by PJ Vye
“That’s not how this works, Fucker.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“You think you’re in control? You’re not. I want cash. You got three hours.”
“You know I can’t access that much cash in one day.” Even if he had it, which he didn’t.
“For every hour after that, she loses something.”
“Bullshit, Kimbo. That’s not right. You touch her, you get nothing. Not so much as a fingernail. You hear me?” Mataio bit down on the panic. He knew what Kimbo meant by losing something and it wasn’t necessarily physical. She’d lose her pride, her self-respect and her dignity. He was capable of terrible things.
Mataio spoke deliberately and low. “I’ll organise something with a newspaper, but it will take a few days. Let her go and I’ll give you my word.”
“Your word means jack shit, Fucker. Three hours.”
“Let her go or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call the cops and I’ll mess her up so bad she won’t know her arse from her tits. You hear me?”
Mataio looked at the disconnected phone in his hand and a bead of sweat dropped onto the screen. Shit.
He checked the map and continued running to the pre-school. One thing at a time. One moment at a time. Control the things he could control.
The teacher stood just inside the front gate, a menacing frown on her face. She held Atali’s hand. “You got ID?” she asked.
Mataio found his licence and held it out. She barely checked before handing over the girl. Mataio looked at her hand in his and half expected her to refuse to go with him. “Hello, Atali.”
She didn’t answer and the teacher looked from Atali to him, conflicted. “Is this your dad, Atali?”
“Yes,” said Atali. Her voice lacked expression, yet despite this, the simple answer did something inside him.
The teacher seemed satisfied and left them together.
“We gotta go. Do you like piggy-back rides?” he asked.
Her expression changed instantly. “Yes.”
He leaned down and she jumped on. He had no idea where they were going. He had no idea what he’d do next. All he knew was he couldn’t fail.
“Mummy always lets me have ice-cream after kinder,” she said as they crossed the road and passed the 7-Eleven store.
“What sort of ice-cream?”
“Strawberry.”
That might work. They entered the store through the automatic entrance. New exit doors controlled by scanners had been introduced over the past few weeks on all 7-Eleven stores to prevent looting. “Mummy lets me scan the receipt to get out.”
“Let’s get your ice-cream first.”
She peered through the clear glass and he let her take her time as he formulated a plan. He had a contact from the last round of interviews. What was that guy’s name again? Laurence something? Laurence might be able to get him an advance. He searched his phone for the number, knowing it wouldn’t be in there.
It would be in his notebook at home.
Atali slid open the freezer lid and grabbed two Rainbow Paddle Pops. When Mataio raised his eyebrows, she said, “One for you and one for me.”
He paid with cash, avoiding eye contact with the attendant who recognised him but said nothing and gave Atali the receipt to scan them out of the store. On the street he watched her try to unwrap unsuccessfully. “Mummy usually does this.”
He took the hint, opened the wrapper and handed her back the stick. “Can you eat and walk?”
She laughed, a high-pitched melody that gave him goosebumps. “Yes, silly Daddy.”
He couldn’t speak for a minute and clumsily unwrapped his ice-cream. Once he’d steadied himself, he took her hand and they walked to the tram stop.
The ice-cream was all over her face, hand and arm by the time they reached his hostel. He took her to the bathroom and gave her a cloth to clean herself up. She missed most of it, so he tentatively took the cloth and wiped her himself. She sat there, compliant and patient, giving him only a few strange looks when he stuck a finger in her ears and up her nose.
The floorboards creaked as they walked to his bedroom, and he saw the hallway through her eyes, as if for the first time. Paint flaking, dirty walls and worn floors. This was no place for a kid. He threw his keys on the bed and said, “I have to make a couple of phone calls. What do you want to do?” He had absolutely no idea. He hoped she did.
“Where’s your TV?” she asked.
“Don’t have one.”
“Your iPad?”
He shook his head and she slapped her forehead in disbelief.
“Do you have any paper and colouring pencils?”
Mataio smiled at the query. “I have paper and a pen.” He found both and placed it on the only flat surface in the small room.
She slapped her forehead again. “Oh boy.” She drew something for ten seconds, and before he could get his phone out, she dropped the pen and asked, “Can we play a game?”
“As soon as I’ve made my phone calls.”
She didn’t like it, but resumed her drawing.
Mataio found the number and tried it. No answer.
He should call the police. They might know where Kimbo would take Sunny. There were so many things that could go wrong. Did he try and manage this himself, or get the police involved? Would they even listen to him? Sunny had only been missing a few hours.
Access to the money in a few days wasn’t unrealistic. The media were still scrambling all over themselves to get an interview. Especially now public opinion on the drug had turned with the food shortages. The rise in the cost of basic food and clothes, combined with hoarding, had shifted his status from hero to villain. Everyone needed a scapegoat—including the government for not placing stricter limits on its distribution.
Mataio had shunned the media offers. He hoped they’d still be available now he needed them.
He tried Laurence’s number again and this time the reporter answered.
“Hello?”
“Laurence, it’s Mat Brinn.”
The silence on the other end of the line made Mataio think he’d been disconnected.
“Mat,” he heard, eventually. “What can I do for you?”
“You remember how you set me up for that interview after I left prison? I need another one.”
“You sure you want to do that?”
“Yeah. I need the cash.”
It took a while for Laurence to answer. “I’m not sure you’ll get the same figures you got before.”
Mataio’s pulse quickened. “Why not?”
“The media have moved on, mate. After the C2HO exposé documentary, they’ve got other things to talk about. You go on a news show now, all you’ll get are attacks on your character.”
“I don’t care.”
“Why do you need the money so bad?”
“I have a situation. I also need it in advance.”
“Mate, I don’t think I can help you.”
Mataio found it hard to keep the frustration from his voice. “Can you give me the contact details of the producer at Sunday Tonight then?”
“I’ll text it to you. Is there anything you need help with?”
Mataio heard the curiosity in the man’s voice. Clearly, Laurence could sense a story. “That’s it. Send it through. Thanks,” he said, and disconnected the call.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. Atali glanced his way. “I want to go home now. Where’s my mummy?”
How was he going to save Sunny, give a national interview and pay a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bribe while minding a four-year-old? “Who looks after you, when Mummy can’t?”
“Laurence.”
She must have been confused. “No,” said Mataio. “I was on the phone to Laurence. I mean, who does your mummy get to look after you when she can’t. Like, when she goes out?”
“Laurence,” she said again, emphatically, and a little impatiently. “I told you.”
What were the chances
it was the same Laurence? Virtually nil. But still… “What does Laurence look like?”
“Spiky hair. Big feet.”
“Do you know his last name?”
Atali had grown sick of this line of questioning and stood. “I want to see Mummy now.”
“Does Laurence visit you very often?”
“He doesn’t visit.”
“Oh. How do you see him?”
“At our house.”
“So, he visits?”
Atali headed to the door and tried to open it. “I want to go home,” she whined.
How common a name was Laurence? “I’ve got to make another call. Then I’ll take you home.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The room smelt like stale mushrooms.
Her captor had led her blindfolded from the car to the room. He didn’t seem to notice she saw the house before he pulled the headband over her eyes, and she could still see the ground as she walked. The house looked like it came with an old aunt somewhere and the distant lawnmower and barking neighbourhood dogs gave the impression of middle suburbia.
The kidnapper covered her mouth roughly with gaffer tape. “No yelling, you hear me?”
Sunny nodded, terrified. Her legs didn’t seem to work like they normally did and she had to consciously put one foot in front of the other in order to move in the direction he pulled her.
“You do the right thing, and I won’t hurt you.” He released her hands from the jockey straps. “Much.”
His sinister laugh sent a chill through her as he bolted the door and the sound of footsteps receded.
She ripped off the headband and tape and wiped the sting from her lips. Was it a trick? Why gaffer and blindfold her, then release her hands?
She glanced around, vaguely aware she was in some kind of sitting room. The decades-old furniture was covered in dust and something else Sunny couldn’t quite name. Some kind of mould. She pulled apart the heavy curtains and dust billowed, making her cough. She covered her mouth with her arm and tried to lessen the sound.
The window was deadlocked and there were bars on the inside, also locked.
She’d seen his face. He had dirty blonde-red dreadlocks and a red even beard over his face, except for a bald circle patch on his left side where the whiskers hadn’t grown. Probably a scar. She could easily describe him for a sketch artist. What was with the blindfold if she’d already seen his face? In her limited experience of crime television, the only reason a kidnapper would show his face would be if he planned to kill the victim. Was he planning to kill her? He didn’t seem smart enough to kill and get away with it. Kill, yes. Get away with it. No.
She heard footsteps and she threw the curtains back into place and stuck on the gaffer tape, her hands shaking so hard it took her several attempts. There wasn’t time for the blindfold, but Dreadlocks didn’t seem to notice as he entered. He left the door to the room wide open.
“Do you know how to get the internet on this?” he asked, an old laptop in his hands.
The tape on her mouth didn’t stick properly and began to peel. She slowly removed it to speak. He didn’t seem to care.
“Why am I here?” she asked. Her voice might be steady, but her heartbeat was not.
“Can you help me with this or not?” he asked, and dropped the laptop into her hands.
She caught it and flipped it up the right way. With three clicks she had Google up on the screen. As he reached out to collect it, she snatched it away and disconnected. Her pulse raced as his face darkened. She stood her ground, instinct kicking in. “Tell me why I’m here and I’ll fix it again.”
His eyes blazed as he lifted his hand to slap her. She braced for the hit but his hand stopped before it made contact. She opened her eyes to see why, and that’s when he hit her, unguarded. She reeled backwards and the laptop was pulled from her hands.
He checked the browser but it wouldn’t work for him. “Fix it again,” he demanded.
She took a second to let the sting on her face fade. No blood. She’d live. “Ask me nicely.”
“Fuck off,” he said and thrust it back into her hands. “Do it now or I’ll fuck you up so badly, you’ll wish you’d invented fucking Google.”
“I’ll do it. Just say please.” She knew he could hurt her but some survival instinct told her she needed to stand up to him now or she’d suffer more.
His face contorted and spit formed between his lips. She watched his thoughts cross his face. This guy didn’t have some hidden agenda. He was too stupid for that.
“Here, let me show you. Like this… Please fix my computer,” she said.
“Please fuckin’ fix my computer.”
“Of course,” she said, and effortlessly put it online again. “Now, my turn. Why am I here?”
He slapped her again, not as hard this time, but enough to take his power back. “Because I said so, bitch. Now shut the fuck up.”
He immediately returned his attention to the computer and left the room, the now familiar sound of the bolt closing behind him.
The shock of her capture began to wear off over the next hour and she realised how crazy she’d been to stand up to him. Why hadn’t she been more scared? This guy might kill her. Or rape her. Or be holding her for someone else to kill or rape her. Did he want money? If so, why hadn’t he asked for it yet?
Would Laurence pick up Atali from kindergarten?
Sunny searched the room for something. She wasn’t sure what–maybe a weapon, or a way out, or a hint as to why she was there. The old fireplace was empty—no pokers or shovels. There were no pens or glasses or sticks. Just two old sitting chairs, a wooden table and a doily—dusty, old and useless.
She looked out the window at the street. She could be anywhere. It looked like a middle-class neighbourhood. Lawns mowed, fences maintained, streets clean. She could even smell a barbecue somewhere. If she could escape, any one of the people in the houses on this street would probably help her.
What if she screamed for help? Someone would have to hear. She could wait for someone to walk past, then yell. The idea didn’t sit well with her. If the passerby didn’t help, she’d lose her captor’s trust for trying to escape, and likely be even worse off.
She needed a plan. An active plan. One where she only had to rely on herself. All her life she’d navigated her decisions by other people’s judgements and needs. Her mother. Judd. Mataio. Tulula. Even Laurence. It as time to take charge of her own life. She’d thought Mataio was the key to her happiness. He wasn’t. She could almost hear the choir singing the revelation. If she kept walking through life accepting other people’s expectations, it was all she’d ever get. So, what did she actually want? She knew what she didn’t want. To be made powerless by a man. Any man.
She ran her hands along the window sill and something clanged against her hands. She pulled the edge of the curtain away and a small key hung on a nail on the corner frame. What were the chances?
She grabbed it and found the keyhole on the window bars. Just as she went to try it, she heard footsteps and the bolt slide across the other side of the door. She threw the curtains shut and turned. “What now?” she asked, as if she’d been terribly busy doing absolutely nothing.
“It’s stopped working again.” He was a mixture of frustrated and depressed.
“Are you okay?” She didn’t give a shit, but she worked hard to make her voice sound genuine.
“Just fix it.”
“Let me show you, so you can do it yourself next time.”
He nodded and watched as she clicked the wi-fi icon and selected it. His website loaded instantly. Spotify. In the search bar were the words, ‘Songs to tell someone you love them’.
Sunny desperately wanted him to leave so she could try the key.
“Trying to impress someone special?” she asked.
He lifted his eyes from the screen, and regarded her. “Got any ideas?”
“Of course. I’m a girl. What do you want to say?”
“Tha
t I want to fuck her.”
“Right. Nice. Well, girls like to hear that.”
He nodded, missing the sarcasm. “That’s what I thought.”
“Have you thought about sending her a playlist?”
“How do you do that?”
It was the perfect distraction. Get him searching endlessly for songs while she escaped through the window and disappeared.
“Here, it’s easy. You set up a name for your playlist. What’s her name?”
“Jonesy.”
Sunny wasn’t arguing. She set up a new playlist and called it, “I love Jonesy”. In the description she wrote, ‘Does she love me?’
Dreadlocks’ lips rolled into a huge, dirty-toothed smile. “Fuckin’ nice.”
“You can add any songs you like. Although I suggest you find songs she likes. Do you know who she listens to?”
His dreadlocks flopped as he shook his head. “Nah. Just put whatever you think.”
“It’s important you find the songs—in case she asks you about them. It’s easy. I’ll show you if you tell me why I’m here.”
He snatched the laptop away and tried to work it out for himself. He couldn’t. He conceded his answer. “Money.”
“Money. That’s it?”
He pushed the laptop back in her hands. Very slowly she searched a song and added it while she asked, “Who you getting money from?”
“Mat.”
Sunny stopped mid-click. How did she not guess? Of course, everything came back to Mataio. Her entire life always came back to Mataio.
“What makes you think he’ll pay money for me?”
Dreadlocks right-clicked the song, ‘Fuck Me Like You Hate Me’ and assigned it to the playlist. “You’re the girl who wrote him a letter every week,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“He had a photo above his bed.”
“He read the letters?” And had a photo of me in his room?
“Every fucking day, over and over. Kept them hidden too. Thought we couldn’t fuckin’ find ‘em. Dopey Shit-for-Brains.”
