The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (19 page)

Now, do you want the ever so slightly good news, the bad news, the other bad news, the yes there's more bad news or the completely, holy crap this is disastrous news? Okay.

The bad news: I got a note in home group to go to see Mrs. Mills.

The ever so slightly good news: I had been taken out of the Pitbull's English class.

More bad news: there was no other class to go into, so I would have to spend my English lessons in a little room by the
assistant principal's office that was normally reserved for the kind of student who couldn't be trusted in classrooms. We had plenty of them at the school, the kid who couldn't go five minutes without uttering an obscenity or who felt duty-bound to dismantle the walls or the person sitting next to him.

Yet more bad news: I had to listen to Mrs. Mills for about six hours as she went on about how she would be there to support me, while really she was trying to get me to dish up the dirt. I blocked all of her deliveries with a straight, dead bat. Appropriate, really, since a straight, dead bat was exactly how I thought of her.

And can there really be more bad news: the Pitbull's classes were, according to Kiffo's reports later in the week, being received as the most enjoyable activity since the invention of masturbation. The last act of a desperate woman, according to Kiffo, but I didn't care if it was the first act of
Henry the Eighth.
I knew what she was up to and it wasn't going to wash with me.

The most catastrophic bad news: well, you'll have to wait for that. First, let me tell you about the idea I wanted to run past Kiffo. We found each other at recess. It wasn't difficult. All you had to do was look for the two students who were the biggest Nigels in the entire place and you'd have spotted us. We sat down on one of those concrete benches on the edge of the oval.

“Kiffo,” I said. “I've had a brilliant idea!”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I'm going to write it all down.”

“What?”

“Everything. The whole business with the Pitbull. Everything we've seen, heard and done.”

“That's what you call a brilliant idea, is it?”

“Yeah. Seriously. Listen, we've talked about getting proof, but so far we've got nothing to show the police. I mean, yeah, I hope Jonno will come up with something solid, but it would still be a good idea to have a record of all that's happened up to now. You know, in case we forget anything. Something that'll show the police that we're not just a couple of kids making up stories, but serious investigators making a serious report. Come on, how could it hurt?”

Kiffo thought for a while.

“Still not what I'd call a brilliant idea, but I suppose it might be worth it.” His eyes brightened. “We could stick it in a safety deposit box, with instructions to our lawyers to open it in the event of our suspicious deaths. I saw a film once where they did that.”

I wasn't going to point out we didn't have a lawyer or a safety deposit box or any prospect of getting either.

“Exactly, Kiffo,” I said. “Like insurance.”

“Right. Go for it,” he said. “But, Calma, you've got to promise me one thing.”

“Sure.”

“I don't want you bringing… him… into all of this. You know what I mean. I know you, Calma, but what's gone on in the past isn't important. And I don't want his name mentioned. Do you hear me?”

“But, Kiffo …”

“No, Calma. I won't listen. Not to that. If you're going to write about all of this, then I don't want him a part of it. Not a mention of his name. I need you to promise.”

I thought for a while. He was wrong. I knew that. But I also knew that there was going to be no way I'd be able to convince him of it. Anyway, I guess he had a right to make it a condition.

“All right, Kiffo,” I said finally. “I promise.”

“You shitheads!” he said. “You shitheads are the biggest dick-heads I've ever met.”

You might remember that I never got round to telling you the worst piece of news—the “just when you thought things couldn't get any worse, then something comes and kicks you up the arse” piece of news. It happened on Thursday after school. Jonno was waiting for us, leaning up against the school railing, smoking. I noticed, without surprise, a can of Foster's in his hand. Kiffo and I stopped outside the gates and Jonno looked us up and down, taking a final gulp of his beer before crushing the can in his hand and tossing it away.

“You shitheads!” he said. “You shitheads are the biggest dickheads I've ever met.”

“Whaddya mean?” said Kiffo.

Jonno just chuckled and shook his head.

“What a pair of dickheads!” he repeated.

“Look,” I snapped. “Just tell us, will you? I don't want to stand around out here listening to insults, particularly those that are inconsistent about the precise composition of our heads. I don't remember that being included in the price. And, frankly, I've been insulted by better people than you. Certainly more articulate—”

Jonno put his hand close to my face and pointed. The glowing end of a cigarette wavered millimeters from my eyes.

“You watch your mouth, lady,” he said. “Where I come from, we don't make no difference between punching a woman or a bloke. So if you want to keep those specs on the outside of your face, you'd better shut up.”

I decided to shut up. Jonno didn't look the sort of person to make idle threats.

“Yeah, all right,” said Kiffo. “Let's stick to business. Because if you start on my friend here, we're goin' to find ourselves fallin’ out. Big time. I might be half your size, but you know me, Jonno. If I get it into my head to fight you, you'll have to kill me before I'll stop.”

Jonno looked at Kiffo, as if weighing things up. Then a big grin spread across his face.

“Never short of balls, Kiffo. I'll give you that. Right. I've done the job, but you ain't gonna like the results. Subject's name is Payne, aged forty-five. She is into drugs. But she's not pushing. She's a volunteer for DARP, the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Program. They have a twenty-four-hour hotline. Payne goes out on calls maybe two, three times a week, to
deal with junkies and alkies. Tries to keep them straight. She's not a drug dealer, for Chrissake. She's a pillar of the community. Probably get a medal.”

Jonno flicked his cigarette butt away and produced a can of beer from a side pocket. Did he have a cooler in there? Kiffo and I looked at each other. I could see denial written all over his face. As for me, I knew. I knew, with that awful sense of inevitability, that what Jonno had said was the truth. I could almost taste the bitterness of it.

“What about that bloke, Ferret-face?” said Kiffo, an air of desperation in his voice.

Jonno popped the ring-pull and took a big swallow.

“Name is Collins, a director of DARP. Doctor, apparently. Big shot.”

“Nah!” said Kiffo. “It can't be.”

“I'm telling you straight,” said Jonno. “Two nights I followed her. One time she met Collins at this hall place. That's how I got to check him out as well. Anyway, this hall. It's a sort of safe haven, a place where junkies go to get decent needles, hot food, that kind of stuff. It's what she does, Kiffo. I seen it with me own eyes.”

Jonno prized himself away from the fence.

“Look,” he said. “Got to go. Business appointment. I'll expect payment by this time tomorrow night, Kiffo. Come round to my place. I'd hate to have to come round to yours. Know what I mean?”

If Kiffo heard, he gave no sign. He was still shaking his head as Jonno strolled away down the road.

“You're wrong, Jonno. You're wrong,” he said. But his voice was almost a whisper. I reached toward him and linked arms. It was some indication of his state of mind that he didn't resist, didn't even seem to notice.

“Come on, Kiffo,” I said. “I'll buy you a Coke or something.”

He turned toward me.

“You don't believe it, do you, Calma? You didn't buy any of it.”

“Yeah, Kiffo,” I said. “I bought the lot.”

“Why?”

“Because it fits. Because it's what happens in real life, not the stuff we've been spinning. Don't you see? This whole thing, this whole fantastic adventure. We wanted to believe it. It was brilliant to think that a teacher we hated was also a criminal. But we were wrong. It's not good enough just to
want
something to be true. Because then we're simply part of a game—a
terrific game, an exciting game. But in the end, only a game. And now we know, Kiffo. We know. It's game over.”

Kiffo plodded on for a few more paces, his eyes fixed on the ground. But then he stopped, grabbed me by my free arm and swung me round to face him.

“Not for me, Calma,” he said. “Not for me.”

I shook my head.

“Come on, Calma. Think,” said Kiffo. “How do we know Jonno is telling us the truth?”

“Why would he lie?”

“Why? ‘Cos it's second nature to him. He can't do nothin’ else. What if she bought him off? What if she realized we were on to her and she decided to cut Jonno in? What if he's working for her? What if he always has been?”

“If, if, if. If your aunt had testicles, Kiffo, she'd be your uncle! It doesn't make sense.”

“What about that bag? The one with the white stuff, that the Pitbull took from the Ferret?”

“I've no idea, Kiffo. Maybe it was medication. It might have been instant mashed potato for the junkies' dinner for all we know!”

I put my arm around his shoulders and he didn't remove it.

“I know you've put a lot into this,” I said. “We both have. And it's difficult sometimes to accept that all the hard work, all the emotional and physical energy, has been for nothing. That we've wasted our time. But we've got to accept it. Give it up, Kiffo. Cut our losses. It's time to get back to normal.”

Kiffo's face twisted in concentration. He could never win a rational argument with me and he knew it.

“Okay, Calma,” he said, finally. “Just one more try. Give me that. Just one more go. If we don't get nowhere, then I give up. Come on. It's not much to ask, is it? A last chance?”

Maybe I was feeling a little confused and dispirited by the events of the week, but I felt myself weakening. He was looking so intently into my eyes. Pleading, almost.

“I'm not going anywhere near the Pitbull, Kiffo. No way.”

“You don't have to, Calma!” Kiffo was so excited by the implied agreement of my last statement that he was almost shaking. “You don't have to. We go after what's-his-name, Collins, the Ferret bloke. One day. One day, Calma. We get nothing, that's it. Finished!”

“One day? Daylight? No messing around at night?”

“Swear! It gets dark, we're done.”

“When?”

“Saturday.”

I pretended to consider it. In fact, I knew immediately that I couldn't refuse him. He was so desperate for the game to continue that I couldn't bear to be the one to call it off, to take my bat and ball and go home. This way it was a shared, negotiated ending. Anyway, to be perfectly honest, I felt reluctant to give up myself. What I had said to Kiffo about the sense of waste wasn't just words. I felt it acutely. That there was something shameful in surrender. Just one more go? I had little to lose, particularly since it was extremely unlikely that the Ferret could dob me in to the
police for stalking after just one day. And maybe, just maybe…

“All right, Kiffo. Saturday. But that's it.”

Kiffo beamed. I had rarely seen him look so pleased about anything. He was lonely too. He needed the warmth of shared experience.

“I'll pick you up, Saturday morning, at eight,” he said, looking like he wanted to hug me.

Mum left the house at seven on Saturdays, so I was showered and ready by a quarter to eight. I had had a day to think about things and I was feeling excited as I got dressed. Something would happen today. And if it didn't, at least it would signal a finish. One way or another, this was going to be an important day.

Kiffo knocked on the door right at nine o'clock. I opened up and did a double take. He was dressed in leathers and had a crash helmet on. The only way I could tell it was him was a telltale tuft of red hair poking out the side of the helmet and the shape of the leather trouser legs, which curved away from each other alarmingly. Kiffo couldn't stop a pig in an alley. In his right hand, he carried a spare helmet. He stood for a moment, allowing me to take in his full splendor, and then flipped up his visor in triumph.

“Surprise!”

I was about to give him heaps for being late when I looked over his shoulder. Parked outside the house was a very large red motorbike. Now, don't expect me to get technical here. I've no idea what type of an engine it had. No idea if it was two stroke, four stroke, or breast stroke. It could have been fueled by coal, for all I know. Nor do I know if it was a Yamaha, a Mitsubishi or a Mount Fujiyama. It's best in these matters to stick to what you know. I know that it was red. And big.

Kiffo unbuckled his helmet and took it off. He really did look ridiculously pleased with himself. It was kind of disarming. I mean, he looked like a complete loser and, in other circumstances, I wouldn't have hesitated in telling him so. But right now I didn't have the heart.

Okay, call me stupid if you like, but it took a few moments before the significance of the second helmet hit home.

“Kiffo,” I said, “you aren't expecting me to get on that bike, are you?”

He looked instantly crushed.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “I borrowed it specially. You know, get around quickly and that.”

“You can forget it.”

He grabbed my arm.

“Aw, come on, Calma. Don't be such a wuss. Look, what are we supposed to do? Grab a number five bus and ask the driver to follow the small guy in the business suit? Come on, Calma. Be reasonable.”