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

by PJ Vye

  “Yes”

  “I used to think, if they all used their energy and time to go out and look for Le’ia rather than camp out on my street, maybe she’d be here today.”

  “I miss her too, Aunt. It never seems to get any easier.”

  “Where is she, Taio?”

  “I don’t know, Aunt.”

  “Yes, you do. Where is she, Taio?”

  Mataio stared at her awhile with the same sorrow filled, lonely eyes he always showed her when she asked him that question and eventually, he turned and walked out of the room.

  How she wished he would tell her.

  Thirty-Six

  MATAIO

  15 days to go

  Mataio couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. The hallway seemed narrower than usual as he fled past Sunny’s bedroom door.

  Funny how it had been La’ei’s bedroom door for as long as he could remember, and after only three weeks, it had become Sunny’s bedroom door. He thought he heard her move inside and he flung open the front screen and escaped down the path and onto the street, not stopping even after he’d run several blocks.

  It felt good to run.

  Since taking leave from the hospital, he’d spent less time on his feet and more time sitting around. His muscles felt stiff and tight and he sprinted until his head stopped thinking. Eventually, when his chest set to burst and his legs burned, he slowed down to a jog and then to a walk. He gulped for air and leaned over, resting his arms on the fence adjacent to the train platform. He’d run four stops further than his closest station. As his breathing slowed, his brain sped up.

  He’d never seen his mother look at his father the way his aunt had described. By the time he was old enough to recognise expressions, he’d only ever seen fear and disappointment in his mother’s face when she looked at Bruce. The idea that Sunny might look at him the way his mother had once seen his father knocked him like an unseen opponent. Not only had he put her in danger, he’d given her hope that he was available to her, when there was none.

  He’d slept with her. Of course, she would think that.

  An image of her naked body sprang uninvited behind his eyes again and he bent over double with the memory. He concentrated on finding air as his whole respiratory system seemed to have failed him—slow breath in, hold, slow breath out.

  He recognised the simmer of anger and regret that had resumed its residence in the bottom of his gut since the Judd incident. But another emotion pushed its way through after a nineteen-year hiatus and it took him a while to identify the simple, organic warmth of it inside him.

  Could it be so long since he’d felt human connection that it took him this long to recognise it? Joy. Happiness. Pleasure. Sunny liked him and it felt good.

  He let the idea sit with him awhile as he walked to the platform and boarded a train.

  In two more weeks, he’d have been free to pursue her. Why couldn’t he have waited two more weeks? Fifteen nights. He hadn’t even known he’d wanted to kiss her until he did. How deep had he repressed that emotion?

  Tomorrow she’d be gone. Safe in the UK.

  He found a seat in the corner of the train, pressed himself close to the window and considered the reality of his situation. His father was out of prison in a matter of days, Junior still needed constant care, the media had to be dealt with and Bernadette demanded more serum to keep quiet. More than all those things, he had The Rules to follow. He’d broken a rule and now the key had turned.

  For nearly twenty years he’d given up everything. Food, friends, family, fun, music, sex, relationships, parties, holidays, pleasure, social life, money. It takes a man with great inner strength and commitment to hold on for so long. He knew he was such a man. He could endure anything. Over and over he’d been ridiculed, ostracised, talked about, laughed at, felt sorry for. And now, with the end in sight, he’d unraveled like a set of poorly stitched sutures.

  An image of Sunny flicked back into his head and he punched himself on the leg, hard. The suddenness of it made the passenger across the aisle give him a worried sideways glance and move slightly away.

  His first priority had to be his family. Aunt and Junior would be safer in Samoa. Junior was fit enough to travel, but how to find room for him on a plane? Harder than that would be convincing his aunt to leave the country without La’ei.

  La’ei. His torment. His greatest sorrow.

  Sunny would be on a plane soon and with her gone he’d have one less person to worry about. With any luck she’d be gone by the time he got home so he wouldn’t need to say goodbye.

  What if she didn’t go?

  Of course, she’ll go.

  What if she wanted to stay, for him?

  He’d lie to protect her. He’d lied so many times he knew he could. If he told her he used her and felt nothing, he could make her believe him. He could treat her so badly; she’d beg him to let her leave on that plane.

  Mataio disembarked at Flagstaff Station and walked to his usual Post Office on Graffon Street near St Van Crofts Hospital. He rummaged in the bin for a scrap of paper to write on, took a new pen from the stationary stand and wrote numbers 1-10 down the page. Next to each number he wrote “Rule Achieved”. The only exception was at Number 7. No Sex. He wrote the one single word that changed everything—broken.

  He stood and stared at it a while, his mind refusing to think about the consequences. Send it. Don’t send it. What did it matter now? A single, black and white, clear cut rule—broken and now unravelling.

  He rummaged for a second sheet of paper from the bin, wrote 1-10 down the page and wrote “Rule Achieved” beside every number. He placed both sheets beside each other and let his eyes glaze over until the words blurred into black scribble.

  Lying might be second nature to him now but lying to himself was absolutely pointless. He picked up the second sheet, screwed it into a ball and threw it back in the bin. The first sheet he folded into three, placed in a prepaid envelope, addressed and sealed it and took it to the register.

  A young woman with long dark hair and a split eyebrow smiled and reached out for his envelope.

  “This and the pen, thanks,” he said, and flicked her a hurried expression.

  “Well, this won’t have to go far,” she said brightly. “PO Box 469. This is one of ours. Hardly seems worth the postage.”

  Mataio paid in cash and she stamped the envelope with a loud thud and tossed it into the crate behind her.

  His legs refused to move, and he stood and stared at the pile of envelopes behind her, the envelope with his confession brazenly on the top, silently waiting.

  “Was that all?” She asked, her smiled dropping. When he didn’t answer she tried again. “Excuse me, was there anything else?”

  He looked from the pile of envelopes to the young woman and said, “I changed my mind. Can I have it back?”

  “You want a refund?” she asked. “But you’ve already written on the envelope and used the pen. I’ll have to get my—”

  Her answer fell away as he spun and hurried through the shop and out onto the street. A car tooted him as he crossed the road without looking.

  It was done. As he walked the busy footpath towards the hospital, he closed his thoughts on The Rules with a practiced mind and searched for a distraction.

  His father was released from prison this week. How long would it take for him to make contact? Would he want a relationship with him after all this time?

  Mataio wanted nothing to do with his father. Not a conversation, not an apology, not a single word. The man repulsed him. A few weeks ago, he might have ignored his father easily without a reaction. Now, his self control had been tested and failed. Judd, the reporter, Sunny—God knows what he’d do if he stood face to face with him now. Bruce wouldn’t dare visit Aunt Tulula’s house because they both knew if she had a gun, she’d shoot him on sight. She’d never forgive Bruce. Mataio had been an innocent ten-year-old kid who’d stood and watched his mother die, and Tulula had barely forgiven
him.

  Every time Mataio backed down on a fight, every time he took a passive option and walked out of a room to avoid confrontation, he reminded Tulula of his mother.

  And now Sunny reminded Tulula of his mother.

  If Bruce confronted him now, could he be passive? Did he even want to? The best solution was to not have the opportunity.

  Mataio arrived at the emergency entrance of St Van Croft’s Hospital and stood to the side as a very pregnant woman and her partner rushed through the doors ahead of him.

  He waited as the front desk took their details.

  “Good morning, Doctor Brinn,” said Carol eventually, and gave him a friendly smile. “You not have your pass? Need me to swipe you through?”

  A freshly picked bunch of large, green flowers sat on the counter and he stood between them and a donation tin.

  “Yes, thanks Carol. Can you tell me if Doctor Nattara is in today?”

  “He’s in ER but I think he’s on a break. Do you want me to page him?”

  “No, I’ll find him. Thanks.”

  Carol swiped him through and Mataio headed down the blue vinyl floor corridor. He found Dr Ewan Nattara, Head of Emergency chatting with a young intern. The senior doctor had a lack of awareness about personal space and he stood now, crammed up close to the fresh new intern, despite the room around them, and spit a one-sided conversation about personal safety and the statistics on violence against health staff at St Van Crofts compared to St Michaels.

  Mataio stood to the side and tried not to smile as the senior doctor droned.

  “We get most of the gangland victims here but when they’re looking for someone to interview on morning television it’s always St Michaels who complain the loudest.”

  The intern nodded and slowly wiped a droplet of spit from his cheek. Nattara didn’t notice and continued with the same speech Mataio had heard on his first day at the hospital eight years ago, and then hundreds of times since.

  “We deal with just as many low-lives and abusive patients as any other hospital in the country but no-one’s handing out Australian of the Year here because we’re too damn busy doing our job. We don’t have time to complain.”

  Mataio cleared his throat and Nattara looked up and gave him a happy smile. He then turned back to the intern, who’d used the opportunity to create some space between them.

  Nattara said, “If you have any problems, don’t be afraid to ask. There are no stupid questions.” Dr Nattara laughed boisterously and slapped the intern on the arm. “Well there are, but we answer both kinds here.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said the intern, his head already moving away before his body had been given permission.

  “Please, call me Ewan,” he said, and bridged the gap between them again.

  The intern nodded and kept moving. “Okay, Ewan.”

  “Or HOE.”

  Mataio could tell the intern was torn between politeness and escape. He cast a look towards Mataio and then delivered the question they all knew Nattara desperately wanted asked. “Why H.O.E?”

  “Head of Emergency. It’s a joke,” he said with a hefty peel.

  The intern gave a fake laugh, escaping sideways towards the nurse’s station.

  Just as Mataio expected, Nattara continued, his voice raised to travel the distance between them. “Of course, I would have preferred the hospital had given me the title of Head of Trauma. H.O.T. Get it?” The intern raised his hand in a gesture of yes, but goodbye.

  “Excuse me, Dr HOT,” said Mataio loudly, making the intern smile for real.

  Dr Ewan Nattara turned his neck and grinned widely.

  “Mat, how wonderful, you’ve come back to us. You want to cancel the rest of your leave I hope?”

  St Van Croft’s Hospital had been a home to Mataio. The work had been relentless, and he’d had no time for a life, or time to think about what he’d lost. Mataio worked longer and harder than anyone, and because he slept, ate and showered at the hospital, he was always on call.

  In a crisis, when a man high on amphetamines was loose with a knife, Dr Mat Brinn had him disarmed in less time than it took to call for security. He was strong, fast and always available. The hospital wait times were down, casualties were less, and staff moral had improved since Dr Mat Brinn arrived eight years ago.

  Dr Ewan Nattara owed him.

  “Can I speak with you privately?” asked Mataio.

  “Of course.” Wordlessly, Dr Nattara signed a clipboard and handed it to a nurse. As they walked to Nattara’s office, Mataio received a few acknowledging nods from colleagues who knew better than to start a conversation or ask about his ‘holiday’. Everyone on the floor knew Mataio didn’t make small talk. New staff were quickly warned not to waste time trying to be friends or get to know the aloof, Samoan doctor. He had a reputation for doing his job well, being polite but never getting involved in hospital politics, cliques or personal lives.

  Once Nattara had closed the door behind Mataio, he repeated, “You want to cancel the rest of your leave? I can have you back on the roster tonight. Jackson’s recovering from Shingles at the moment and I’m a doctor down.” He checked his computer screen, not waiting for Mataio’s reply, confident that was why the workaholic doctor had returned early.

  “I’m not ready to come back,” said Mataio.

  Nattara looked up from his screen and blinked three times. “Pardon?”

  “I need a favour.” Mataio couldn’t remember asking a favour of anyone in the past twenty years. He couldn’t even remember using the word. It felt strange to ask, made worse by the expression on Nattara’s face. “I need a death certificate.”

  Nattara didn’t hesitate. He pulled up a document on his screen and nodded his consent. “Name?”

  “Ahoeitu Junior Euta,” he said and spelled it out.

  The doctor typed two fingered at the keyboard, found his glasses and continued, asking questions such as the man’s address, date of birth, cause of death, time of death and age. Once finished he printed it and signed it, stamped it with the hospital certification and handed it to him. Only then did he ask, “This isn’t gonna bite me in the arse is it, Mat?”

  “No sir,” he answered.

  “You haven’t killed anyone have you?”

  Mataio’s eyes opened wide at the question. “Ahoeitu Junior Euta is very much alive, sir. I just need to make it look like he isn’t for a bit.”

  “Good enough.” Nattara pulled a large yellow envelope from his drawer and handed it over. “We’ll see you back here when? It takes two doctors, a security guard and part-time janitor to take up the slack in this department since you’ve been on leave. I hope you’re not leaving us permanently, Mat? Not using this time to shop around for another job? Because you should come and talk to me before you do that. We can work something out. We need you here.”

  “I understand, Ewan. I’ll be back. Do you still have that phone you’ve been wanting me to carry? I could use it now.”

  The doctor opened his drawer, took out a used iPhone, a phone number attached with a sticky note, and handed it to Mat. “What a relief. Finally, the man joins us in the 21st century.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess.” Just because he carried it, didn’t mean he’d answer it.

  “After eight years of begging you to use a phone, why now?” The doctor waited seriously for an answer. Maybe he sensed something.

  Mataio shrugged. “I just need it to call an Uber,” he said dismissively. “Thanks for the certificate—you can trust me. I’ll be back to work in a couple of weeks.”

  Mat turned to leave but Dr Nattara had more to say. “Before you go, there’s just one more thing.”

  Mat stood with his hand on the doorknob and waited for what was coming. He didn’t like the way the other man’s eyes rested on the ground. “There’s been a detective at the hospital looking for you. Asking when you’d be back.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  Mataio shrugged and w
ent to leave.

  “He said it was quite urgent you speak with him. He left his card.” Nattara shuffled a few things on his desk, found it and passed it over.

  Detective Ronson. He knew where his aunt lived. Why didn’t he make contact with him there? “Okay, thanks. See ya,” Mataio said.

  Nattara stopped him again before he’d turned the handle a second time. “Thing is, Mat, I tried to call you at home to let you know this guy was looking for you, and I couldn’t find a single contact for you outside of this hospital.”

  “I’m sure it’s all on file somewhere,” said Mataio, halfway out the door.

  Nattara followed him down the corridor and skipped a few steps to keep up. “The detective wasn’t the only one. A producer from Channel Seven was here as well, asking questions.”

  Mataio slowed his pace so the other man could catch him. “I told them to go through the usual channels and informed human services. But they’ve been more than once.”

  “What did they want?”

  “They were asking about you?” Nattara puffed out the words, Mataio’s pace tiring him. “What are you working on?”

  Mataio acknowledged the janitor as they passed in the corridor but didn’t answer Nattara.

  “You know what you do in your personal life can reflect on this hospital. You’ve been an outstanding doctor here but something’s different. Frankly, Mat, I’m worried.”

  “Gotta go. We’ll talk later,” Mataio said, as he stepped through the automatic doors onto the street, leaving the Head of Emergency at the front desk, his mouth still open.

  Mataio turned on the phone while we walked and fumbled around until he’d googled how to put a death notice in the newspaper. He made the call and paid with a credit card. The announcement of the death of Junior would run for a week, the spelling a little different so their extended family wouldn’t notice it. If the reporter came snooping again, there’d be no story left to tell. No-one would be interested in an obese man’s death.

  Mataio tucked the death certificate down his shirt and prepared to run to the train station when a man stepped from an illegally parked black Toyota and faced him head on.