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

by PJ Vye

  In the back of his mind, Laurence had thought the illness of a little girl, a strong, jarring finale to his piece. It was easy to distance yourself emotionally when it was just a number on a page. Now that he’d met the girl, he realised what an arse he was for even thinking it.

  No-one wanted the drug to be proven harmful more than him. But not at the expense of a tiny two-year-old who smiled at him like he mattered.

  He’d need to find another finale.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mataio grabbed the first book he could reach from the stack beside his bed, lay down and opened a page randomly.

  He’d already read this book several times. He’d read almost every non-fiction tome in the mobile library. In theory, if he was ever released, he’d be able to sew his own quilt, service a car and identify a thousand different species of native birds. There wasn’t a lot else to do in prison if you wanted to keep to yourself.

  The Triggers That Kill was written by a guy in the States who’d killed his wife and kids with a kitchen knife. Mataio wondered if he should write a book. There was a good chance a publisher would be interested in his story. Laurence Williams had said as much. The idea of sifting through all the memories and emotions was as attractive to him as hosting a Tupperware party.

  When he reached the bit where he broke ‘The Rules’ and slept with Sunny——the memory of how he’d gotten out of bed and left her appalled him, and he breathed through the urge to punch the wall. It never got any easier—that instinct to lash out. If anything, it was harder to control in this place, a cesspool of men who couldn’t manage their impulses.

  Mataio heard footsteps approach and tensed. A short knock sounded before the door slid open, and a voice said, “Mat, you got a minute?”

  Chaplain Andrew entered the small space with the ease of a man who’d spent a lot of time in prisons, and with an unfaltering confidence that God would always protect him.

  The room wasn’t big enough for the both of them, and with the bed the only place to sit, the chaplain waited for his answer by the door.

  “Sure,” Mat answered. “Shall we walk?”

  In the month since Mat had transferred to the medium security prison, he’d not had a lot to do with this man of God. Word from some of the other inmates was he didn’t like to take sides, and could be depended on to keep a secret. Mataio never planned to put that to the test.

  They moved into step beside each other, neither speaking. Small talk wasn’t something Mataio had ever bothered to learn and the chaplain seemed content to focus on the footpath. Maybe he was praying? Mataio couldn’t be sure.

  “How are you settling in, Mat?” asked the chaplain.

  “Good.”

  Another long silence.

  “Any problems?” asked the chaplain.

  Mataio knew enough in his two years of prison time to know no-one ever admitted to having problems. “Nope.”

  “That’s good.”

  A flock of ducks flew overhead in formation, flapping noisily. Both men watched as the birds landed in the field beyond the fence.

  “Which God do you believe in, Pastor?” Mataio asked, his eyes still on the ducks as they searched for worms.

  The chaplain’s response was automatic. “God the Father, and our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “So, you believe a man can repent his sins?”

  “God is always listening. Ask for forgiveness in prayer, Mat. He will show you the way.”

  Mataio nodded and brought his attention back inside the fence. The grass needed a mow and it had only been mown the day before yesterday. Last night’s rain combined with today’s sunshine made everything sparkle. Even the eucalyptus trees looked perky and clean.

  “Will you call me Andrew?”

  “Is that your name?”

  The Chaplain tried not to smile, but couldn’t. “Can I call you, Ma-t-a-io?”

  “You can try.”

  “Say it like you’d say it.”

  Andrew practiced the name a few times, stumbling over the vowels the way most Australians did. Not Sunny though. She’d gotten it right first go. He’d loved hearing her speak his name.

  “Mataio, what pains you?”

  “I’m all good, Pastor.”

  “Call me Andrew.”

  The chaplain might be a perceptive man, but Mataio had plenty of practice at being obtuse. “Are you allowed to marry, Andrew?”

  “Yes,” said the chaplain. “I have a wife and twin boys.”

  “That’s good for you.”

  “You ever wanted kids?”

  Mataio hadn’t expected the question. “I never really thought about it. Doesn’t matter much now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Life sentence. Isn’t that on my record somewhere? Surely they tell you that kind of stuff.”

  “Did you know my grandfather used to be a chaplain here?”

  Mataio shook his head.

  “He used to tell me stories when I was a kid about the men he met. The lives they’d lived. He saw a lot of men give up. There’s a number of stages an inmate will pass through when they’ve been given a life sentence, but if you can drag yourself through the stage that makes you think there’s no point going on, well, that’s where you can really find your purpose. And one thing he said—I’ll never forget it—was, ‘Never give up. God has a way of supplying exactly you need when you need it’. You see, Mataio, a life sentence is just a statement. It’s not an absolute. You can’t make a fact out of something that hasn’t happened yet. Your life isn’t over, Mat. Far from it.”

  “Even if that’s true, my genetics are best stopped with me.” Mataio hadn’t meant to admit so much.

  “Your father spent twenty-five years in prison,” stated the chaplain.

  So, he had read Mat’s record. “What a legacy.”

  “If you knew you’d get out in say, three years, how would that make today, different?”

  Mataio thought about it. “I’d prepare. I’d study more. I’d maybe learn a trade. I don’t know.”

  Andrew let the silence state the obvious.

  “But I’m not getting out in three years,” argued Mataio.

  “Your ommunity report says your participation of services is almost double that of everybody else in the place. You take every class, every workshop and program available, your library borrowing is quadruple the average, and you volunteer extra duties in the kitchen and yard. You don’t get into fights. You’re a model inmate.”

  “Prison is a holiday compared to what I’m used to.”

  “You were an ER doctor at St. Van Croft? The pace here must mess with your head.”

  “A bit.”

  “The prison board have asked me to talk to you about your self-imposed ‘no visitor policy’.”

  “Why?”

  “They feel it’s good for your mental health to have visitors. And there have been a lot of requests. Especially lately, given the…well, you know.”

  Mataio assumed he meant the upcoming release of C2HO. “My mental health is fine.”

  The chaplain indicated a bench in the shade and they sat and watched a pair of small finches search the grass for insects. A magpie swooped in and scared them away.

  “Truth is, the amount of interest in you is stretching our prison resources. There’s media applying for access from all over the world. Kristine in the office is overrun with calls and emails, and reporters tend to be a fairly persistent bunch. They’ve offered all kinds of incentives for access.”

  “You want me to help Kristine in the office?” Mataio asked dryly, but the chaplain didn’t laugh.

  “If you gave an exclusive interview, it would get everyone else off their back. While there’s no story out there, it’s fair game for everyone. They all want the story.”

  “Can’t you just tell them I’ve already given an exclusive interview?”

  “Have you?”

  “Kind of, but it was a few weeks ago and there’s been nothing printed yet.”

 
“Did you tell him why you…committed the crime.”

  The chaplain didn’t seem emotionally attached to the answer either way, and Mataio could think of no reason to not tell him. “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d say someone already has the exclusive then. We’ll do a statement to say as much. It might help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If it doesn’t, there’s talk of a transfer back to Barwon.”

  Mataio pushed around some gravel with his foot, and the birds scattered again. “Why?”

  “They have more resources to deal with high-profile prisoners.”

  “I prefer it here.” A man who wouldn’t fight back soon got a reputation as being easy prey for whatever desires took hold. Even with Kimbo threatening to pummel him to the ground, he’d rather take his chances here than back at Barwon.

  “God is always listening, Mataio. If you need to talk anything through, just ask. You know how to find me.”

  The chaplain stood. “People want to know your side of the story, Mat. They’re begging to know how a man could be a doctor and a murderer. It messes with people’s sense of balance. If you could find it in your heart, with God’s guidance, to tell someone—or everyone, the truth, it might go a long way for your own redemption, not only in the eyes of God, but in your own. Self-forgiveness is a holy thing. And it’s the only pathway forward.”

  He shook Mataio’s hand and then crossed himself. “Peace be with you.”

  As the chaplain walked away, the sun came out from behind a cloud and warmed Mataio’s neck and back. He closed his eyes and imagined he was in Samoa—a place he’d only ever dreamed about but felt spiritually connected to. Was this a sign from God?

  He’d delayed the gratification long enough. He had a letter waiting and he needed to hear her voice in his head, telling him all the mundane things she did each day in Samoa, leading the life he wanted to live. He’d write a letter back to her in his mind. How he missed her, how he dreamed they were together sometimes and woke up with stinging eyes. How her letters kept him alive. How he deserved the anger, the misery and the blame. He’d tell her how he wanted her to stop writing, because then he’d know she’d finally moved on from him—what he knew she absolutely must do.

  But the idea of not receiving her letters would kill him. He wasn’t sure how he’d go on when they stopped. Because then he’d know she was gone from him forever.

  He’d explain that he could never trust himself—he’d never make that mistake twice. One innocent woman dead at his hands was one too many.

  Sunny deserved so much more than he could give.

  But he’d never send that letter, whether he wrote it or not.

  Mataio turned toward his cell and purposefully avoided eye contact with the other men who’d stopped to chat in the sunshine.

  He did two hundred push-ups on the floor before he kicked off his shoes and allowed himself to read the letter. Every word sounded like poetry to him. The previous few letters had sounded more resigned, like she knew the Samoan lifestyle would be hard to get out of her system.

  She talked about Karina, her old school friend, and how she hoped she’d visit soon. He knew this would be good for Sunny. Karina might help her see that her future lay somewhere other than in her weekly letters.

  He folded the pages and placed it in the hiding spot along with the others. He had each one almost memorised. Her tone and her emotion attached to every stage as he’d been sentenced and imprisoned; her yearning to see him and to understand why. Then her obvious desperation for a reply. Some kind of response. Anything. The letters cycled through anger, sadness, and depression. Then resentment, and now resignation. He’d been surprised it’d taken this long to reach that stage. How much had he meant to her, really?

  So much more than he’d imagined. He couldn’t deny the part of him that revelled in her attention and her tenacity.

  He slid the panel back on the bookcase just as someone tapped on the door.

  “Yep?”

  “Sergeant Peters wants to see you.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now,” said the prison guard. He was new and Mataio couldn’t remember his name. His badge was too far away to read.

  Mataio put on his shoes and followed the guard to Sergeant Peters’ office. Another figure sat with his back to the door. As he made his way into the room, the man turned and nodded curtly.

  “Detective Ronson.”

  “Dr Brinn,” the man replied, not making any effort to shake Mat’s hand.

  “It’s been a long time,” Mataio said.

  The detective hadn’t aged well. The big stomach that used to hang over his belt had disappeared, leaving behind ill-fitting jeans and a belt too big to fit the pre-existing holes. His hair had all but gone and his beard, now grey and white, had overgrown to the point of looking like a bushranger.

  “Could we speak in private?” Ronson asked.

  Mataio couldn’t think of a single thing this man would have to say to him. He’d systematically hounded Mataio for twenty years to find the answers to La’ei’s disappearance, suspecting him the entire time. Now, Mat was here in prison, just where Ronson believed he should be. Was the detective here to gloat?

  Mataio agreed to the meeting. More from habit than anything else.

  Ronson turned to the sergeant, clearly expecting him to leave them. Sergeant Peters preferred to give orders, not take them, and certainly wasn’t going to be kicked from his own office. “I’ll find you a conference room.”

  “Of course,” said Ronson. Even his voice sounded different—softer and more compliant. His shoulders stooped as Mataio walked between the two men to a room he remembered from his first day of placement. The sergeant closed the door and walked away.

  Mataio watched as Ronson collapsed in a coughing fit. He didn’t try to assist the man, recognising the sound for what it was—a lung working at limited capacity. Cancer, most likely.

  Eventually, Ronson gained some control and swallowed hard. He didn’t apologise for the interruption. It wasn’t his style. He lifted his head to make eye contact with Mataio, and without any warning, said, “I made a mistake.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunny had managed to get Atali down for an afternoon nap by the time Tulula arrived. Her aunt let herself in with her own key and headed straight for the fridge to put away the groceries she’d bought to prepare a week’s worth of frozen dinners.

  “Hello, Aunt,” said Sunny, with an elastic band in her mouth as she brushed her hair into a ponytail. “Are you well?”

  Aunt Tulula clicked her tongue the way she always did when her head was in Sunny’s fridge. “Akamu has hurt his back again and can’t drive me home. I’ll have to stay in Atali’s room tonight.”

  “She’ll be so happy,” said Sunny, as she kissed Tulula on the cheek and collected her laptop and bag. “I’ll be home usual time.”

  “Whenever, Agelu,” Tulula said, in a voice too loud for a small apartment with a sleeping child.

  Sunny lowered the volume of her own voice. “I’ve been thinking about trying to get some work from home. Maybe giving massages from here. Put up a sign in the market. Cash in hand. What do you think?”

  Tulula stopped packing and looked up with fear in her eyes. “No, Sunny, no.”

  Tulula only called her by her actual name when she was upset.

  “Why not? I need to make more money.”

  “You want to bring in strangers to your house, while Atali is here? No. No no no.”

  “She’d be all right. I’d give her my iPad. She can watch kids shows while I work. Or I could book them while she naps.”

  “It’s too dangerous, child. You invite a man into your home, you are at his mercy. God only knows what could happen. Not just you, but Atali. No. I will never let you. Not here. Not in Apia.” Tulula stretched the grocery bag until it tore. She threw it at the table.

  “Okay, sorry. It was just an idea.” Sunny knew Tulula was right. It was a risk to bring strangers into
her home in Apia. She’d lived here long enough to know that.

  “Why do you need more money? You’re already working so hard.”

  “I’m trying to save.”

  “For what?” Tulula’s eyes narrowed and Sunny found it difficult to lie. They both knew the real reason.

  “In case anything goes wrong,” replied Sunny, unconvincingly.

  Tulula looked offended. “You got me. And Akamu. And Junior. Nothing can go wrong.”

  “I might want to buy a car. Then we wouldn’t have to rely on Uncle so much.”

  Tulula clicked her tongue and returned to the kitchen bench, measured out a spoon of yeast and added it to a bowl. “You’ll find another way to make money,” she said succinctly, the conversation clearly over.

  Sunny swallowed hard to tamp down what she knew would be a futile response.

  Tulula had flour on the board and a rolling pin in her hand by the time Sunny closed the door. She heard the radio switch on and the volume rise, no doubt in the hope Atali would wake. Sunny suspected Tulula often woke Atali on purpose, just for the company. Tulula had become a huge part of Atali’s life, and Sunny was grateful for her help, but it came with its own set of conditions and compromises. There was no point telling the older woman how she’d prefer Atali to be raised. She wouldn’t listen.

  Tulula would never agree to them travelling to Australia, for any length of time, and Sunny wasn’t sure how she’d manage to tear the child from her great aunt when the time came.

  The bus’s air-conditioning didn’t work properly, which wasn’t overly unusual. Sunny’s dress clung to her as she stood to exit. The camp, Upolu Victim Refuge, was a short walk from the bus stop, but there’d be no air-conditioning there either. Except for the director’s office–Violoa Tua’s room stayed a beautiful cool temperature all year round.

  Money was tight at the refuge, as you’d expect from an organisation that offered families a haven from domestic violence but received no government funding. They relied completely on the generosity of visitors, and Sunny’s wage often reflected this.