Eleven Reasons: The heart-wrenching sequel to Eleven Rules (The Eleven Series Book 2)

by PJ Vye

  Here for a life sentence as well, Pete’s time was almost up. At seventy-nine, he knew a lot about the way the prison worked and he had a strange acceptance of it all. He meditated like a Buddhist monk and swore like a school boy.

  “You know I can’t help you, Pete. Make an appointment with the medic.”

  “Eh, but he’s not here until Frid’y, and how would I know, eh, if I should fuckin’ make an appointment or not?”

  Mataio checked over his shoulder for prison guards, then down at the man’s foot. “Take off your shoe, but make it look like you’ve got a stone in it.”

  Not only had they taken away Mataio’s medical licence, but he wasn’t even allowed to give medical advice. Last year, a prison guard died of a burst appendix on the job. They were giving him CPR thinking it was a heart attack while they waited for the paramedics, and when Mataio tried to intervene he was dragged away by guards to his cell and reprimanded.

  When inmates asked him medical advice now, he had to be very careful.

  “Is it itchy?”

  “Mate, my toes are so itchy I want to scratch them clear up to my arsehole, eh.”

  “Any pain?” Even without looking, Mataio could tell Pete’s feet were bare. The stench was worse than the prison cafeteria.

  “Yeh. Burn like.”

  “Do they hurt all the time or just when they’re touched?” Mataio bent down and pretended to look at the rocks while he pressed against one of the man’s toes.

  “Fuck you, you fucking sadist. What you do that for, eh? Yeh, it hurts when touched. Jesus, eh. What kind of doctor are you? No wonder you’re in prison for life. What kind of bedside fuckin’ manner is that, eh?”

  Mataio wiped his hands on the rocks in his hands, then tossed them casually aside so an onlooker might think they were just chatting. “Chilblains.”

  “They gonna have to take my toes, eh?”

  Mataio nodded, seriously. “I expect so.”

  Pete had been joking, but Mataio’s response clearly panicked him. “You serious?”

  “No.” Mataio winked. “Cut a potato in half. Scoop out a teaspoon of the inside. Put a spoon of salt in the hole. Leave it overnight on a plate. In the morning, tap the juice on the ends of your toes.”

  “Fuck you, eh. If you can’t help me, just say, eh? I’ll make an appointment with the fuckin’ medic.”

  “While you wait, try the potato thing.”

  “Potato, my fucking arse. Have a great fuckin’ day.” Pete headed off, his shoes still in his hand, trying not to let the gravel cut his feet. He turned as if he’d just remembered something. “Mat, Kimbo Morrison was looking for you. Something about you owing him something. Why the fuck are you owing that man something? For a doctor, you’re pretty stupid, you know, eh?”

  Mataio waved him away and continued toward his cell. He owed Kimbo Morrison nothing, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have something to pay. Prison life was all about hierarchy, and he was new here, so still very low on the ladder.

  A letter from Samoa sat on the floor of his cell. It’d been opened, read and resealed by the guards. Letters from Sunny always got through security. She never wrote anything that might be considered a security breach.

  He placed it beside his bed. He’d read it tonight, before the lights went out. He always let himself read her letters. He just never allowed himself to reply. Let him be tormented and tortured by the life he could have had, but not her. She deserved more. She deserved a life without him in it. The best way he could help her see that was to never reply. Never. Let her think he was dead. It was the only way.

  Knowing he had a letter made his feet a little lighter. Even the threat of Kimbo Morrison didn’t seem too hard to bear. Sunny had stopped asking questions in her letters. Her anxiety, anger and fear no longer lined the pages. Now she wrote about her life, her jobs, the colour of the streets of Samoa, the smell of the beaches, the people. The houses without walls, the louver windows to let in the breeze. Air conditioning was for the tourists and the rich. It had taken her so long to get used to the pace of Samoan life. The heat. The rain that fell in great sheets one minute, then, like a flicked switch, the sun would appear as if nothing at all had happened. He imagined it through Sunny’s eyes and each page read like a magic release from his reality.

  With an hour before he was due to start work in the kitchen, Mataio picked up a psychology text book and looked for a quiet spot by the north yard to sit in the sun. As he crossed between the buildings, Kimbo and two of his mates approached him from the front, right in the shadowed area where the cameras didn’t reach. As Mataio turned to move past, the men circled him.

  Kimbo only had two months left on his sentence, so the move surprised Mataio. Any trouble—even small—might jeopardise Kimbo’s release.

  Mataio slowly placed the text book on the ground, out of the way. He’d just begun the chapter on anger management techniques, and wanted to finish it. He liked this book and didn’t want it destroyed by whatever Kimbo had planned.

  Mataio’s anger management skills weren’t ready to be tested just yet. He suspected if he fought back, he might not be able to stop. Which meant that if Kimbo and his mates wanted to mess him up, Mataio would get very messed up.

  Chapter Four

  Laurence watched as she took a seat near the door, not seeing him. He picked up his newspaper and moved to the seat opposite her. She avoided eye contact, probably regretting her decision to meet.

  He gave her a generous smile and asked, “What would you like to drink?”

  “Latte, thanks,” she said with a careful nod. She looked nervous, like he might steal her purse.

  Once he’d ordered two large coffees, in takeaway cups so she could leave when she needed to, he sat back down. “Thanks for meeting me, Sunny.”

  “Sure.” Her lips curled upward for a second then straightened quickly back to their original position.

  He took a breath, unsure where to start.

  Eventually she said, “I mentioned I only have ten minutes, right?”

  “Sorry, yes.” He had trouble saying the words, and he couldn’t quite work out why. Maybe it was because, as soon as he said them, she’d hate him and walk away.

  Maybe he didn’t need to tell her the whole story just yet. He’d tell her the bits that directly involved her and nothing more. The real story, he conceded, made him seem manic and eccentric and scared people away. This woman was already a flight risk. Best keep his story basic for now.

  “Global Pharmaceuticals are releasing Mat’s diet pill in three months. The other larger pharmaceuticals will follow soon after that.”

  She didn’t flinch. Even when the waiter delivered their coffee, she quietly wrapped her fingers around the cup and took a short sip, seemingly unaffected by his words.

  “I need your help, Sunny.”

  She suddenly looked drawn. “Mat and his diet pill have nothing to do with me.”

  “I think they do.”

  “How?”

  “You lived with the family.”

  “I’m a hotel masseuse in the mornings. I work the visitors’ centre in the afternoons and teach an English class on Saturdays. I’m raising a two-year-old and the only job I’m qualified for is playing the violin. How on earth do you think I can help you?”

  “The diet pill—they’re calling it the BrinnThin on the black market. It’s just been approved for over-the-counter sale. I need to get that stopped.”

  Her forehead creased. “Why do you want it stopped? It can’t be stopped. You can already buy it on the street. It’s out there. How can you possibly stop it? And why would you want to?”

  He continued. “On the black market, it’s only the rich, stupid and connected who have access to it. Once it’s available to the general public, at any drug store or supermarket, the BrinnThin will be used en masse, worldwide.”

  “What’s the problem?” She checked her watch again and frowned.

  “I’m petitioning the government for an inquiry into
the long-term effects of the drug.”

  Sunny tapped her finger against the plastic rim of her cup, not answering.

  “I know, it sounds a lot—”

  “Who are you? Why is this your job?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter, with The Conservator.”

  She nodded, like the information resolved some issue in her head. “I gotta go,” she said, and stood.

  “Will you help me?”

  “How?” she said, and pulled her bag over her shoulder. “I don’t understand how I can help.”

  “I want to prove the drug is dangerous.”

  Sunny looked down at him as she pushed her chair loudly under the table. “You think it’s dangerous?”

  “No, yes, maybe. I’d like to test Junior Euta. He was the first human to use the drug.”

  “Why are you asking me? Talk to him.” She blinked at him a few times. “Wait. You did. Did he say no?”

  Laurence shook his head quickly. “I’m seeing him tomorrow. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “Why?” She edged her way to the door.

  He was losing her, and he doubted he’d get this chance again, so he blurted it out. “Because of your daughter.”

  She stopped walking and pulled her bag viciously across her shoulder. “How does she have anything to do with this?”

  “Junior is her father, right?”

  Sunny’s open mouth closed, then opened again. “I still don’t understand.”

  “If I can find any reason the drug is unstable or dangerous—”

  “You want to test her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you Junior was her father?”

  “I asked around.”

  “Who?”

  “People.”

  She stared at him a second, then turned and walked toward the door. “Please don’t bother us again.”

  Laurence hurried after her. The heaviness of the humidity outside made him sweat in an instant. “Are you saying Junior isn’t her father?”

  “I’m not talking to you.” She half-ran toward the beach road then turned left at the junction. The smell of pork on open fires near the market hung in the air and the coffee in his belly turned unfavourably as he tried to keep up with her. The bus stop had a brightly painted red bench and a pitched roof that wouldn’t do much of a job keeping the rain out. His shirt dripped with sweat by the time they reached the stop and when she sat down to wait, he sat beside her. She turned her back and took out her phone.

  He needed an angle. Something to get her on his side. “I can pay you.”

  She ignored him.

  “You’re a musician. I can get you a job you actually like.”

  Nothing.

  “Don’t you feel any obligation to uncover the truth?”

  Silence.

  There had to be something. “I visited Mataio Brinn in prison a week ago.”

  Her body didn’t move, but her eyes gently closed.

  He had her. “I know why Mataio killed La’ei.”

  Chapter Five

  By the time Sunny arrived home from the visitors’ centre, Atali was tucked up in bed asleep. Sunny kicked off her shoes and tiptoed in to kiss the girl goodnight. Her cheeks were rosy and plump and it was all Sunny could do not to squeeze them. She missed Atali on the long days, but what choice did she have? Wages in Samoa were minuscule and she was determined to keep her apartment and not move into the family home Tulula offered almost daily.

  Sunny couldn’t work three jobs without Tulula’s help. The woman treated Atali like her own and Sunny was grateful beyond words. Atali would learn to speak Samoan and English and she’d know her cultural heritage. It was more than Mataio ever had. Maybe that’s why he was so screwed up.

  Tulula had the tea poured when she emerged, and a plate of taro and pork which she delivered to Sunny’s lap.

  “How was she today, Aunt? Still sniffly?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Mucus runs down her face and onto her neck and she barely notices.”

  Sunny took a polite bite of the taro and chewed reluctantly.

  “She likes the jigsaw puzzle Junior bought for Christmas,” said Tulula as she wiped down the kitchen bench. “Did you see?”

  Tulula never missed an opportunity to remind Sunny how great a father Junior would be. “She does. She can almost do it herself.”

  “Smart girl,” Tulula murmured. “Very smart.”

  Sunny took a long sip of tea and leaned back in her seat. After a long day of taking care of everyone else, she appreciated Tulula’s mothering. Even though Sunny wanted to never eat another piece of taro for the rest of her life, she knew she was lucky to have a home-cooked meal, and ate without complaint.

  “I met a man today.” Sunny waited for a reaction but got none, so she went on. “He said he’d spoken to Mataio in prison.”

  Tulula clicked her tongue and looked away. She still refused to speak her nephew’s name. If she could control it, Sunny thought Tulula would be happy never to hear his name either.

  “Did I tell you Junior’s been playing basketball again?” declared Tulula. “Played for an hour yesterday. It’s a job just buying clothes to fit that boy. He’s dropped so many sizes since he got back. After the serum ran out, I thought we’d be in trouble, but he just keeps going on his own. I’m so proud of him. He’ll find himself a wife very soon now.” She subtly looked out the corner of her eye to gauge Sunny’s reaction, then resumed tidying the room.

  “This man I spoke to today, Laurence. He wants to stop Mataio’s drug coming onto the market.”

  Tulula didn’t try and change the subject this time, but folded up the last of the washing and checked her watch. Uncle Akamu would be here in a few minutes to pick her up and take her home. He’d toot twice and she’d make him wait, just long enough so that she felt some control, but not so long that he’d toot again.

  Sunny pushed on. “He says he knows why Mataio killed La’ei.” She didn’t dare look at Tulula for a reaction, instead shovelling in a fork load of pork and chewing like she’d said nothing more interesting than tomorrow’s weather forecast.

  Tulula set down Atali’s water bottle heavily and it spilled over the table. She left it there to drip, picked up her handbag and moved toward the door.

  Sunny knew she’d gone too far. “Is Uncle here? I didn’t hear him.”

  “I’ll wait outside.”

  “Aunt?”

  The door slammed and Sunny slowly wiped up the mess. She shouldn’t have pushed the woman, but she desperately wanted someone to talk to. There was no-one else except Junior, and every time they spoke, Tulula would spin into a mania, thinking they’d hook up. Tulula had told almost everyone on the island Atali belonged to Junior, so morally for her, it made sense for them to marry.

  But Junior wasn’t Atali’s father and Sunny could never feel anything more for Junior than what she would feel for a brother.

  Sunny had sent most of the money she’d taken from her ex-boyfriend Judd’s joint stash to help Mataio hire lawyers. It hadn’t helped. Mat had still been sentenced to life. She wasn’t even sure he’d used it. He wouldn’t reply to her letters. She’d written to him every day, then every week. He wouldn’t answer her phone calls. He simply refused to communicate—and after following eleven made-up rules for more than half his life, she knew he had the self-determination to not change his mind.

  She had so many unanswered questions—some the entire world wanted to know answers to, and some were hers alone. Like, had he ever really cared about her? Or did he only pretend to care because he had to follow ‘The Rules’?

  Why would he confess to Laurence—a complete stranger? It made no sense. Either Laurence was lying, or Mataio was the biggest arse of all time. Either way, she’d be better off forgetting them both. Mataio was never leaving that prison. He’d made up his mind.

  A life for a life.

  Didn’t matter how many he might have saved all those years as an ER doctor, or
giving back Junior his life. Mataio would let one terrible mistake at fifteen rule the rest of his life, and no-one could do or say a thing about it.

  She wished it didn’t matter.

  But it always did.

  Sunny changed into a t-shirt, washed out her clothes and hung them over the rack to dry. She should be planning her class for tomorrow, but instead she unpacked her violin that had been tucked up in a back cupboard since the day she arrived on the island. There wasn’t a lot of demand for a violin player in Samoa. She tried to think of the last time she’d played it—probably Tulula’s house, the night Mataio had stood in the door watching her. She tightened the bow and tuned, and without thinking, her fingers found the notes to the piece she’d played that day. The memory of the moment was still vivid, and it sent her heart racing and her skin tingling.

  If only he’d stayed.

  So many ‘if only’s’.

  If only he’d loved her.

  Chapter Six

  Atali refused to sit in her chair for breakfast, and Sunny spent most of the morning carrying her around as she did her chores. It wasn’t uncommon for Atali to be clingy on the weekend—after a week of Tulula, Atali wanted her mother.

  Sunny gave up trying to clean the bathroom and began building coloured blocks on the floor, Atali placing one on top of the other in any random order until they became so unstable they fell. Then the building began again. The girl giggled uncontrollably as they fell and Sunny couldn’t help laughing with her. How she wished she had someone to share the moment with. She considered filming her but decided the process of finding her phone might ruin the moment.

  A knock on the door startled them both.

  “Who is it?” Sunny asked Atali in a childlike voice.

  Atali stared at her with big brown eyes and as clearly as any human said, “It’s Dadda.”

  If only. Sunny tried not to let her heart break as she got to her feet. “Who is it?” she asked through the door.

  “Atti’s favourite uncle.”

  Atali stood on wonky feet at the sound of his voice and stretched out her arms in anticipation. Sunny let Junior in. With barely a look in Sunny’s direction, he grabbed the toddler and threw her in the air.