by PJ Vye
The place wasn’t without controversy. Sunny and some of the other staff occasionally wondered about the ethics of the director when she seemed to live a life of independent wealth. Her clothing was always tailor-made from the best Samoan fabrics, her nails and hair were manicured weekly and she never ate with the staff and children. The vague explanation of being left a large amount of money from a former husband in the US, sounded like an excellent cover story.
Sunny kept herself under the radar of the rumours. She needed the job, though not because of the meagre pay. Three hours of English tutoring once a week barely covered the cost of the bus ride. But for those three hours she could access free internet and dedicate the time to improving her Samoan/English language skills. Sometimes she got paid in nappies, rice, and sanitary products—donations from tourists wanting to do something to help, but not wanting to give money. It surprised her how much she enjoyed working with the young children. It stopped her from dwelling on her own pain. The children had a way of making you feel grateful for everything you had.
The kids and young mothers, almost all of them sexually and violently abused, were growing up resilient and strong with an attitude that made those around them feel like everything would be okay. They called Violoa their saviour and sang songs to her that almost verged on sainthood. They loved to sing and dance, and so did Sunny.
Sunny grabbed a ukulele from the storage closet, said a quick hello to Aby in the kitchen, then sat in the square—a covered concreted shelter with no walls.
Carrie, a twenty-something volunteer and teacher from Sweden, arrived with a large group of five-to-twelve-year-olds, all dressed in a variety of Anglo-looking clothes. Most didn’t fit them properly and nothing matched. They all had a ‘uniform’ of sorts—t-shirts with the Upolu Victim Refuge emblem on them—paid for by another generous supporter, but the shirts were kept for special occasions.
The children sat down without much enthusiasm until they saw the ukulele behind Sunny’s back. Learning English words and phrases wasn’t much fun, and many of them found concentrating for longer than a few minutes, incredibly difficult. Head injuries and brain delays weren’t uncommon, and rote learning equaled torture for many. A lesson with a ukulele meant fun.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Sunny,” they all replied in their usual sing-song way.
“Laui, how has your day been so far?” Sunny asked, slowly pronouncing each word carefully.
“Very good, thank you, Miss Sunny.” The ten-year-old boy spoke in English, his toothless smile wide as he sorted his restless feet beneath him.
Carrie sat opposite Sunny in the circle, and as soon as her legs were crossed, Lani, a tiny five-year-old, moved into her lap, her finger in her mouth. Lani had come from a family in the mountains only a few months ago, and was so malnourished, she could only swallow milk. Her body was the size of Atali. Sunny had never heard her speak, and wondered if the first words out of her mouth would be Samoan or English. She gave the girl a smile now.
“Who remembers the words we learnt last week?”
No hands went up.
Sunny repeated the question in Samoan. Still no hands. Just a few confused looks.
Carrie shrugged her shoulders. Her Samoan was worse than Sunny’s.
“We learnt the names of family, remember?”
Simbo, a skinny girl with short hair and wide eyes stuck her hand up suddenly. Simbo liked to be right. “Mother.”
“Yes, thanks Simbo. A mother is what?”
“A girl who has a baby.”
“Excellent. Everyone say, Mother.”
Some of the children responded. Some said it after the others.
Sunny continued. “Father.”
The children mimicked the word.
“Brother.”
“Brother.”
“Sister.”
“Sister.”
“Good. Now who can remember the first word again? The word for ‘tina’?”
Silence. Simbo put her hand part way up, then dropped it.
It wasn’t unusual for them not to remember these words from one week to the next. For any kind of real progress, they needed help with their English every day, not weekly.
Sunny reached for the ukulele behind her back and a cheer went up. She pulled it from its case and tuned it quickly. They started to sing the tuning notes.
“Okay, okay, shhh.” She gestured the instruction with her finger to her mouth.
The students settled and she strummed a few chords. It wasn’t the first time she’d put words to music. The days of the week, the months of the year, animals, furniture, fruit. She had songs for them all. She wondered why she even tried to teach the normal way anymore.
“Tata le pese I le aso gafua,” they cried.
The song called Days of the Week was their favourite, and many of them were already singing it, on their feet and moving around. Why they could pronounce words in song and not in speech astounded her. Someone had probably written a thesis on it somewhere in the world, but here in this little corner of the globe, with no experience as a teacher, Sunny had fallen upon the only way to get a good result.
“Let’s do the names of the family first,” Sunny said loudly over the noise. “Let’s sit and say ‘family’.”
She indicated to sit and some did. Others groaned but quickly sat when Violoa crossed the yard. The director’s disapproval was clearly evident in her drawn-on eyebrows.
Everyone sat quickly and Sunny waited until Violoa entered her office before she began strumming again. Violoa had made it clear there was a time and place for music and dancing, but it wasn’t in the English class. Sunny would be called in to explain herself again, and likely be receiving her payment in toilet paper and rice instead of cash this week.
Sunny improvised some chords in a key higher than her comfort zone, but better suited for young children’s voices.
“Mother, mum, mother, mum
A baby calls her mother, Mum
Father, father, daddy, dad
A baby calls her father, Dad
Dad, Mum, Daughter, Son
Brother, Sister having fun.”
Sunny sang each line and the kids mimicked her, working their tongues around the consonants in a way they found foreign but persevered for the sake of the tune. Once she noticed their concentration drifting, she stood and played renditions of all their favourites.
They sang and danced and cheered. Some even called out the words, proud of their mastery. Carrie filmed them as they jumped around but everyone knew never to post anything publicly. The kids’ anonymity was strictly protected at the refuge. For very good reason. Some parents didn’t even know their children were there.
The kids had come up with some actions for the Fruit Song, and Sunny watched with her mouth open. “Where did you learn those moves?” Then repeated the question in Samoan.
A few of the students pointed to Carrie. “You? I love it.”
“It’s your song, Sunny. I think we’re going to do actions for the Furniture Song next. It really helps them remember.”
“It’s perfect. Thanks Carrie.”
“No problem. You staying for dinner?”
“Yeah. I think so. Tulula’s staying the night with Atali so there’s no rush.”
“In that case, let’s go get some dinner at Scalini’s,” suggested Carrie. “I’m dying for a steak. And there’s been a few things happening here since I saw you last week.”
Sunny dismissed the kids and they ran off to the yard. How long had it been since she’d had drinks and dinner with a friend? She hadn’t known Carrie long, but the young woman seemed like friend potential. How was she supposed to make friends if she didn’t do something social once in a while?
But… the cost. She had to save money and eating out didn’t fit her budget. Besides, Carrie was only here for a few months, and then she’d go back to Sweden and Sunny would be back to zero friends. “Can we eat here, then go for a dr
ink?”
Carrie shrugged. “Sure. You go pick up your pay check, and I’ll meet you in the food hall.” She looked disappointed and Sunny couldn’t blame her. Food hall meat mash couldn’t compare to a Scalini steak.
Not that she’d ever had one. But she’d heard.
Still, she couldn’t imagine any steak tasting as good as what it would mean to see Mataio face-to-face and get answers to the questions that burned inside her.
Chapter Thirteen
Sunny climbed into the passenger seat of Carrie’s 1990 Toyota Corolla and tried to fasten her belt.
“Sorry, doesn’t work. Mine does, so that’s the main thing,” said Carrie with a smile.
Seatbelts were a bit of an option in this country and Sunny had never heard of anyone fined for not wearing one.
Carrie drove like a child might, muttering instructions as they went. Turn left here. Watch the parked car, indicate, stop at red light.
“Is that a Swedish thing?”
“What?” she said, her eyes focused on the road.
“The narration.”
“Shhh. I’m concentrating.” Green light, go, merge right, slow down, indicate, turn left, find a park, find a park.
When Carrie was satisfied with her park—one that took her seven attempts and still left a wheel hanging over the white line—she turned off the car’s engine and looked at a silently smirking Sunny.
“What?”
“That’s the worst driving I’ve ever seen. Are you ninety years old?”
Carrie shrugged, grabbed her bag and climbed out of the car. “It’s my first time.”
“First time what? Driving in the city?” Sunny knew that couldn’t be right. Carrie had been in Samoa several weeks and she’d had the car for most of that time.
“Driving. It’s still all a bit new.”
“Carrie, do you even have a licence?”
She gave Sunny a knowing smile and walked ahead into the bar. “Of course not. No-one needs one of those here.”
“Oh my God,” Sunny stammered as she followed her into the courtyard of the bar. The sun had set and the temperature outside was cooler on the wooden seats and benches under the frangipani tree than inside. They ordered drinks and sat down.
“Did Violoa pay you today?”
Sunny shook her head and indicated a stash of tampons in her bag. “It’s about thirty dollars’ worth.”
Carrie moved closer and her eyes sparkled with controversy. “I’ve been hearing things.”
Sunny hadn’t noticed before, but now there were no distractions, Carrie’s love for drama was clear. “What have you heard?”
An elderly man with a bright purple shirt and white hair placed drinks on the table and Carrie smiled up at him flirtatiously. When he’d gone, she took a long sip and paused for effect. “There’s some mining magnate in the US who wants to properly fund the refuge—set it up as a charity organisation.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”
Carrie didn’t look impressed. “Only thing is, he wants complete transparency. He told Violoa she has to let accountants in—and she won’t do it.” Her voice rose and she leaned back in her chair.
Sunny took a sip and enjoyed the cold liquid on the back of her throat. Even the glass felt good in her hand. The heat could sometimes get to her. “Why do you think that is?”
“You know why. We all know why. She’s skimming cash. I mean, where does it all go?”
Sunny frowned and made a shoosh motion with her finger and mouth. “Careful, Carrie. The woman is considered a saint around here.”
“Only the people who don’t know better.”
“She’s got a lot of friends. Just keep your voice down.”
Carrie finished her drink with a loud slurp through the straw, and then took a swig of ice from the base of the glass and crunched it with her teeth. “She’s told this mining magnate guy to sod off and donate the same way everyone else does. Write a cheque and read the report.”
Opinion seemed to be divided on Violoa Tua and her refuge. Some applauded her philanthropy, while others suspected her of corruption, but any way you looked at it, she helped women and children when they had nowhere else to go.
“I’m going to try and find out some stuff,” announced Carrie.
“What do you mean?”
“Violoa’s in New Zealand next week. I’m going to access her computer.”
“How are you going to do that?” Sunny wasn’t sure she liked where this conversation was going.
“Everyone has their passwords written down somewhere.”
Sunny remembered how she’d found Judd’s passwords and she felt the pulse drum in her ears. “I don’t know.”
“What Violoa’s doing is wrong, Sunny. How can we know about it and not say anything?”
“What if you find something? What will you do then? There’s so much at stake. You call the police? They close the place down. Where do all the kids go then?”
“It won’t come to that.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll just find something to hold over her, and make her change what she’s doing.”
“You’re crazy. She’s never going to admit to that.”
“What? So, I shouldn’t even try?”
Carrie had her there. Everyone who worked alongside Violoa at the refuge had seen money exchange hands. Her income had to outweigh her spending at the refuge.
The donation system worked. When guests or tourists or dignitaries came to visit the refuge, all the children would sit in lines outside under the concrete shelter and sing a welcome song. A couple of teenage girls would speak about the atrocities they experienced at the hands of their families and how, without the refuge, they’d probably be dead. The words would be graphic and true, spoken in broken English, and the guests would gasp in horror at the injustice of it. Then the wallets and cheque books would come out. No-one could deny these children anything after hearing their stories.
Sunny remembered the first time she watched the event. A group of Australian tourists had been so disturbed by what they’d heard, they donated money for every child at the refuge to get Nike running shoes.
Come to think of it, that was over a year ago, and the kids were all still barefoot.
“It’s complicated, Carrie. She’s a smart woman. Extremely smart. She’s come from nothing and managed to create a refuge that’s known all over the world. It’s her life’s work. If she’s cheating—and yes, she probably is—you’d better be sure that taking her down is worth the sacrifice. Because you’re not the one who’ll suffer.”
“I just want to see the donations go to the kids. That’s all. It’s actually quite simple. Not to mention paying the sessional teachers what they deserve. Would you like more teaching hours so you can really make a difference with these kids?”
The idea of a proper wage and increased hours was enticing, but it still couldn’t convince Sunny to take on the might and power of Violoa. She was a formidable woman. “It’s a huge risk.”
“Will you help me?” Carrie asked.
Sunny felt a headache coming on. But the thought of all the barefoot kids who should have their Nikes by now, prompted her answer. “What would I have to do?”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ve reopened La’ei’s case,” wheezed Ronson.
A wave of lethargy rolled over Mataio and he suddenly wanted to sleep for a very long time. “Why?”
The detective leaned in. “I need you to keep this to yourself. Can you do that?”
“Who am I going to tell?”
Ronson transcended into another round of coughing and Mataio poured him a glass of water. Ronson didn’t acknowledge it, or drink from it. His voice cracked as he spoke. “You confessed to her murder, and I let it go.”
“Let what go?”
“My instincts.” Ronson coughed again, more controlled this time.
Mataio wondered how many two word answers it would take to get any kind of understandin
g from the man. He waited.
“The autopsy of La’ei matched the description of what you confessed to. Blunt force to cranium, cause of death.”
Mataio tried to block the image of La’ei on the ground, the blood running down her forehead where he’d hit her with the rock in his hand. He’d spent more than half his life trying to erase the image, but still it glowed in high definition—every drop, every detail.
“How many times did you hit her, Mataio?”
He couldn’t explain the details. Re-living it, remembering it, saying it out loud was a further betrayal. La’ei deserved to rest in peace. Mataio felt she suffered with every mention and it was why he’d refused to tell the lawyers, Ronson, or anyone, anything at all.
He’d killed her. End of story. No-one needed to know the details.
Mataio stared at his hands on the table, the same tactic he’d used through all the interviews. Ronson already knew he wouldn’t answer. So why ask again? Did he think time in prison might have changed his mind? Did he not realise twenty years of living by your own set of rules made you harder than anything a prison could inflict?
“I admit, I was in a hurry to wrap this one up,” said Ronson. “There was a lot of pressure coming from head office and the media were all over it because of the television confession. Drawing it out was going to take a lot of time away from my other cases—for Christ’s sake, I was looking for the Bristol kid and a missing daughter of a high-ranking police official at the same time you busted out with this news.”
Mataio couldn’t quite see where this was leading, only that there was some kind of point coming. He waited.
“I’m a fairly thorough man, by nature. I don’t like loose ends.”
Mataio could appreciate the truth in that. If La’ei had been missing and not dead, he would have appreciated Ronson’s perseverance. The man was a good detective. The urge to apologise seemed necessary but crass. So he said nothing.
“I’m coming to the end of my career, Mataio, and I couldn’t…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Finish up on the job, without checking this out first. How many times did you hit her before she died?”
