by Mark Hunt
We had to be silent when those dudes came around. This was to be a perfect house in front of the church people, and we were to be perfect children. Sometimes John couldn’t handle that, though. He was the most introverted and introspective of us kids, but if you ever managed to light his fuse, then the explosion would be measured in megatons.
There was more than one occasion when John couldn’t help but scream at the missionaries, telling them to fuck off out of the house. When that happened, Dad would feign surprise and gently tell off my brother, with John fully knowing that each soft word would correlate to strikes from a fist or implement as soon as the Mormons left.
John couldn’t help himself. We were as hungry as street dogs, so it was torture watching someone eat, and in our house of starvation no less. It was almost as bad as when we’d catch Mum and Dad in the car, eating fast food, before coming inside and reeking of delicious chips.
I know it wasn’t the missionaries’ fault we were hungry, and there’s no way they could’ve known they were the only people to get a decent feed at our house. I know that now, anyway.
When they’d leave, we’d jump onto whatever they didn’t eat like animals on the Serengeti, and more than once an almighty brawl erupted over who would get the lion’s share. We weren’t siblings like you and yours might be, we were desperate competitors, every day fighting a zero-sum game.
Like a lot of Polynesian people in South Auckland, we were born Mormons, and while I did become a man of faith later I really only remember the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints as a place where we’d have to sit down for a long time, wearing uncomfortable clothes.
When I became an adult I realised that the Mormon Church didn’t do us right. Those people didn’t do my sister right. They knew what was going on with my dad and my sister – it was an open secret at the church. Our bishop knew exactly what was going on with Victoria because she went to him and asked for help. All he ever did was tell off anyone who spoke of what was going on, and he certainly didn’t try to help.
I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I find it weird that no one at the church ever tried to do anything about what was happening to my sister. The church should have been better. Someone should have been stronger. They were meant to be leaders and protectors. They were meant to help their flock when the community needed it – they used to bang on about that. My sister needed it.
Everyone around the neighbourhood knew what my dad was doing, but we boys closest to it only knew vaguely that something rotten was going on, and we certainly didn’t understand the gravity of it. At seven I was too young to know what was right and what was wrong, and what happened between men and women. I could only sense the wrongness of it, but I couldn’t understand or articulate what was really happening.
Any time I was allowed to leave the house I’d feel an electric unburdening, but there was always a lingering pain when Victoria was left behind. I always got out when I had the chance, though. I’d run from that fucking house.
Sometimes I’d run to the school, or the big tree in the sporting ground, where I could see if Dad was coming to get my ass, but my favourite escape was to the Spaceys, cabinet video games found at most local shops in Auckland at that time.
I especially liked the stand-up fighting games, where my character would punch and kick his way further and further into the story, dependent on my skill. Up, down, left, right, button A, button B – you press the buttons at the right time, move the stick at the right time, you could win. It fed a part of my brain that I’d be shovelling money into for the rest of my life.
How did I get the money to play Spaceys? Sometimes I’d steal other kids’ money to play; sometimes – and these were the best times – I’d get to play because John had managed to jury-rig a machine to give us endless free credits.
I remember an instance when John had fixed up Kung Fu Master. Man, the joy of not having to worry about a missed button press, or an errant joystick tilt ending the game was something I’ll never forget.
There were no mistakes that couldn’t be fixed. I could play that game for the rest of my life. Only John didn’t see it that way – eventually he got sick of me buzzing around him, pestering for my turn.
He told me to go home, and if I didn’t, he was going to beat my ass. That was no idle threat either. He’d done it before, he’d do it again.
I had to go back home, back to Dad and Victoria and the smell of Dettol. I hated the smell of Dettol before I even knew that Dad was using it to wash himself after his sinful acts. I still can’t stand the smell of it now.
Dad was abusing Victoria pretty much from when I was born, so I guess I knew about incest before I knew about sex. It was happening when we were first in New Zealand, it was happening in Samoa – with Dad’s brother taking over that fucked-up duty – and it was happening when we came back.
It was always happening and everyone knew. Mum knew, but she’d just laugh about it. They were ‘busy’, she’d say if I asked where Dad or Victoria were.
‘Go to the park for a bit, Mark.’ I’d always go. We all would.
When Victoria was twelve or thirteen she developed a little bit of a belly, and rumours started flying around school. They were saying Vic was pregnant. They were saying it was Dad’s baby.
There were too many stories, too much chatter. It was all too open now. Everyone had always known but, until then, they’d known about it in whispers and soft gossip, quiet enough for it to be ignored after a muted chat. Now it was out on the streets.
I wasn’t relieved when Dad was taken to prison – I was too young to understand the whole situation. I just knew he was going away and that there’d be even less food in the house. I also knew he was going away because of Victoria, and I’m sorry to say I was angry with her because of that. We all were, but we didn’t know any better. Except Mum, she knew better, or she should have anyway, but her concern at the time was keeping Victoria from telling the cops the whole story.
They were the leanest of days, when the old man was in prison, and we got to the point of delirium. I remember all of us in the front room shouting ‘HUNGRY’ at people while they walked down the street. When they saw us, we’d giggle like hyenas. I guess we were laughing about the contrast between the orderly, peaceful world outside, and the tumult of crap that was going down in our house. The weird thing is that Mum used to laugh along with us, screaming at the people on the street. That was some crazy shit.
We didn’t know what was happening to us was bad. We were kids, and had only ever lived in a household where up was down and wrong was right. All we knew was that Dad was away and there wasn’t any food.
Dad came back pretty quickly, after Mum offered Victoria a new bicycle to shut up about the whole thing. I remember we all piled into the car to go and pick him up from the bus stop down at the shops.
We all wanted to see the old man, except Victoria of course. When I first saw him, I felt sorry for him. He had hollow eyes, and a lonely, sad way about him. I’d never seen him like that before.
As soon as he got into the car, though, he slowly started to become himself again, and after a few weeks life pretty much went back to how it had been before, except that Dad lost his job and there was even less food.
Although we were usually in a state of friction, there were some rare moments of fraternity in that house. Steve and John, older and bigger than me, wanted to protect me and especially my sister, even though they didn’t really have the capacity. I think that’s what fucked them up, and broke something inside their heads.
The old man was God in that house, with a wrath that could equal any ancient, vengeful deity. As little kids there was no defying that. John disappeared into himself and became a quiet, brooding, sometimes morose and often dangerous teenager. Steve started showing signs of being mental. That was what it was called then, ‘mental’. Mental wasn’t a disease, and there weren’t different types of mental, it was just a binary that you’d better fucking try to avoid
being on the wrong side of, like being gay, or being dead.
Dad wouldn’t suffer a mental son, but when he was twelve it all bubbled over for Steve. He couldn’t help but talk nonsense to himself, usually quietly, because if Dad caught him he’d cop a mighty wailing, but sometimes loudly and maniacally. Much later Steve would be diagnosed with schizophrenia. Maybe it was because he had his head slammed into the wall one too many times. I’m no doctor, but I do know about people getting smashed in the head.
At that time, though, the one who was quickly starting to slide away from life was Victoria. Everything that was happening to her had become too much. All that torture, all the shame – she couldn’t live with it anymore.
Vic wanted to get away from existence and wherever oblivion could be found – booze, pills, petrol, solvents – she’d go there with no hesitation. She was heading to the darkest of cul-de-sacs until, at fifteen, she found an avenue of escape. And it wasn’t one within, but without.
Initially she looked for ways to extend her time away from home. The school day finished at 3 pm, and when she came home Dad would usually be waiting for her, checking her pants, saying that if any of the boys at school ever had their way with her, there’d be hell to pay. After that he’d often exert his dominance, like an animal.
Victoria thought that if she could get to 5 or 6 pm, and if the threat of boys at school was removed, perhaps things might go differently for her. With Dad’s consent she quit school and took a job as a machinist at a factory. From there a plan took form.
With money she could escape and get her own place. She wasn’t able to keep any of the money she earned at the factory, though, as her wages went straight into Dad’s bank account. But maybe she could do some extra hours, and the company would allow her to have that money go into another account?
Her work agreed. The escape was on. Victoria worked, earned, found a room and set a date. Then, just before she was about to leave, the old man found her second bank book. You probably know enough about the old man now to know how he reacted – but Victoria held fast. She was too close to give up.
Eventually Dad offered an olive branch: Victoria would give him all the money in the second account, and he would let her leave. Knowing she’d already paid her bond and advance rent to her new landlord, Vic agreed.
She always knew Dad wouldn’t give her up so easily, so she planned to leave without him knowing. When, one day, he came home to find her packed and ready to leave, the shit hit the fan.
Victoria was scared then. I’m not sure he could have done anything worse than what she’d already had to go through and, besides, she was so close to getting away. She’d conceived of life after Dad.
Despite the fact that sibling solidarity was usually in short supply in that fucked-up house, she asked us boys to escort her out of the house, and we agreed. Steve and John made the decision – I was still far too small to defy my dad. Even though they never said it, I’m pretty sure they were proud to finally be able to help.
Victoria left the house with the three of us flanking her as though we were a close protection unit – John and Steve in front, facing Dad, and me, the smallest, behind. John and Steve told Dad that Victoria was leaving and, if he tried to stop her, he was the one who was going to get the beating. It was the first time any of us had defied our father, and the first time we’d ever physically challenged him.
I was still a little kid, but Steve and John were filling out and becoming strong, especially Steve, who was starting his teenage years. The old man could have beaten any one of us then, but not all of us. He had no choice but to let Vic go.
As soon as my sister left the house, Dad jumped in his ute to go after her. Victoria had arranged a lift from the milk boy, Grant, who was sweet on her, and sometimes used to leave flowers with the milk. Grant wasn’t due yet, though, so she hid under a tree on a street near ours.
Victoria watched that ute go up and down the surrounding streets until, to her great relief, she saw another familiar vehicle, the one owned by Grant the milk boy.
Vic got away.
I’d love to be able to tell you that Victoria’s story was a happy one after that, but it wasn’t. Not all of it, anyway. She did survive, though, and survives to this day, and that’s something. I know now that growing up like we did, that really does count for something.
Chapter 2
SOUTH AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND
1990
Everyone round the neighbourhood knew that family, and those Hunt boys. They were known as being tough bastards [who] could all handle themselves. Steve was known as the toughest of them all; John was a bit of an angry dude; and Mark, well Mark was like … the kid. Big kid, rough kid, but a kid.
JONATHON AFIAKI (FRIEND)
When I was little, I couldn’t really recognise how I felt. My kids these days can tell you if they’re sad, or happy, or hopeful, or disappointed, or whatever – in fact, some days they won’t shut up about it – but it wasn’t like that then. It wasn’t like that for me, anyway.
When I was a kid, I could tell you when I was hungry, or in physical pain, but besides that I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you much about how I felt. We didn’t talk like that in my house, and we didn’t think like that. I didn’t really have an emotional vocabulary until later in life.
If I could articulate myself properly when I went to school, I probably would have told you that I was always embarrassed. As soon as I had classmates with normal lives, I was embarrassed by that house, by the old man, by the fact that we didn’t have any food and, most of all, those rumours that were going around.
I used to cry on the way to primary school. I’d be dressed in Steve’s or John’s hand-me-down clothes, and sometimes even Victoria’s, knowing that I had all those miserable hours ahead of me, often obsessing about the worst part of the school day: lunchtime.
When the rest of the kids were going to be tucking into sandwiches, Fruit Boxes and Milky Ways, I was going to be sitting there on my own, hungry and bitter. Sometimes Dad would save me by coming in and dropping off some lunch for me, but it very rarely happened. That’d be one of the few times I’d look forward to seeing him.
Sometimes the teachers and other kids would pity me and throw me a sandwich half or some fruit. I appreciated the food, but never the pity. I was never, ever in for the pity. I guess I must have felt pride then, too. You can’t have embarrassment without pride.
I had a funny relationship with most of my primary school mates. We weren’t really peers, so we couldn’t ever really be mates. If you saw my school photos, I was a scowl in a sea of smiles. I didn’t have much to smile about.
It was at primary school that I first developed a temper that could burn a hole in the floor. Add that temper to the fact that there was only one authority figure at the time that meant anything – a teacher’s stern words and detentions meant jack shit compared to the old man’s fists – and I wasn’t destined to have much of an academic career.
For me, school wasn’t a place of learning and enrichment, it was just a place I had to be at from Monday to Friday. The teachers had to be endured, as did other kids, but it did have benefits, like if someone was going to get fucked up at school, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.
I remember the first time I had a go at someone at school. It was this kid, Alex, who, in the third or fourth grade class, said something that got my back up. I don’t remember exactly what he said to me, but I remember desperately wanting to say something sharp and cutting back to him. My mind was fuzzy, though. Nothing came but frustration. My annoyance grew and grew until I picked this poor little dude up with both hands and hurled him across the classroom.
He landed like a bag of garbage, and there was a sound in the room.
Ooooooohhhhhhh.
I remember how light that kid felt, how small. I remember the dawning realisation that I was stronger than this kid, and possibly stronger than all of them. I hadn’t been strong in my house but, at school, there w
ere possibilities of physical domination.
Throwing that little smart-ass across the room felt good. I didn’t feel any remorse, and I didn’t give a shit about what was going to happen to me when the teachers turned up on the scene.
I just remember feeling the power of it. This was probably the first time in my life that I’d felt empowered. It might have also been the first time that the embarrassment of my existence started to recede.
I realised at primary school that I had no verbal defence for anything anyone said to me. I was wearing girl’s clothes, and I was as hungry as a stray dog. I was a poor-ass coconut (New Zealand’s favourite racist taunt for Polynesians), living in a house of abuse and beatings. That was all true. But I could also pick you up and throw you across the room if I really wanted to. That was a pretty good equaliser as far as I was concerned.
It wasn’t like I was accepted after I started asserting myself physically at school, or even respected, but when I wanted people to avoid me, then they would. That would do for me.
I didn’t really hate primary school. Some of the teachers were kind to me – usually middle-aged Pakeha women with sensible shoes and mid-length hair – and I preferred the sense and structure of those school days to the chaos of home.
I really hated high school, though. I guess, overall, primary school is a journey towards high school, a journey all us kids were taking together. High school, though, that was a journey into the early days of adult life. Some of us wouldn’t be completing that journey yet. Some of us would end up in a void between school and life that would cast us as outsiders.
There were a couple of things I liked to do at high school, it just turned out that none of those things happened in a classroom. I liked to sleep in the big tree out on the oval (the one where I could see if Dad was coming for me); I liked jimmying 50-cent pieces out of the tennis court vending machine; and I also liked to play rugby league.
