From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (14 page)

‘That way you notice patterns, people who stand out,’ said Barney. ‘You get a general impression on the first round, then anything weird will be more obvious on the next.’

‘Have you done this before?’

‘Of course not,’ said Barney. ‘I just watch TV and films. That is my true school, as you know. I keep telling you, actual school is a total waste of time.’

‘So,’ said Ren, summarising yet again, ‘my brief is,
A
, watching out for Orange Boy or Orange Boy
delivery
boy, i.e., anyone who looks kind of likely or suspicious.
B
, watching out for an actual envelope.
C
, watching out that I don’t look like I’m watching out.’

‘Cor.
Rect
,’ said Barney, Dick-ishly, which made them both laugh.

‘Imagine if I saw
actual
Orange Boy placing an
actual
envelope. That would be
molto
excellent.’

‘Also
molto
unlikely,’ said Barney. ‘Since no one’s seen anything before.’

They had asked Sally very careful questions after the community corkboard envelope. They had talked to Laurel at the café about the customers on the day of the first envelope. They had even talked to Suit. Nothing.

Now, in Luna Square, under the beating sun, Barney felt his eyelids growing heavy. In a minute there would be three sleeping creatures. He tried to rise from the chair slowly and carefully, easing the ball of Brown Betty from his lap. But the tabby woke and jumped to the ground, giving a reproachful mew.

‘Sorry,’ said Barney. He meant it. Brown Betty gave him a long cat stare, then turned and strolled away. He felt soundly reproved.

The inside of Comic Strip was blessedly cool. So was the worn
vinyl of the La-Z-Boy. Barney lay back in the chair and studied
Possible Occupations
properly. Scene: A lithe, silhouetted figure abseiled the side of a palatial house.
Cat burglary maintains both wealth and fitness
. The cat burglar was an actual cat in a skin-tight costume, her ears angled and glowing in the moonlight. Barney checked the cover for the author’s name. Catriona Kitson. Funny.

Albert was finishing up with the customer. Barney could hear them exchanging politenesses, the way adults did.
Hot enough? Sure is. A heat wave, apparently. For real
? The percussive clunk of Albert’s cash register drawer. The doorbell. Albert whistling tunelessly. Barney knew the noises of Comic Strip by heart.

His watch read 15.45. Twelvethirteenfourteenfifteenplusfortyfive. Quarter to four. Felix and Hal had advised twenty-four-hour watches for maximum efficiency during shoots so Barney had requested one for his last birthday. But he could never remember what the hours were after midday. He was always having to count or subtract from twelve – on his fingers. It just took up time, ha.

The doorbell pinged again. Perhaps Ren was early. Barney lumbered out of the La-Z-Boy. Blimey, it was hard work pushing your body around in this heat. Perhaps he would buy
Possible Occupations
. It was pretty good. Maybe he’d get
The Seven Haircuts of Man
, too. He was looking at zines with a newly critical eye these days. He could start a collection.

It was Suit who had come through the door and chatted now with Albert at the counter.

‘Good afternoon Barney,’ said Suit.

‘Hey,’ said Barney, trudging towards them. He exhaled lustily and crossed his eyes at Suit.

‘Overheated? I recommend iced water laced with cucumber. Mireille has a jug ready at home. I have been lured from the library by the thought of it.’

‘How’s it going there?’ asked Albert. Suit had a half-day on Wednesdays. He went to the library for the afternoon. Barney had
no idea what he did there. Read books, he supposed. Barney hadn’t been to the library for more than a year. He thought it best to stay away in case the librarians were reminded of his
Delinquent
status.

‘Slow and steady,’ said Suit.

‘Much like myself,’ he added, smiling shyly.

Albert chuckled.

Suit
was
slow and steady. He never broke a sweat, despite his full-suited regalia all summer long. His pale face did not rosy up, even on a scorching day. He never panted or huffed or wiped a sweaty forehead like Dad or Dick Scully. Most people bashed around, when you thought about it. Not Suit. He walked to an unhurried – though sure – beat. His movements were measured. His sentences were measured, too, carefully shaped and precise.

Albert handed Suit a package.

‘From the publisher to your hands in four days.’

‘I am much obliged,’ said Suit.

‘Whose turn tonight?’ enquired Albert.

On Wednesday evenings Suit and Mireille went to the movies at the Little Theatre attached to Toto’s.
Going to the cinema
, Suit called it, quaintly. They sat at a distance from the rest of the audience so the alarm clock’s ticking did not disturb anyone’s viewing. They took week about choosing the film. Mireille liked romance and comedy. Suit preferred dramas. Barney thought this funny. Suit himself was like the opposite of dramatic.

‘It is Mireille’s turn,’ said Suit. ‘A rom-com, I believe. Still, you learn from every film. I take notes now.’

For what? Barney wondered.
Romance
tips? He tried to picture Suit being romantic with Mireille, who was small, exactly five foot, and very slight. Her hands were very small, too, like a child’s. Suit always seemed more like a kindly father than a boyfriend. Or suitor. Ha.

Barney felt hopefully in his pockets for change. Nothing. He went to check the pockets of his camera bag.

Albert and Suit were talking now about comedy, the differences in people’s sense of humour. Suit’s sense of humour was pretty wacko, Barney thought, remembering the little explosions in Coralie’s a couple of weeks ago.

There were a variety of coins in his camera bag pockets. They made an agreeably heavy pile in his hand.

‘You’re a Gorey fan, aren’t you?’ said Albert to Suit.

‘Indeed I am,’ said Suit. ‘Especially
Treehorn
.’

Barney spread the coins on the floor: mostly silver, a few pesky 10 cent pieces. Why didn’t someone abolish those?

‘That’s funny,’ said Albert.

‘Yes,’ said Suit, ‘but also rather melancholy, don’t you think?’

‘No – I mean, yes – but I meant this book – I’m sure I put –’

Three dollars forty in silver, counted Barney. And were there six 10-cent pieces? No, there were only five. Typical. Even five 10-cent pieces added up to a total of useless.

‘I wanted to show you this Gorey spoof,’ Albert was saying. ‘A book that came in last week – I had it here a minute ago.’

‘Can I owe you ten cents, Albert?’ Barney called.

‘No problem,’ said Albert, distractedly. ‘Did you see that Kate Beaton book? I definitely had it here.’

‘Could you have shelved it again, without thinking?’ said Suit, helpfully. ‘I find myself doing that more and more.’

‘Hark! A Vagrant
?’ Albert called.

‘That’s pretty funny,’ Barney said. ‘Ren’s been acting out bits.’ He scanned the array of zines for
The Seven Haircuts of Man
.

‘I mean did you see it
here
, on the counter? It’s been flying off the shelves. But I had the last copy here, not ten minutes ago.’

Barney opened his mouth to call back, but at that precise moment a number of things happened, more or less simultaneously:

First, Suit’s alarm clock – inside his satchel, which was propped against the counter – began its startling clangour, signalling 4 p.m.
and time, no doubt, for Suit to join Mireille for afternoon tea with cucumber-infused water. Barney – searching for the zine, which did not seem to be where he’d put it an hour ago – could see the dingdonging satchel out the corner of his eye, the din causing it to spasm and inch forward, like a strange limbless animal.

Second, the doorbell rang too, with an abrupt urgency; the door burst open delivering Ren into the shop, video camera in hand, backpack dragging.

Third, Albert slammed his hand on the counter and swore with great vigour.

‘That bloody customer must have
lifted
that book! That last customer. Bloody cheek! Right from under my nose, the brazen bastard!’

Fourth, Ren seemed not to notice Albert and Suit, much less say hello to them. She came straight for Barney, breathless and pink-faced, her eyes big and basilisk. She grabbed his arm and unleashed a hot torrent of words in his ear.

‘I’ve just
realised
Why didn’t we
think
of it?It’s so
obvious
It’s Orange Boy, it has to be!
Orange Boy
is the
thief
!I just know itHe must beIt all makes senseIt’s been happening at the same timeTwo weird things on the StreetIt must be the same personIt must be –’

And finally – as Ren squeezed Barney’s arm and whispershouted
itmustbethesamepersonitmustbe
in his ear, and Albert cursed the felonious customer, and Suit rustled in his satchel to silence his alarm clock – Barney’s eye found at last
The Seven Haircuts of Man
on the fourth shelf of the zine stand. It was nestled between
Second Thoughts on Home Renovations
and
A Small, Sad Song
. Someone – in the last hour – had thoughtfully alphabetised the fourth shelf. (Barney did not notice this detail. Being a riotous speller he may never have noticed. It was Ren who saw the alphabetising later.)

What Barney noticed was that packed in tightly behind
Second Thoughts on Home Renovations
and
The Seven Haircuts of Man
, camouflaged but not completely hidden, was a rectangle envelope.

Barney eased
The Seven Haircuts of Man
from the shelf and the envelope behind was fully exposed.

The YOU seemed to jump out at him.

(Well, Moo. Are you surprised?

Perhaps you had considered the possibility of the Orange Boy artist being the Street Thief. It is different when you have the information laid out in this way, don’t you think? Barney and Ren had more information than anyone else, of course, but one and one and one do not always immediately make three.

And what do you think of Ren’s promotion to camera?

Two cameras, two film sets, two stories. Stories within stories within stories.

No time for school indeed.

But, then, that is another story.)

Ren couldn’t remember it ever being so hot. She had been alive for eleven and a half years and never had she felt so sticky and slowed down. She was sure of it. The world really was burning up, just as everyone said.

‘The world really is burning up,’ she said to Mum.

‘Rubbish,’ said Mum. ‘It’s just a heat wave. Wear as little as possible to school.’

Ren wore a papery thin cotton skirt and a top with spaghetti straps and her straw zori from Mulberry, but still she wished she could remove several layers of skin and flesh. At her desk she kicked off the zori and put her bare feet to the floorboards, but the floorboards had warmed up over the holidays, too.

Ms Temple had three fans operating in her classroom but everyone lolled and sighed, incapable of work.

‘The air is so
thick
,’ whispered Ren to Henrietta. They were in the same class this year, and sitting together. Henrietta nodded sleepily. It was too hot to talk, really. It was too hard to push a pen or peck at a keyboard.

It was the first afternoon back. Ms Temple surveyed her class.

‘Oh dear,’ she said.

They were doing creative writing, only no one felt creative. On the whiteboard were five starter sentences but these had merely made everyone feel even more heatlogged and helpless. The only thing Ren had written in her new creative writing workbook was a half-hearted list of hot words:
boiling, muggy, curry
…

‘Thirty-five minutes until the bell,’ said Ms Temple. ‘I will read to you instead.’ She waved a book at them.

The entire class sighed with relief.

‘Feel free to put your head on your desk. I won’t mind if you fall asleep,’ said Ms Temple. ‘It’s entirely possible I’ll nod off myself. Although, this is an excellent book.’

Ms Temple was a good sort, really, thought Ren. She had certainly started the year in an excellent mood, despite the heat and the little droplets of sweat that sprang forth on her powdered forehead, which she dabbed at often with her flowered hanky. Probably she was extremely happy that Barney was no longer in her classroom.

I am running
, began Ms Temple.

What a horrible thought, running. Also impossible.

Henrietta’s head was on her desk. Ren laid her head down, too.

That’s the first thing I remember. Running.

Ms Temple was a good reader. Not as good as Sally, but no one was that good, not even Dad.

Someone is chasing me. ‘Stop! Thief!’ I run. People. Shoulders. ‘Stop! Thief!’

Huh. Thief.

Whaddya know, as South Island Gran would say.

… as I stir iced tea …

Iced tea. How nice would that be? Especially poured over your head.

… who is chasing and …

It was not only the heat that made Ren so weary. She had been restless and wakeful all through the night, reviewing the events of yesterday and the strange conclusions she and Barney had come to. The pictures in
Orange Boy Lives III
had snapped and flared in her head like a disordered slide show. In the morning her head felt heavy and strained.

‘So,’ she had said to Barney as they sat, sluggishly, over their toast. ‘What do we do now?’

‘One thing’s certain,’ said Barney, with great firmness. ‘I’ve
got
to do something about school.’

Yesterday afternoon, in the minutes after Ren had hurtled into Comic Strip and Albert Anderson had proclaimed a robbery and Barney had found the third
Orange Boy
zine, Ren had pulled herself together very quickly. Barney palmed the envelope and put a finger to his lips, but Ren was already perfectly calm. She was thinking hard, too. So was Barney, she could tell.

Quietly, he put the envelope in the pocket of his camera bag. Then he took
The Seven Haircuts of Man
and
Possible Occupations
and the handful of coins to the counter.

Ren had never seen Albert so annoyed.

‘Another unfortunate theft,’ explained Suit. ‘And a rather audacious thief.’

‘Unfortunate!’ said Albert. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see the little
ars
–’

‘
Children
,’ said Suit, very firmly, to Albert.

‘Sorry kids,’ said Albert, ‘but a man doesn’t like to be fleeced quite so flagrantly.’

‘Can you remember what he looked like?’ asked Suit. ‘What he
wore? I saw someone leaving just as I came up the road. But I was at some distance.’

‘Of
course
!’ said Albert.

Instantly, he had lurched from behind the counter and rushed from the shop. Barney, Ren and Suit watched through the window as Albert stood momentarily, taut and attentive, facing the north end of the Street. Then he was off like a wild cat after prey.

‘No,’ bleated Suit, futilely, at the space Albert had just vacated. ‘The wrong way. Dear me.’

He looked down at his briefcase, thinking perhaps about the stilled alarm and his appointment with Mireille.

‘Did you happen to get a good look at him?’ said Ren. She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘As he was leaving. And you were coming?’ She smiled brightly at Suit.

Barney made a pile of his coins on the counter. ‘What about his face?’ he asked, with equal carelessness. ‘Did you see it? Was he young or old?’

‘Unfortunately, I did not see his face,’ said Suit, his own face creased with regret. ‘I saw just a back view. And, as I say, from some distance.’

‘Can you remember what he was wearing?’ said Barney.

‘Well,’ said Suit. He waved his big hands vaguely. ‘You know how it is. One doesn’t pay attention at all times – particularly when there seems no reason to. One is sometimes preoccupied with the inner narratives. I don’t think I can recall.’ He closed his eyes briefly, searching the scene behind his lids. ‘Could he have been wearing a white shirt?’

Suit opened his eyes and looked intently at them both. ‘Yes. I think it was a white shirt. I remember I had the sudden thought: how seldom it is that young people wear white shirts nowadays. Unless they attend certain schools, of course. Or they are on the cricket field.’

‘Ha!’ said Barney.

‘So he could be young,’ said Ren.

‘Perhaps,’ said Suit. ‘There was something about the build, and the carr–’

The bell rang, signalling Albert’s return to the shop. He was sweaty and rueful.

‘I am very sorry to say that was the wrong direction, Albert,’ said Suit.

‘It was pointless anyway,’ said Albert. He panted. ‘What was I thinking? Ten minutes since he left. At least. Flight or fight response. In overdrive.’ Pant, pant. ‘As for my aerobic capacity –’ He took several shuddery breaths. ‘I think it’s died.’

Albert half sat, half fell onto the chair beside the counter. He looked up at them, Suit, Ren, Barney. They looked back at him. Albert laughed.

‘What’s the story, folks?’

‘Suit thinks the thief was wearing a white shirt,’ said Ren. ‘But what did you notice, Albert? You served him.’

‘You talked to him,’ said Barney. ‘I heard you. You must have got a good look at him.’

‘But that’s the thing,’ said Albert. ‘I was just thinking about it. I’ve only got vague impressions. Light brown skin. Can’t say I remember a white shirt. But then, I never notice clothes.’

‘What about
features
?’ said Ren. ‘Like teeth? She thought of the appealing gap between Orange Boy’s two bottom teeth. ‘Or the colour of his eyes? Or tattoos maybe?’

‘Strange as it may seem,’ said Albert, ‘I don’t make a point of noting my customer’s eye-colour. I don’t think I ever look into their eyes. I mean I don’t
avoid
their eyes, but I don’t really, you know, drink them in, stare meaningfully. I
do
sometimes notice people’s dental condition, but nothing comes to mind with this one.’

‘There must have been something,’ said Barney. He was trying to be patient; you could hear it. ‘His hair, say. His hairstyle. Or colour.’

Red hair, thought Ren.

Albert gazed blankly inwards. ‘Was he wearing a cap?’ he asked himself.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Suit, with sudden assurance. ‘I really don’t think there was a cap, Albert. At least not on his head. Not when I saw him – briefly, though it was. And a back view. At a distance.’

‘This is exactly what happens with juries,’ said Ren. She had read about it in the non-fiction 364s, during her True Crime phase. ‘It’s a big problem. You can’t actually trust witnesses. People almost never see things the same way. And they see things that weren’t even there. Can you even say if he was young or old, or in between?’

‘Young,’ said Albert.

‘Perhaps,’ said Suit.

‘And not fat,’ said Albert.

‘Oh, certainly lean,’ agreed Suit. He closed his eyes again. ‘I have an impression of willowyness.’

‘But.’ Albert stood and began assembling the papers on his counter. ‘Here’s the real question: was it our impudent Street thief?’

‘Surely that is a possibility,’ said Suit. ‘A probability.’ He bent and picked up his briefcase.

‘I must apologise for this rude retreat at a moment of minor crisis, but I am now rather late for afternoon tea with Mireille. But perhaps you would all like to come along? A soothing drink and some home baking? Shortbread, I believe. Mireille’s shortbread is very good, as you know.’

‘What did he buy?’ said Barney, a little desperately. ‘He bought something didn’t he? I heard the cash register. What did he buy? What did he look at?’

Albert gave Barney a curious look. And no wonder, thought Ren. Barney had ditched the casual voice. His questions came rat-a-tat, like Edward’s when he was fired up.

‘He bought three zines,’ said Albert. ‘He paid a grand total of six dollars – and he got a thirty-dollar book free.

‘Not that it’s about the money,’ he added.

‘So he was at the zine shelves,’ said Barney, pleased. ‘What were you doing? When would he have had a chance to take the book?’

‘And did he have a bag?’ said Ren. ‘Or could he have put it under his shirt? But it would show under a shirt.’ She was thinking aloud.

‘Well, Sherlock,
well
, Doctor W.,’ said Albert, ‘I seem to recall – though as you helpfully point out, this is worth very little – I
seem
to recall I noted our thief – not that I knew he was our thief then, you understand – I noted our thief at the zine stand, and then I went round the corner to the Hs because I had a sudden yen for an Hernandez Bros album. And when I came back our guy –’

Albert paused and stared pensively for a moment. He considered the pile of papers in his hand briefly, then resumed. ‘– was at the counter, ready to purchase.’

‘Which is when he must have done it!’ said Barney. ‘When you were getting the Hernandez album.’

‘Precisely, Doctor W.,’ said Albert. ‘I’d say you’re dead right.’

‘I wouldn’t be Doctor W.,’ said Barney, ‘I’d be Sherlock.’

‘In your dreams,’ said Albert.

Ren agreed. It was so much more likely she would be Sherlock.

‘Suit, my man,’ said Albert. ‘I need a long glass of cucumber-scented water after my heroic sprint. Shall I escort you to the jug? Perhaps our sleuthing duo will mind the store.’

Albert gave Ren and Barney a rather assessing look.

‘Ten dollars each for an hour?’

‘We don’t need to be paid,’ said Barney, offended.

‘Spoken like an honorable amateur,’ said Albert. ‘I’ll bring back shortbread.’

‘And should the thief return?’ said Suit.

‘Unlikely.’ Albert pulled the door with some force and the bell jangled protestingly. ‘Too risky. And I have every confidence these two can deal with –’

And once again, Albert Anderson paused. He held the door ajar.

‘Thing is,’ he said. He squinted. He seemed to be consulting his interior eye once again.

‘There was something … I’m thinking of him standing at the counter – he wasn’t tall exactly, but not short. And kind of lean, as Suit says.’

‘Willowy,’ said Suit, helpfully.

‘Quite,’ said Albert. ‘And I’m pretty sure he was wearing trousers … jeans, maybe.’

‘Yes,’ said Suit. ‘I think you may be right.’

‘And maybe a white shirt,’ said Albert.

‘I really think it was.’

‘But, whatever the clothes,’ said Albert, ‘I mean we exchanged a few words at the counter, and I’m thinking about the voice: it wasn’t deep; it wasn’t high. And maybe he was a guy – or seeming to be – if you see what I mean.’

‘Not
quite
,’ said Suit.

But Ren knew what Albert was going to say.

‘I’ve been trying to put my finger on what it was,’ said Albert. ‘Was it the
stance
? What made me think it – kind of unconsciously –’

‘Yes?’ said Suit. His face had an imploring look.

‘You think he was a girl,’ blurted Ren. Albert was taking for
ever.

‘Bingo,’ said Albert, cocking a finger gun at Ren.

Barney and Suit turned as one to look at Ren. And then back at Albert.

‘I’m not sure what it was,’ said Albert Anderson. ‘But I think I’m right. I really do.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Suit.

Barney was silent.

‘You guys good for an hour or so?’ said Albert.

‘Sure,’ said Ren.

Albert pointed the finger gun at Barney.

‘Sorry Maestro,’ he said, ‘but she would definitely be Sherlock.’

‘Whatever,’ said Barney.

Albert Anderson and Suit exited through the door and the bell sang a brief farewell.

Seconds later Ren and Barney were at the camera bag and then they were reading
Orange Boy Lives III
.

It was much longer than the two earlier zines. The artist had stapled four eight-page zines together. The drawings were looser, sketchier, almost hurried. It was as if the zine had swelled with the hurry of the pictures.

The puffer jacket was gone. Also Orange Boy’s nightshirt. His hair had grown long. And, once again, his circumstances had changed.

‘Good riddance to those horrible people,’ said Ren.

‘But the rats,’ said Barney, with regret. ‘I really liked those rats.’

The new home was a large, shabby house in the middle of paddocks and macrocarpa trees. Orange Boy lived with a new couple and other teenage boys.