Read The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne Online
Authors: Barry Jonsberg
The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (24 page)
And the pity of it, Kiffo. Oh, Kiffo, the pity of it.
Homophones and the
World Wide Web
Well, there you go. The end. Or nearly so. And I guess you're expecting a final chapter that does all a final chapter should. Tying up the loose ends, that kind of thing. Listen, I don't blame you. If this were a book I was reading, rather than writing, I'd expect the same thing. So what can I tell you?
After the funeral, I suppose I was in disgrace for a while. I don't remember much of what happened after the dramatic finale to my eulogy. Someone told me later that the prinny had to call a locksmith to get me out of those handcuffs. I wish I could have seen it. Some poor bastard came to the church with bolt cutters and then I was whipped away to the hospital. Had all kinds of tests done, and it seems it was heat exhaustion, pure and simple. I don't remember much of that either. Apparently Mum was called at work and she turned up all weeping, wailing, gnashing teeth and self-recrimination. Takes all sorts, I guess.
So they gave me a couple of weeks off school. Fortunate that, since it took me up to the four-week midyear break. They also put out a story that I was ill and suffering from depression, that my outburst at the church was due to a combination of heat exhaustion and post-traumatic stress. And maybe that wasn't so far from the truth. The real reason, though, was that I was an embarrassment that they could do without. The school, I mean. The prinny was undoubtedly crapping himself that I would go to the local newspaper and sell my story. Yeah, right! I mean, if you've ever read our local rag, then you'd understand that: a) they wouldn't be able to afford more than $1.25 for any exclusive; and b) they could turn any story, no matter how straightforward, into something completely incomprehensible. Kiffo couldn't make as many grammatical errors as those guys churn out as a matter of routine. Still, the prinny was worried about headlines like schoolgirl in church bondage horror, so every effort was made to keep a lid on things. I suppose that's why I never heard anything from the police. Except for statements about the accident, obviously. But in relation to the alleged teacher-stalking charges, it was as if it had never happened. Maybe Constable Ryan pulled a few strings. Who knows?
Yeah, okay. There was that mediation meeting thing. I was called up at home and asked if I was prepared to take part in it. Well, what could I say? I didn't really have a choice. It would have needed more strength than I possessed to say shove it. It turned out that while I was babbling in the hospital, in some kind of delirium, I guess, I said all sorts of things about the Pitbull and
Kiffo and me. Blew it big-time. So there they were at school, probably pissing themselves at the realization that I had suspicions the Pitbull was working with an organized crime cartel. It must have occurred to someone that it would be the trendy, caring kind of thing to do, to have a mediation meeting. I don't want to go on about it. I've already let you in on that nightmare. I suppose they all had a good laugh afterward. Calma Harrison, private eye, tough chick, blubbering like a baby.
What about the Fridge? I hear you say. I bet you're hoping for a happy ending with that one. How about something like:
Mrs. Harrison rushed to the hospital. Her face was twisted with anxiety. Her coat slipped from her shoulders, revealing a worn and torn supermarket uniform. She rushed up to the nurse at reception.
“My daughter!” she screamed. “You have my daughter. I have to see her now!”
“And your daughter's name, ma'am?”
“Calma Harrison. Hurry please.”
“She's in room 101. But, ma'am, you can't see her now. The doctors …”
But it was too late. Mrs. Harrison rushed down the corridor, elbowing terminally ill patients out of the way. She thrust open the door of room 101 and stifled a sob as she saw her daughter lying on the hospital bed, drips snaking from her thin arms. She flung herself on the bed, tears cascading down her face, and cradled Calma lovingly in her arms. The girl opened her puffy eyes.
“Mum, is that you?” she sighed.
“It's me, my darling. I'm here. I'm here and I'll never let you go again!” Mrs. Harrison's body was racked by paroxysms of sobbing as she stroked her ailing daughter's oh-so-pale face.
“I love you, Mum,” the girl breathed.
“I love you too, my darling. Oh, how I love you!”
Well, close, but no cigar, I'm afraid. Actually, not all that close when I come to think about it. Sure, we talked. Mum even took a couple of days off work to spend time with me. But I realized pretty quickly that she had her mind on work every moment we were together. Kind of mentally looking at her watch. And that sort of thing isn't exactly conducive to intimate revelations. I don't know who was more relieved when she went back to work. And then we drifted back into the old ways. Don't get me wrong. Things
are
better now. We do have dinners together when her work schedule permits. We even watch TV for an hour or so in the evenings
and we
chat about the programs. Someone who didn't know better might think we have a normal relationship. Not good, but at least approaching normal.
But, like I said, I was glad when she was out of the house. I did a lot of thinking then. In fact, that was basically all I did for a couple of weeks. Do you know something? In all the time Mum and I spent chatting, Kiffo's name wasn't mentioned once. Not once. Isn't that something? Isn't that remarkable? But even though his name was never mentioned, he was always in my head. I think he always will be. And I suppose
you want to know more about that. My feelings now that Kiffo is gone. How I'm coping with the knowledge that I'll never see his red hair again, or hear his voice, or laugh at his treatment of a substitute teacher. That kind of stuff. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. If you don't know how I'm thinking and feeling, then you've either not read this book carefully enough, or I've not done a very good job writing it. And I'm not arrogant enough to think it might not be the latter. Whatever, I don't want to say anything else. Even writers have to keep some things private, don't they?
A writer. That's what I am now. This book is proof of that, don't you think? I'm not saying what kind of a writer, mind you. But a writer—I guess I can say at least that about myself. This book was written in those six weeks. What's more, I really enjoyed writing it. There were so many times when I felt completely lost in it, so that hours and hours would go by and I wouldn't be aware of it. Sometimes Mum would leave for work in the morning and then be home about five minutes later, or so it would seem. And I'd have filled pages and pages, without being aware that I'd filled them. A bit scary in away.
And at some stage in the writing—I don't know when, I'm not even sure that there was a specific moment—I made up my mind to go back to school. There was a time there, you see, when I didn't think I could face it. After everything that had happened, I thought it might have been easier to avoid all the problems associated with school. Maybe get a job for a while and then do a bit of traveling before I finished my education.
But I know now that I really enjoy writing, that I want to make a career of it, if I'm good enough. And I don't want to wait. So that means school. Learning more about Shakespeare and sonnets and all that kind of thing. Getting some idea of what real writers are like and how they go about the whole business. I know that I'll probably be doing a lot of essay writing, which isn't the stuff I've got into over the last six weeks. But it's all writing. And there is something exciting about having a blank page in front of you and filling it with not just words, but the right words, in the right order. Yeah, I know. I'm a bit odd. I suppose I'll have to be happy with being odd. To be honest, I think I always was happy with it. Maybe it just took Kiffo to make me realize it.
I guess you weren't expecting a happy ending, not after everything that happened. A good job too. Here I am, alienated from school with a mother who's barking mad and not even one good friend to share things with. So a not unhappy ending is perhaps the best we can hope for. So here it is.
While I was writing everything down, I came to a few conclusions about what went on between me, Kiffo and the Pitbull. Isn't it strange? You can be there, living a life, but not fully aware of what it all means. Writing has given me a different perspective on events. Homophones, for example. I never realized how important homophones could be. Or the power of the Internet. Or the power of perseverance. I explained all of these things to that police officer, the one with the shifted face. Remember her? I went to see her at the police station just before I wrote this chapter. Turns out her
name is Alyce Watson. Constable Alyce Watson. And do you know something? She's really nice. And smart.
So are you totally confused now? Don't be. It makes perfect sense. You just need to look at it from a different angle.
Harrison paced the carpet, puffing away on her meerschaum pipe. I knew the signs of old. My friend was on to something and the game was afoot. I knew better than to interrupt her train of thought, however. If I knew one thing about Harrison, it was that she would reveal the products of her singular mind when the time suited her, when all the pieces had fallen into place. I pretended to read a report that lay on my desk. Not five minutes went past before Harrison stopped pacing and seated herself in the old horsehair chair in the corner.
“Homophones, Constable Watson,” she said. “A much underrated linguistic phenomenon, don't you think?”
I glanced up at Harrison. There was a bright gleam in her eye and I knew that whatever she had been considering in that remarkable brain everything had fallen into place.
“Homophones, old girl?” I replied. “I'm not sure I understand.”
Harrison took the pipe from her lips.
“Indeed, Watson! You should really broaden your mind. I am, of course, referring to words that have
identical phonological characteristics but widely differing semantic qualities.”
Harrison could see that I was no wiser, so she put it into layperson's language.
“Words that sound the same, but have different meanings! Like ‘bough,' the branch of a tree, and ‘bow,’ the act of bending at the waist. Or ‘waist,’ the expanding flesh between your ribs and your hips, Watson, and ‘waste,' what time is going to, while I am engaged in explaining the obvious! Homophones.”
“Steady on, old girl,” I remonstrated. “I know what you mean, but I'm afraid I don't see what it has to do with the case.”
Harrison sprang to her feet and resumed pacing.
“It has everything to do with the case, my dear Watson. Everything. Let me explain. You remember my meeting with Jonno, the tattooed scallywag employed by Kiffo to trace the movements of my archenemy, the Pitbull?”
“Indeed I do, Harrison.”
“Then you may remember that at one point in the conversation, Jonno said, ‘And the address of this pain?'”
Once again I was amazed at Harrison's prodigious memory.
“Words to that effect, Harrison.”
“No, Watson. Not to that effect. They were the exact words. But my point, Watson, is that one might
reasonably assume that ‘pain was being used in that colloquial manner that some chaps employ when they are referring to people who are an inconvenience. A ‘pain in the arse,’ I believe. But what if Jonno was actually saying ‘And the address of this Payne?’ P-A-Y-N-E.”
“Good Lord, Harrison,” I exclaimed. “The real name of the Pitbull! But hold on a moment, old girl. So what if he was saying ‘Payne’? I can't see how that would be significant.”
“My dear fellow, Jonno should not have known her name. He expressed an ignorance of her very existence. Neither Kiffo nor I revealed any such information, yet Jonno, it seems, knew her name.”
My head was swimming, but I felt that something was not quite right. Finally, I spotted the flaw.
“Perhaps Jonno did say ‘pain.’ P-A-I-N. Maybe you're looking for a homophone where one doesn't exist, my dear Harrison!”
“Indeed, Watson. The thought had occurred to me. Yet as I was writing the sentence, from my recollections of our meeting, it struck me as wrong somehow. It jarred. I have, as you know, an encyclopedic knowledge of contemporary slang, and I feel certain that this particular phrase is not one that would have occurred to someone like Jonno. It is too middle-class, hardly ‘colorful’ enough for someone of his social background. No, the more I thought about it, the more I was
convinced thatJonno did indeed know the Pitbull and that he was keen to keep this information from us. I was then forced to think about his motivation. What if Jonno was working for the Pitbull? He is, as we know, a small-time figure in the criminal underworld. What if he alerted the Pitbull to the fact that Kiffo and I were on her trail? What if, as a result of this information, the Pitbull decided to arrange the untimely death of Kiffo? And myself?”
“Good Lord, Harrison!” I exclaimed, leaping to my feet. “It fits. But proof, my dear girl. Where is the proof?”
Harrison puffed on the pipe, and a foul cloud of acrid smoke curled up to the ceiling.
“I needed to clarify the links between the Pitbull, Jonno and the Kiffings. The Pitbull asserted that she had had dealings with a member of Kiffo's family, presumably in her capacity as a drug counselor. And I do recall seeing that family member in the company of the aforesaid Jonno some years ago. Kiffo confirmed that the Pitbull had had contact with his family in the past, contact that he did not like or trust. However, he was very protective and may have resented the kind of professional help that she was offering. So, as I said, the connections were there, but something didn't ring true. Consequently, I did some more checking. It transpires that the Pitbull did not receive her counselor qualification until three years
ago, a full year after the tragic demise of the Kiffing family member. Why would she have had dealings with that person if she was not a qualified counselor? This leaves us with the intriguing notion that, rather than counseling him on his addiction, she was possibly encouraging it!”
“Dash it all, Harrison,” I said. “I'm sure you are right. When have you not been right? But we still don't have proof of a link between Jonno and the Pitbull!”
Harrison took the pipe from her mouth and reached down into the pocket of her tweed jacket. She produced two photographs and handed them to me.
“There is a local casuarina tree with which I am familiar, Watson. I spent many hours under its gentle boughs recently. Fortunately, I took with me my trusty Canon compact camera. The two photographs you have in your hand are evidence that our tattooed scallywag has made visits to the Pitbull's house. Long visits, Watson. Now, I know that this could be explained away. Jonno is, after all, the kind of person who might want to avail himself of the Pitbull's professional expertise, if he indeed suffers from an addiction to narcotics. But why go to her house? That would, I feel, be unlikely. It does not seem consistent with professional practice.”
As always, I was amazed by Harrison's ability to make connections. I could only gaze in awe as she
continued, unperturbed by my thunderstruck expression.
“And, finally, my dear Watson, there is the strange business with the naltrexone. If you remember, Kiffo and I saw her receive a bag of white powder from the Ferret, a bag that she asserted contained naltrexone, a drug used in the treatment of heroin addiction. Yet it is a matter of public record, Watson, and one that can be verified easily through the World Wide Web, that naltrexone is generally prescribed in fifty-milligram tablets to be taken orally. There would be no reason to grind those tablets down to a powder. In fact, it would make the administering of the drug much more difficult. Which leads me to conclude that it wasn't naltrexone at all.”
I considered everything Harrison had said. It made sense. There was no hard evidence, of course, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before she produced it. There was only one thing I could say.
“Brilliant, Harrison.”
“Elementary, Constable Watson.”
