The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (23 page)

I could feel small beads of sweat gathering on my face. Maybe the air-conditioning had broken down. I brushed a damp lock of hair from my eyes and carried on.

“His teachers hated him. I don't blame them, particularly. He could be absolutely vile in class. And he was a thorn in your side, Mr. Di Matteo. But he's just a larrikin now, isn't he? Because he can't answer back. Death has removed the problem and you can afford to be generous. It's easy to like the dead, Mr. Di Matteo. They make so few demands.”

I paused once more. The headache was starting to kick in again and tiredness was flooding through my body. I felt on the point of collapse. My legs were starting to tremble and drops of sweat stung my eyes. My thoughts were muddy. Why was I doing this? What was it I was trying to say? When I had started out on my speech, the conclusion had been clear, a bright destination. Now it seemed beyond my reach, like the name of someone you've forgotten. I forced myself on, in
the hope that the destination would reveal itself in the process of traveling.

“And what about me? Do you know, I still don't know what Kiffo thought about me. Not really. He didn't see things the way others saw them. He knew, I suppose, that I was the best learner in the class but I don't think he was impressed by it. It was something I had that he didn't, but he placed no great importance on it. Like his red hair or his bandy legs. A characteristic—it didn't make you better or worse. An accident of birth.”

The lock of hair had crept back. I plastered it behind my ear.

“And that's what I learned from Kiffo. That underneath we are all pretty much the same, that we shouldn't judge by appearances, as he was judged his entire life. Recently, there was an unpleasant rumor about me, and, for a time, my life was hell.”

I looked at Rachael Smith in the front row. Her eyes flickered downward.

“People avoided looking me in the eyes,” I said. “Others just avoided me. And for a while, I knew what it must be like to inhabit Kiffo's world—a world where everyone judges you and finds you wanting. The only person who didn't do that was Kiffo. It didn't matter to him what other people thought. He accepted me. He gave me friendship and support.”

I was building up momentum again, and the destination, if not sparkling clear, was at least getting less blurry around the edges. But the light-headed feeling was still there and I had
to force myself to focus. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I had to get through this first.

“I have only vague notions of Kiffo's true feelings toward me. But I know how I feel. I loved Kiffo. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum. And now I find myself here with a box beside me and a mouth full of empty words. Perhaps, in the end, at the end, this is all I can do—present for him the most absurd image I can, chained to a pulpit with a tacky sex toy. And Kiffo would have loved this. He would have laughed because this is his kind of style. So come on, guys, let's have a good laugh, for Kiffo's sake. And then take that damn box away and burn it so we can get the hell out of here.”

I could feel myself going in the last couple of sentences. The light shifted and swirled. The last image I saw was the principal leaning forward in his chair before the world tilted and crashed. And then, as it says in all the best books, there was only darkness.

The chairs were set up in a circle. Mrs. Mills sat in the one directly opposite me. Mum was on my left. The police officer with the crooked face was on my right. I still didn't know her name. To the left of Mrs. Mills was the Pitbull. To the right of Mrs. Mills was my home group teacher, Miss Blakey. The room was comfortable and quiet. It had soft lighting, deep-pile carpet, potted plants with glossy leaves arranged artistically in corners. And there were posters on the walls. You know the kind of thing. Help lines and stuff. I didn't pay them that much attention. After everybody sat down, there was an embarrassed pause, as if we realized the show had started, but no one could remember who should deliver the first line. Why was I here? The question fluttered across my mind and was gone. Mrs. Mills cleared her throat.

“We are here today to engage in a process of mediation and I welcome you all. It is not the purpose of this meeting to
decide who is right or who is wrong, whether people are good or bad. We are not here to allocate blame. What we
are
here to do is to repair any damage that might have been caused by recent events. As far as we can. The death of Jaryd Kiffing cannot be undone by anything we might say here. But we can start the process of healing. Calma, would you like to start? Have you anything you want to say?”

I shook my head.

“Miss Payne, perhaps you could start us off, then?”

I kept my head down. I didn't want to look at anyone. There was another pause.

“I'd… I'd like to say that I am so, so sorry about the death of Kiffo. This is the first time, in all my years of teaching, that I've… lost… a student. And it was so sudden. I know that you cared for him, Calma. And I feel for you. My heart goes out to you. It really does.”

I looked up then. I couldn't help it.

“I don't believe you,” I said. “You hated him.”

The Pitbull leaned forward in her chair and fixed her eyes steadily on mine.

“I understand why you don't believe me, Calma. And maybe I don't blame you. I know how I appear to students, particularly at the beginning of a course. Trust me, I know. Horrible, nasty, strict, no sense of humor? I know. But I do care, whatever you may think. Perhaps I care too much. It would be very easy to be a popular teacher. I could make jokes, get the students to like me. You look as if you don't think that is possible, but it is. I don't do things that way, Calma. Maybe
I
can't
do things that way. I get my students under control. In order to
teach
them. Only when they are under control can I relax the tight grip, give a little more freedom. Only when they are learning. It's what I am paid to do.”

“The students hate you.”

“That's actually not true, Calma.” This was Miss Blakey. “Oh, I'm not saying that Miss Payne is the most popular teacher in the school. She isn't. But she is one of the most respected. Would it surprise you to know that Vanessa Aldrick thinks that Miss Payne is the best teacher she has ever had? That she has learned more from her in one term than in all her other terms of English? And Vanessa's not the only one. Not by a long way.”

Vanessa? Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the world had been making a habit recently of turning my expectations and perceptions upside down. But Vanessa?

“Think of it this way, Calma,” said the Pitbull. “You are talented at English. Perhaps the most talented I have ever taught. But the other kids in the class, they're not like you. I could leave you alone and you would be fine. In fact, for someone like you, it is probably better to leave you alone. But not the others. They need teaching, Calma. And that's what I do. You might not like my style. Hell, I don't like my style sometimes. But it does get results. And that, as I said before, is what I am paid to do.”

There was silence for a while. Mrs. Mills broke it. God, there was something about her voice that made me want to scream. So professional, so soothing. So reasonable.

“But, in the end, it's not Miss Payne's teaching style that is at issue here, is it? It's the extracurricular activities that occurred between you, Kiffo and her that is our main concern. Now, Calma, I know that you are going to find this difficult, but I want you to remember that no one here wishes you any harm, or wants to see you humiliated. But we need to get this out in the open. Can you tell us your suspicions about Miss Payne? What was it you and Kiffo thought she was doing?”

This was what I had been dreading. How could I say it? It sounded so stupid now, even when it was just in my head. There were all these adults around and what I was going to say would just sound so infantile to them. It sounded infantile to me. It was like I was being forced to say that I thought she was from outer space or something. How could I, in that room, in that company, say, “I thought you were involved in organized crime,” and retain any credibility? But I didn't know what else to do. I needed Kiffo. But he wasn't around. He was never going to be around and there wasn't anything else to do.

“I thought… I thought you were dealing drugs.”

“I know,” said the Pitbull. “And now that I know what happened, I can understand just how you might have come to that conclusion. It wasn't a stupid conclusion to reach, given the circumstances.” I felt like telling her to fuck off with her patronizing attitude, but I guess I wasn't in a position to do so. She continued.

“All I can do is answer your questions as fully as possible.
I think you deserve that. I believe you know, now, that I am a drug counselor in my spare time. A qualified one, by the way.”

She paused, presumably to lend the point maximum significance. I kept silent.

“You also know that I spend a lot of my time dealing with those who have dependencies, of one kind or another. Which means that very often I have to get out of my bed at ludicrous times in the morning. Drug addicts don't watch the clock, Calma. They have a different way of measuring time than the rest of us. I'm not complaining. I'm just explaining it to you. Now, I know that you watched me. Followed me. And you thought it was strange that I was meeting Dr. Collins at three or four in the morning. Am I right?”

I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Childish, I know, but I didn't want to give her any more satisfaction than necessary. She pushed against my silence, regardless.

“So. I am a qualified volunteer drug counselor. Would you say that explains my activities adequately?”

This time, I had no option but to nod sullenly. This was old stuff. I'd worked all this out for myself. With assistance from the charming Jonno, of course.

“Is there anything else you would like to ask me? Anything that you think might help? That's what this is all about. To ask questions and get answers.”

If you think about it, I didn't have anywhere to go. If I just carried on, head down, making the occasional halfhearted comment, then I was going to appear even more of a loser.
There was no option but to try to keep as much dignity as I possibly could. Ask the questions. Get the answers. Anyway, there were still things that I needed to sort out in my head. Not for their benefit, but for Kiffo's and my own.

Look. I don't want to go through all of this in tedious detail. The whole thing went on for what seemed like forever. If it's okay with you, I'll summarize. The questions I put and the answers the Pitbull gave me. It'll save us all time.

Q. Where were she and the Ferret going when Kiffo and I were following on the bike?

A. To a conference on “New Directions in Dependency.” Their presence was noted in the minutes. The Pitbull was the keynote speaker. All verifiable.

Q. Why did the car suddenly speed up?

A. Explanation a little embarrassing. The Pitbull's watch was running slow. They noticed, during the journey, the real time on the car clock and realized they were going to be late. Hence the sudden acceleration. At no time were they aware of being followed.

Q. Why had the Pitbull made comments about having dealings with the Kiffing family?

A. Tricky, this one. Confidentiality, and all that. Suffice to say that in her professional capacity as a drug counselor, she had occasion to know about… the problems that a certain member of the family had experienced in the past. She could say nothing more about the subject. She also admitted that she regretted having made the original remark to me, and that it bordered on being unprofessional.

Q. What was it that the Ferret had passed to her that night? The white stuff in the plastic bag.

A. Naltrexone. A drug widely used in the treatment of heroin addiction. Available by prescription, often used as a “rapid detoxification agent” for addicts trying to kick the habit.
Dr. Collins
was a general practitioner and therefore qualified to dispense the drug. It was an emergency, though she was prepared to admit that receiving the bag was probably a breach of acceptable practice, since she, the Pitbull, was not herself qualified to dispense it. In the circumstances (and confidentiality prevented her from disclosing those), the lapse of protocol would be understood by all but the most unforgiving persons.

Look, there was other stuff. But it wasn't really very important. Mum talked. The police officer talked. Just words, after all. And right toward the end, I started to cry. I didn't want to. God knows, I didn't want to. But I couldn't stop. The funny thing is, it wasn't like real crying at all. Not gut-wrenching sobs or an overflowing of emotion. Nothing like that. It was like puking up something hard, solid, lodged in dark places I didn't know existed.

The tears flowed down my cheeks but they weren't tears of remorse. They weren't tears of humiliation, even though I knew that I had made myself look like a ten-year-old. They had nothing to do with the fact that it was:

Game over.

Finished.

End of story.

I'd known that for a long time, really. The tears were, finally, for Kiffo. For the life that he had led and the life denied now forever. More than anything else, for the cold, hard, implacable waste of it all.