by PJ Vye
“Talofa, Laitiiti,” said Junior.
The girl squealed in delight saying, “Toe, toe.” Again, again.
Sunny crossed to the kitchen and made coffee as they played. Junior joined her when he’d tired of the game—much sooner than his niece.
“Nice to see you, Junior,” said Sunny. “What’s wrong?”
“What? Can’t I come visit without a reason?”
“Of course, you can. You just never do.”
Tulula must be putting pressure on Junior again. Having her son marry Sunny tied everything up in a lovely bow for Tulula. “You look great, by the way,” Sunny added.
There was a time when Junior couldn’t lift his own arms above his head, let alone a toddler. His weight had stabilised in Samoa, and he’d never looked healthier.
“I want to show you something.” He pulled out his phone then sat down beside her at the table to drink his coffee. Atali got sick of pulling at his leg with no response, and settled back down on the floor with the blocks.
He showed Sunny a photo of a Samoan woman, younger than her and alarmingly beautiful. “Who is she?” The light on Junior’s face made it pretty clear, but she allowed him his moment.
“My girlfriend.”
“Get out,” teased Sunny, and punched his arm.
“Poe. She’s one of the Malietoa Aiga. I met her three months ago when I took that tour group up to the north coast.”
“And she likes you?” Sunny smiled as she sipped her coffee. “What are the chances?”
Junior chuckled deeply for a moment, then turned serious. “I’m going to marry her, Sunny.”
Wow. The man moved fast. Sunny supposed once you’ve cheated death, you’ll grab every moment and not waste a minute. “When?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t even asked her yet. I guess I just wanted to be sure you were okay with it?”
“Of course, Junior. I’m so happy for you.”
“Mum sort of—”
“Junior, I’ll always be grateful for the protection you’ve given us. But we’re okay now. It’s time to move on. Can I come? I’ve never been to a Samoan wedding before.” Sunny quickly added, “Have you told your mother?”
“Not yet.”
Sunny touched his hand and squeezed it. “Good luck.”
Junior tapped his free hand on the table, his eyes darting.
Sunny knew the look. “What else?”
“How did you know?” Junior smirked.
“This new girlfriend is going to walk all over you,” said Sunny. “Your face is an open book.”
“I can’t marry Poe until I have some money together. There’s a guy I met today. He’s going to give me money for the story. And a few medical tests.” His hand stopped its rhythm on the table and he looked directly at Sunny. “I’m going to do it.”
Her heart thudded its answer. Just when she thought the past was behind her, it had a way of creeping up and slamming itself in her face. She didn’t want to relive her story through the eyes of a million newspaper readers. What would they think of her? The woman who loved a killer.
“Sunny, I think you should let him interview you as well.”
“No chance.”
“Look at you. You’re working so hard. With the money he’d give you, you could afford to fly back to the UK. See your dad.”
“It’s not my story to tell, Junior. You go ahead. I can’t.”
“Trouble is, he needs to test Atali as well, as my descendant.”
“She’s not your descendant, Junior.”
“He doesn’t need to know that.”
“No, Junior.”
“He’s trying to prove the drug is dangerous,” he went on. “Obviously, it’s not.”
“Atali’s not getting involved.”
“We give him what he wants, he pays us. It’s easy money,” he said.
Sunny let out a big sigh, picked up the coffee cups and dropped them in the sink. “Imagine what Mataio would think, Junior, if he knew we essentially sold her off for money.”
“That’s a bit dramatic. She’ll need a physical and a blood test. That’s it. And why are you still talking about Mataio like he knows or cares? You haven’t told him, have you?”
“No.”
“Has he answered any emails or letters?”
Sunny shook her head, and checked Atali wasn’t listening. Not that she’d understand. Soon she would, though. What would Sunny tell her about her father?
“This guy, Laurence, came to see me too. Yesterday,” said Sunny.
“What did you think of him?”
“He said he knows why Mataio killed La’ei.”
Junior stood, patted Atali on the head and opened the door. “Who cares why he killed her? La’ei’s dead. She’s not coming back. Mataio may as well be dead, too. Forget him. Get on with your life.”
Atali began to cry and reached for Junior. “Noona, Noona.”
Sunny picked up Atali and carried her to the door. “I can’t let it go, Junior. I have to know why.”
“Fine. Let Laurence tell you. Just make sure he pays you as well. You need the money.”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek, squeezed Atali’s outstretched hand, turned and closed the door behind him. Atali flung back her head and screamed.
“It’s okay, Atti—let’s play blocks again.”
“Me Dadda. Me Dadda,” she cried.
Sunny cursed Tulula.
“Not Dadda. Uncle Tuagane. Uncle Junior.”
Atali wriggled until Sunny put her down and she ran to the door and threw herself dramatically against it.
Sunny knew exactly how her daughter felt.
Chapter Seven
Laurence stepped inside Sunny’s apartment and felt a powerful gratitude, not for the first time, for an air-conditioned room. He’d walked from his hotel and the heat and humidity made what would have normally been an easy four kilometre walk, much harder.
He’d been surprised when Sunny suggested they meet at her own apartment, but he guessed she felt reasonably secure, knowing she had an entire Samoan clan on her side should she need it.
“Did you walk here?” she asked as she gestured him inside.
“Yeah,” he answered, and tried to shrug the stuck shirt away from his back. He was conscious of the wide circles of sweat under his arms and neck and gratefully took the glass of water she handed him.
“How do you have your coffee?” she asked.
He downed the glass before answering. “Same as whatever you’re having.” She seemed unimpressed with his answer. If he’d known she had an actual coffee machine, he’d have been more specific.
The espresso and milk heating pump made conversation impossible, so he looked around the room while he waited. Decorated with only a few basics—a couch, an armchair, a table with two chairs and a high chair. All dated. Nothing matched. No TV. Classical music played quietly from a room somewhere. There was no sign of the girl, but he assumed she napped—hence the reason they were here and not in the cafe he’d suggested.
“How long ago did you see Mataio?” she asked as she handed him a mug and sat down.
“Two weeks ago.”
She sat higher and stopped mid-sip. “Really?”
What was the deal here? He’d made a living interviewing people, reading people. He was good at it. His instincts got him on the payroll at The Conservator at a time when there hadn’t been a permanent job in journalism in years. He could dig deep, take risks and put two and two together, and usually come up with the answer no-one else imagined. So, when his instincts told him Sunny’s mood seemed ‘heightened’ at the mention of Mataio, he trusted it.
“What was your relationship with Mataio?” Never underestimate the power of asking the obvious question upfront.
Sunny stared at the mug in her hands and shrugged. “He was like a brother.”
“Did you trust him?”
She waited, like she was weighing up her answer. “No.”
“Why no
t?”
“Mataio lived with a lot of secrets,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“How did you know?”
“He was guarded about everything. Detached.”
“But you never suspected?”
“That he killed his own cousin? Never.”
“Do you hate him now?” A classic question, designed to take the interviewee by surprise. Strong words like hate and love always elicited a more emotional response.
He didn’t get the reaction he expected. She blushed. He might have just asked her if she’d ever shoplifted.
She was about to answer when a sound made her turn. A small human approached sleepily. “Mummy,” the little girl said, before climbing onto her mother’s lap.
The two couldn’t contrast more. The mother was as blonde and white as the Swedish. The daughter was a delicious velvet-brown, from her hair to her tiny toes. Curled in together, they looked like a Top Deck chocolate bar, half melted. The girl snuggled into her mother’s neck and sucked her thumb.
An unfamiliar lump pressed in Laurence’s throat. He tried to cough it away but it wouldn’t budge. He wanted to take out his phone and photograph them, for no reason he could explain.
Sunny looked up suddenly and caught him staring. He knew he should look away. He needed her to trust him. To believe in his honesty and integrity. His gaze locked on hers and wouldn’t move.
“Mummy,” said the girl again and sat up abruptly, her mouth still full of thumb. She peeked at him cautiously and he gave a tiny wave.
“Hello.”
She ducked her face into her mother again. “Atali, this is Laurence,” said Sunny. “You want to say hello?”
Atali shook her head up against her mother’s arm.
“You’re lucky to have air-conditioning,” he said, conscious he now had a young audience.
“I really can’t afford it. I just didn’t think I could survive without it. Rent on this place is twice the price of the place next door with only ceiling fans. I still think it’s worth it.”
“I agree,” he said, giving them both a wide smile. “You think you’ll ever get used to the heat?” It was a loaded question but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Never.” She smiled at him and her kid sat up and rested a tiny hand either side of her mother’s face, like smiles were precious and needed to be noticed.
Sunny put the toddler down to play on the rug between them, and stacked a few blocks to get her started. When she went to leave, the girl complained, so she sat beside her and continued to build blocks as she spoke. “What’s your article about, exactly?”
He joined them on the floor and started building a block tower of his own. The kid stopped a second to watch, then began to copy his design. “There’s been a lot of speculation about Mat and why he’d release the drug patent for no money. He could have employed the best lawyers in the world. Probably got his sentence reduced to just a few years. It was almost like he wanted to go to prison.”
Sunny didn’t give any indication she knew the answers, but he’d bet she had a pretty good idea. He continued to casually stack blocks as Atali knocked them over and giggled hysterically with every tumble. It was hard not to laugh along with her. He pretended to be upset, which made her laugh even more.
Making friends with his informants had always helped land Laurence the information he needed, often without much effort. Once they trusted you, you didn’t even need to ask the questions. They just volunteered the information. And everyone knew the best way to get a mum to trust you was through their kids.
The other trick was to walk with a permanent slouch. People were more likely to trust a guy with a slouch.
Atali began knocking over Sunny’s blocks as well and it distracted him a while. That thickness in his throat continued and he found it hard to focus.
“You mentioned, at the cafe, something about wanting to stop the drug—what did you call it?”
“The BrinnThin. That’s what they’re calling it on the street. It’s pharmaceutical name is C2HO.”
“What’s the problem with them releasing it to the general population?”
“I think the sale of this drug needs to be tightly regulated.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t tell her the real reason why. Not yet. “Safety.”
“You think it’s not safe?”
“Will you agree to a blood test for Atali?”
Sunny frowned and indicated to lower his voice. The kid didn’t seem to notice.
“How much are you paying?” she asked eventually.
“Not much.”
“What? You can afford a nice hotel and an in-room massage, but there’s nothing left for a child who has to undergo invasive medical testing for your information?”
“Something like that.”
“Junior said you were paying him—enough to marry the girl he’s been seeing. Why does he get money and not Atali?”
“I spoke to him first. There’s not much left.” It was true. He would’ve offered more if he could. He would’ve given her just about anything. At some point, he might have to stop and think about why that was.
The block tumbling game came to an abrupt end as both adults stopped building. Atali waited a moment then began building and knocking down her own blocks, watching for a response but getting none.
“So what made you think I’d agree, without any incentives?” asked Sunny.
“I thought you might be interested in an exchange of information.” He knew he had her. The curiosity was imprinted on her face. The expression was universal.
“Tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you if it’s worth my daughter’s blood.” As soon as she said it, she must have realised how dramatic she sounded. They both laughed simultaneously, which made Atali jump in fright—which made them laugh even louder.
He shouldn’t be laughing. He’d been on this trail for over a year. Meeting with Mataio had been his only windfall in the entire process. There were just over two months before they released the diet drug, and he’d need that and more to get his message out there—and heard.
Despite all that, in this moment, nothing seemed funnier than the confused expression on the two-year-old’s face.
He wiped a tear from his eye and pulled a bunch of envelopes from his bag. “At the risk of sounding like a line from a Scorsese film, you need to see this.”
Sunny seemed to recognise the handwriting and took the envelope he offered, her eyes drawn to the pile. She opened one without looking at the address and slowly unfolded the letter inside.
“Mummy?”
Laurence tried to distract Atali with blocks but she wouldn’t be swayed. She was obviously too concerned for her mother as tears—presumably not the happy kind—began to run silently down Sunny’s face.
Chapter Eight
“What’s the matter? You don’t want to talk to me?”
Mataio shrugged.
“You don’t wanna be friends with Kimbo?”
Mataio tried to make himself look as small and non-threatening as possible. Difficult given his thick frame and muscle mass. “What do you need, Kimbo?”
“Just wanna thank you, that’s all. Don’t look so worried.” Kimbo slapped him on the shoulder, and dug in his fingers in a gesture that felt nothing like gratitude.
“You got the money,” said Mataio, not as a question. He didn’t want to fight, but he didn’t want to appear weak either. Or stupid. “Laurence said he followed all the instructions.”
“Yeah, that reporter guy came through—10K in my account. Safe and sound.”
“Good.” Another three metres forward and he’d be in sight of the cameras. Mataio tried to move, but Kimbo blocked his path.
“I’m gonna need more. Before I leave.”
“I told you it was a one-time thing. I got no-one else on the outside to help me.”
Kimbo didn’t look convinced. “What about this Laurence guy?”
“He’s gone back to the UK now to write the
story.”
Kimbo nodded slowly, the silence stretching. His two mates stood watching at either end of the non-manned section, pretending not to listen.
Mataio couldn’t be sure if Kimbo was thinking of his next angle or just waiting for him to change his mind. When Mataio made no move to continue, Kimbo jolted toward him—not touching any longer—but to scare.
Mataio didn’t react, not to defend himself or show aggression. He stood there like an old person, aware the end was coming and hoping he could stay calm enough to not kill the guy.
Kimbo ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and looked at one of his mates over his shoulder. “You don’t want to be friends with Kimbo?”
Mataio imagined Kimbo’s intimidation tactics usually worked for him. Mataio shrugged.
“You don’t need friends, huh. Out there, you’re a big, famous, fuckin’ drug lord.”
Mataio didn’t bother to correct him. The difference between a man who invented a cure for obesity and a drug trafficker would be lost on a man who spoke about himself in the third person.
“In here,” Kimbo indicated himself and his mates. “In here, you’re just a fuckin’ guy standing between me and what I fuckin’ want. You understand me, you piece of shit?” Kimbo burped and blew it into Mataio’s face. It smelt like rotten teeth.
Mataio stayed impassive and answered slowly. “There isn’t a single person on the outside who wouldn’t hang up the phone if I called them.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Kimbo yelled. He leaned in and spat on the ground at Mataio’s feet. “Looks like we won’t be fuckin’ friends, don’t it?”
“I guess,” said Mataio, unsure if the conversation was over.
After a moment, Mataio leaned down and picked up his text book, but as he stood, Kimbo snatched it from his hands and ripped it in two. He held both pieces in front of Mataio’s face and hissed. “Are you sure you want to be Kimbo’s enemy? I wouldn’t recommend it. You understand?”
Mataio held out his hands for the book as he took a slow, determined breath to calm his heart rate. He needed that book. He had himself under control. He wouldn’t let Kimbo rile him. Even if the thug smashed his head against the ground and broke all his teeth, Mataio would not let his anger take control of him again.
