Eleven Rules: A gripping domestic suspense (The Rules Book 1)

by PJ Vye

  “So, the mail? Will you check it for me, Sunny?” He knew there wouldn’t be any mail, but it would be an excuse to drop in on her when he returned from his aunt’s house.

  She blinked slowly at the use of her name, when she hadn’t offered it to him. “Sure,” Sunny answered eventually.

  He smiled at her and watched her try to smile back. Her efforts didn’t hide the sadness.

  “I’m expecting a delivery while I’m gone,” he lied. “Would you sign for it?”

  She gave him a look he couldn’t quite read. “I guess.”

  “I’ll see you when I get back?”

  She met his eyes for a second then stared at the door, as if it might give him the hint. “Sure,” she mumbled.

  A knot formed in Mataio’s stomach as he headed down the stairs. He swung the straps of his bag across his back and ran to the bus stop, debating how to help her and still manage the task ahead. He could only save one person at a time and his priority right now was Junior.

  Rule No. 2

  Protect the Family

  Four

  MATAIO

  54 days to go

  Mataio stepped from the train onto the Frankston station and turned automatically in the direction of his aunt’s house like he’d done hundreds of times before. Even the backpack he carried was the same, except instead of containing books, stationary and his lunchbox, he carried a spare set of clothes and a rack of serum.

  The air was cool despite the sunshine but Mataio savoured the walk. Between his shifts at the hospital and research at home, he rarely saw the sun, let alone felt its warmth on his back.

  The hospital had gladly agreed to him taking leave, even at such short notice. Which wasn’t surprising considering he’d worked there for eight years and hadn’t taken a single vacation or sick day. They’d given him eight weeks on the spot. Administration had been putting on pressure anyway—they were always anxious they’d be sued if anyone challenged the hours he spent at work. Mataio had stopped looking at his roster years ago. If he wasn’t sleeping, eating or exercising, he was working. That’s how The Rules worked.

  He turned onto his aunt’s street, every step reminding him of the time he lived here through high school. Of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

  The footpath cracked out the front of number 63 where the roots of a hundred-year-old plane tree still popped the concrete. The picket fence of the California bungalow at number 71 had been painted white. The hedges at number 75 had grown into a perfectly manicured wall that hid the dust bowl yard that was number 77—his aunt’s home. This house was his refuge. And his torment.

  It looked the same but older and more neglected than ever. Any resemblance to a garden had left long ago, the grass patchy and unwatered, the beds so dry, even the weeds had shrivelled and died. The house needed a coat of paint. The screen still door hung loosely off one hinge, the same as it had a year ago when he’d last visited.

  He stood on the footpath, not ready to face what lay ahead. Memories of his last visit flooded back. The shock and self-recrimination. While he’d been working 20 hour days at the hospital, he’d neglected the very family he’d sworn to protect.

  A year ago his aunt had begged him to visit. Junior was sick and she’d needed Mataio to fix him. She’d been told by a bunch of doctors she didn’t trust, that she was killing him and needed some kind of intervention. Mataio had been confused. His aunt had piled enough love for two children into that one boy. Rain would fall upwards before she did anything to risk her son’s life.

  He’d come immediately. He remembered knocking on his cousin’s bedroom door a year ago, stepping into the darkened room and as his eyes adjusted to the light, thinking there must be more than one person in the bed. Instead, there was just one head and one set of hands and he eventually recognised the features on the oversized face of his cousin.

  Junior’s eyes had met his and a slow smile had spread across his face. His body didn’t move at all—just stayed propped up against the back of the bed, trapped inside itself. Layers and layers of excess flesh spread over the double bed so that only the corners were visible. Mataio kept his eyes focused on Junior’s face and returned his smile.

  “I can’t believe you’re here. It’s been too long, o la’u uso.”

  Mataio’s heart had pounded a little harder at the Samoan word for ‘my friend.’ A rush of regret and sadness had overcome him as he realised his neglect. He was supposed to be protecting his family. It was one of The Rules. He’d thought supporting them financially was the best way to do that. Obviously, they’d needed him in other ways, and he’d let them down. They were his responsibility.

  “Yes.” Mataio sat in the chair beside the bed and wished he could open a window without it coming across as an insult. The smell of urine and inactivity was stifling. “It’s good to see you.”

  “What do you think of the new television and surround sound, bro? Momma had it installed last year for my birthday, which you probably financed by the way.”

  “It’s a nice set up, o la’u uo. Glad you like it.”

  “Ioe,” Junior replied and then, as if a translation was required, said, “Yep.” He picked up his controller and handed it to Mataio. “Wanna play?”

  “I wouldn’t even remember how, JJ.”

  “Too busy as a fia palagi (foreigner).” He’d accused Mataio of denying his Samoan heritage more than once. It still hurt.

  “It pays for your television though, right?”

  Mataio picked up the acoustic guitar sitting in the corner of the room. Dust collected on his fingers from the fretboard as he tuned the strings. “Play me something, Junior. Play me O Le Taualuga,” asked Mataio handing over the instrument.

  Junior looked up and then turned back to his game. “Nah, fingers don’t work the same,” he replied. “Think it might be arthritis.”

  Aunt Tulula had knocked on the door and entered carrying two plates, each stacked high with chicken and pork buns. She had a litre of diet Coke under her arm. She placed the food on the table beside the bed, kissed Junior on the forehead and took Mataio’s arm.

  “You eat now, Tama meamea (little boy). Taio can come back later.”

  “Thanks Momma,” said Junior, resuming the game.

  Mataio nodded his goodbye and followed his aunt back to the kitchen, the guitar still in his hands.

  He’d kept his voice low. “What happened, Aunt?” Junior had always been a big man. But his body weight had more than doubled in the last few years.

  “He stopped wanting to leave the house,” she said.

  Mataio knew her well enough to know she would have encouraged Junior to stay home, safe within her four walls. That way nothing could ever happen to him. “Can he get out of bed?”

  “He can’t walk the length of the house without back pain and sweats.”

  “You’ve tried reducing his food intake?” He’d asked her, already sure of the answer.

  Her face looked tortured, like she’d struggled to understand it herself. “I’ve tried everything. But it’s the only thing that makes him happy now. How can I take that away from him?”

  Mataio couldn’t argue with her. They both needed more help than he could give. “What do you want me to do?”

  “They want to take him away and I need you to stop them,” she pleaded, as if it was obvious.

  “They probably want to get him into a program. It might save his life, Aunt.”

  “But they would need to take him away from me. And I’d only get to visit once a week. I couldn’t bear it, you know that, Taio. There has to be another way. You’re the most determined man I know. You can find a way. I know you can.”

  Mataio strummed a pattern on the guitar, staring at his fingers. His aunt didn’t rush him. Communicating with a background of music had always been their way. Mataio had played until his fingers bled that night, weighing up the options. Taking Junior away from her might save his life, but his aunt wouldn’t survive it.

 
By the time he’d left them, he’d made a promise to find a way.

  And he did.

  Now, almost a year later to the day, with a backpack full of answers, he stood looking at the house and realised he may already be too late. He’d been so focussed on finding a solution, he hadn’t visited or contacted Aunt Tulula for an entire year. Time was mostly irrelevant to Mataio—irrelevant but for the twenty years.

  Though he still had his key, he knocked on the door. He heard the shuffle of his aunt’s approach, the door opened and there she was. The woman who’d taken him in at fifteen years of age and cared for him like one of her own, unconditionally. Her hair was greyer and there were more than twelve months’ worth of lines on her face since the last time he’d seen her.

  “Mataio,” she said. There was comfort in the sound of his Samoan name spoken correctly. The lilt of the vowels just right.

  “Hi, Aunt Tulula,” he replied.

  She reached out and grabbed him around the back of the neck and he let himself be dragged into her embrace. The human contact felt wrong and he fought away the guilt, allowing the embrace only for her own good. She needed it. It was for her, not him.

  “Come inside now,” she demanded, her hand still around his neck, dragging him like he might disappear.

  She pushed him ahead and he walked down the corridor to the kitchen where the smell of fried chicken and pork buns made him giddy. He locked the feeling down. He couldn’t refuse the meal, so he’d eat only enough to satisfy his aunt. He’d had practice at eating without tasting. He focused on his aunt as she served the meal.

  “Do you have enough money, Aunt?”

  The serving spoon jarred loudly against the plate as she piled it high. “Yes, plenty of money.”

  The house was a dump. The landlord took advantage of her not caring. He’d move Tulula somewhere nicer except she’d never voluntarily leave this house.

  Mataio chose his words carefully. “This house is looking pretty run down. I thought you were going to call the landlord? You can afford a maintenance man, Aunt. A gardener even.”

  Aunt Tulula let go of the serving spoon and it dropped to the floor, and Ipo, Junior’s black Labrador, shuffled over and licked it. His belly dragged along the ground as he walked, his legs appearing shorter than they actually were. His aunt had given the dog to Junior in the hopes he’d walk it for exercise, but he’d never connected with the animal and it had been neglected. His aunt allowed the dog inside because it ate the leftovers, so it rarely went outside and was never walked. The more it ate, the less inclined it was to move. It wouldn’t be long before its legs wouldn’t be able to hold up the weight of its body.

  “Mataio, I’m too busy to worry about such things,” said Aunt Tulula, referring to the condition of the front of the house. She grabbed a clean spoon from the drawer and resumed her serving.

  There was no point making a deal of it. She would never leave this house.

  “How is he?”

  “Like you care.”

  “Aunt—?”

  “Where’ve you been, Taio?” she implored, and swung a large plate of food in front of him. “It’s been a year.”

  “I told you, I—.”

  “Eat,” she said, and sat opposite him on the table and watched. There would be no avoiding it. Food was how she showed her love and there would be too many questions if he refused. She watched him pick up a piece of chicken and sat poised ready to load up Mataio’s plate again as soon as he’d made some room on it. He nibbled at the sides of a chicken wing.

  “You’re so skinny, Mataio. You need to eat.”

  He wasn’t skinny. He was thickset, fit and strong and carried enough muscle to keep most muggers at bay. But in her eyes, he carried nothing to spare, which translated to ‘no-one loved him’.

  He took a large bite of pork bun, ignoring the flavours that lit up his taste buds. Eight years of hospital food had served his purpose well. “How is he, Aunt?”

  Aunt Tatula shook her head and clicked her tongue. She picked up a pork bun and tore it in two, placing half in her mouth and chewed furiously. She swallowed hard before speaking. “He’s worse, Mataio. He just sleeps and eats. I can’t clean him properly. He can’t move.”

  “I think I can help him Aunt, but it’s quite extreme.”

  “But it’s not a diet, right? You promised you wouldn’t put him on a diet.”

  “Not a diet, not exercise. It’s a medicine.”

  “Are you sure, Mataio?”

  “Do you trust me, Aunt?”

  She let out a long breath. “He’ll lose weight, even eating the same things he normally eats?”

  “Yes.” Mataio struggled to find the words to explain it so she would understand. “Because the body won’t convert the food to fat.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “I made it.”

  His aunt chewed silently awhile. “How do you know it works?”

  “I’m not sure it will. It’s not been trialed on humans before. Only rats and rabbits.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “We have three choices. You stop feeding him, he lives. You keep feeding him, he dies. Or you keep feeding him and we try this serum. It’s completely your decision.”

  Mataio put his mostly uneaten plate of food on the floor for Ipo and watched as he guzzled it in just a few gulps.

  “How does it work?”

  “I’ve found a way to interfere with the receptors on enzymes to prevent them from—”

  “I don’t really care how it works, Taio. Just that it will.”

  “There are no guarantees.”

  “But you’ll bet your cousin’s life on it.”

  “I’d bet my dying cousin’s life on it, yes.”

  Aunt pushed her uneaten plate away and Ipo stood by the table poised. “Where does it go? The fat?”

  “What doesn’t get used in energy will be released in urine and sweat.”

  “So, they’ll be more to clean up?”

  “I’ve got a team coming in to help with that.”

  “I don’t know, Mataio.”

  “I will stay. At least for a while.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on the dosage and how he responds. I’ll have to monitor him and see.”

  His aunt stood slowly to clear the dishes and Ipo followed her to the sink. “Side effects?”

  “Like I said, Aunt. It’s not been trialed on humans before. There are risks.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Aunt Tulula turned on the taps and began washing trays.

  “Aunt, if you don’t do something, he’ll be dead before the end of the year. His heart, all his organs, are under enormous strain just to keep the body alive.”

  “I know that, Mataio. I know that.”

  Mataio patted his aunt’s shoulder, picked up a towel and began wiping. Tears slid silently down his aunt’s face as she wrestled with her choice. He waited, but he knew the decision was already made. As he stacked the plates on the bench he stared at the photograph above the gas heater. The same photograph in the same frame in the same position, even after all these years. Frozen together as one happy family. He’d wished, as a teenager, he’d been born into this family rather than his own. Four smiling faces; his aunt and Uncle Akamu, and their two children, his little cousin Junior and his bigger cousin, his favourite—everyone’s favourite, cousin La’ei. She was so beautiful. Everyone had adored her, the only girl in a tribe of boy cousins. She ruled over them like a queen and her parents always, always took her side if there was an argument in the backyard rugby game. How different things would be if she were here.

  “What about Uncle? Has he been to visit?”

  Her silence spoke her response. He wasn’t sure why he still asked the question after all this time. The answer never changed.

  Mataio’s extended family hadn’t been to visit since his own mother’s funeral. His Uncle returned to Samoa nineteen years ago and still hadn’t ret
urned. Aunt Tulula managed alone. She was Mataio’s responsibility now.

  Five minutes later, the doorbell rang, and he put down the dish towel slowly and took a step closer to his aunt.

  “Should I let them in?”

  Aunt Tulula lifted up her face to him and nodded her agreement.

  Mataio patted her shoulder again and asked, “Will you go tell Junior, or would you like me to?”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, drying her hands.

  “Okay. I’ll go brief the team.”

  Five

  TULULA

  Tulula threw the clean sheet over the bed and tucked in the corners to Mataio’s single bed. It had been almost a decade since he’d slept there, and she had to search a while to find a sheet that fit. It smelt old and musty and she considered washing it again but decided against it. Changing sheets had become a twice daily routine for Junior and she didn’t have the strength right now.

  She’d woken Junior and told him Mataio was bringing in some people to help make him more comfortable. Make him healthy again. He hadn’t asked any questions. Hadn’t objected. Just mindlessly ate his meal and watched a rugby game. She hadn’t given any details. What was the point?

  Talulua shook out the quilt and held the corners with the cover over her hands and shook it into place, barely noticing she’d selected the long corners instead of the short.

  Just this morning, she’d thought about Junior’s funeral. Would Akamu come or would she be left to grieve on her own? The very thought of it—no gifts, no ceremony, no family. How would they get him out of the house and into a coffin? She didn’t want to think those things, but she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t deny he was dying. He’d stopped toileting himself six months ago, unable to get out of bed. The sores in the folds of his skin continued to get infected, as his interest in television and gaming waned. He slept all the time. Slept and ate.