in his soft brown eyes. “Don’t hold me responsible! He’s drunk
too much and I followed him outside because he asked me to.”

The man gave an
upward nod. “What will you do with him?”

I gaped in surprise
as the stranger placed the physical and emotional weight of Mark Lambie’s
plight on my slender shoulders. Indignation filled my expression and I tossed
my trademark dark curls and glared at him through determined blue eyes.
“Nothing!” I said, surprised at the hardness in my voice. “What’s it got to do
with you anyway?”

He raised his hands
in defence and held them inches away from my shoulders. “Nothing at all. I’m
just passing through.” He glanced down at Mark as the drunk slithered onto his
stomach and exercised his limbs in a peculiar lizard movement. “But we can’t
just leave him here.”

“I can!” I snorted.
“I’ll send some of the boys out if you wanna stand there and watch him do a
skink impression a while longer.”

“No, please, not
the boys?” Mark sobbed, rolling onto his back. “Foxy, take me home, man. Ursula
will help you. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

I winced and wrinkled
my nose at the plea and heaved out a sigh. Foxy’s olive-skinned face leaned
into mine so he could whisper in my ear. “Is this about his wife?”