The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (17 page)

“No. I don't think you do!”

“Well, what about this Kiffing boy? The police said you had been—what was the word?—'associating’ with an undesirable character, a young man known to them as a criminal. He's got a police record! Did you know that?”

“I don't care, Mum! I don't give a crap about any of that.” I was suddenly aware that I was shouting at the top of my voice. “Kiffo's a friend. He's been there for me when I've needed him.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

I leaned close in.

“Mind your own damn business! That's the kind of thing that a daughter might talk about to a mother. And until you start behaving like a mother, I'm telling you nothing.”

She hit me then. A sharp crack across the side of the face that twisted my head around. The storm had broken. There was a silence. My cheek felt numb and then it tingled with the onset of pain. I turned back to face her. Her expression was wide, frightened, as if she couldn't believe what had happened. I could see that she was saturated with sorrow. It was oozing from every pore. Her hand crept upward toward her mouth in contrition. But I was hardened. I had my grievance now and nothing was going to take it away from me.

“Calma…”

“Go to work, Mum,” I said quietly. “Just go to work, will you? There's nothing else to be said here.”

And I walked out of the house. As I opened the front door, I could hear great gulps of grief coming from the kitchen. The sound of her tears as I left was like a song of victory. I felt washed of guilt.

I want you to think well of me. Whoever you are. But I also know that it's pretty unlikely you will be feeling very charitable toward me right now. I don't blame you. I acted very badly. I know that. But you need to understand a couple of things. The first thing is that I didn't have to tell you everything. I could have toned it down, made myself look more reasonable than I was, and you would never have known the difference. So now you know. I can be a real cow. But at least I'm an honest cow. The second thing is that I think some allowance should be made for the stress I was under at the time. I was terrified. I can't even begin to describe how I felt when I saw that police car outside my house.

Have you ever been in an argument where you've just got more and more unreasonable and unfair and cruel, simply because you're angry and frightened? If you have, then you'll understand about that crazy urge to hurt the very person you know you've wronged. I don't know why. All I know is that I felt it strongly. I think, in Mum's situation, it would have been sensible to have left the whole business alone for a while, given me time to chew on things before leaping in with recriminations. At least, that would have been the best theoretical option, the textbook approach. I also know that it's an option I wouldn't have taken. Too volatile, that's me.

Anyway, I left the house ablaze with indignation—me, that is, not the house. Mind you, given the heat generated by the argument, it wouldn't have been surprising if smoke
had
been pouring from the roof. There was only one place to go. Only one place I wanted to go. After what Mum had said, I had to see Kiffo, if only to punish Mum further. Besides, where else could I go? As far as friends were concerned, I wasn't exactly bursting with options.

I wasn't even aware of the journey. The adrenaline rush was still going strong and I knew it would take time to subside. I covered the ground like a thing possessed, probably pushing old ladies out of my way for all I knew. Before I had time to think I was outside Kiffo's house, storming up the path toward the front door. I had my hand raised to knock when I heard it. The sound of voices raised in anger told me I wasn't the only one having difficulties with a parent.

Now. Imagine this is a survey in one of those teen mags.

You go for b), right? Gets you ten points and ultimately a character description along the lines of “You are a true and trusted friend with the emotional maturity of a forty-three-year-old marriage counselor.” You'd go for b), but you'd actually do d). Am I right? All right. Just as long as you don't get judgmental on me.

Actually, I didn't need a glass. A soundproof booth would not have cut out the grisly details. This is what I heard.

Kiffing Senior:
You're a ****ing lazy ****, that's what you are. A pile of ****. Get the **** out of this * * * *ing house.

Kiffing Junior: ****
off, you
****** ****.
Call me ****ing lazy! That's ****ing rich, that is, you
****
, you ****** old **** bunch of****.

Kiffing Senior:
Just like your ****ing brother! A useless piece of ****. Go on, ****ing **** off, you *****.

Kiffing Junior:
Don't you ever, ever mention him to me again, or I'll ******** kill you, you ******!

Kiffing Senior: ****
you and your ****** brother! ***** and
*****
the
*****, ******
and
****** with ****
all the
*****, ******
****ing
****!!

Inanimate object:
Smash!

The door burst open and a familiar hunched figure swept past me as if I didn't exist. Within seconds, another figure appeared at the door. He yelled a farewell to his son that, roughly translated, meant “I no longer consider you the favored fruit of my loins and your reappearance in this household is not something that I am anticipating with any great enthusiasm.” Kiffo halted briefly to answer with something along the lines of “I no longer respect you as a paternal caregiver.” Roughly translated, you understand.

Standing there, I came to the slow realization that I was unlikely to be invited in for tea, muffins and a chat about the weather. This was confirmed by Mr. Kiffing looking me up and down and then requesting that I leave the immediate environment. A believer in economy of language, he communicated this in only two words. I took his advice.

Catching up with Kiffo took some doing, but finally, puffing hard, I got into step. He didn't take any notice of me but kept muttering under his breath. From the little I could decipher, it was clear that he wasn't thinking about what to buy for Father's Day.

“Kiffo!” I said. “Hang on a moment. I can't keep up with you!”

Only then did he stop and turn to look at me. It was as if he hadn't any idea that I was there at all.

“Calma,” he said, his voice fragile around the edges. “Where did you come from?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Let's just sit and get our breath back.”

We had arrived at a small park. I say “park” but it wasn't really anything so grand. Just a square of sparse, wilting grass, with a couple of sad, rusted swings in a corner. I doubt if any kids played there, but judging by the state of the ground the local dogs had adopted it as their communal loo. We wandered over to a concrete bench and sat down.

I decided to say nothing about the mild disagreement between father and son. That's part of the problem with Kiffo. Some things are conversationally out of bounds and it doesn't matter what you do, you're never going to break through the barrier he puts up. I don't know—I still don't
know—how I could feel so close to Kiffo, so intimate in a way, yet be excluded from so many important parts of his life and his past. Sometimes, I guess, you just have to ride with it. You know, accept people for what they are, because if you push it too far, you drive them off. And then you really are alone.

(That was a statement written by Calma Harrison, authorized by the Federal Committee of Staggeringly Unoriginal Homilies on Human Relationships.)

We sat for a while, stewing in our own worlds. I knew there was precious little chance of Kiffo initiating a conversation, so I started. I told him about the interview with the police and the argument with Mum afterward. He scratched his head thoughtfully. It was like he was glad to have a change of mental environment.

“You're not taking all that seriously, are you?” he said.

“Well, I thought I might, Kiffo. You know, when the police come along to your house and threaten to lock you up for committing a crime, then—call me old-fashioned if you like—I thought I might take it just a bit seriously!”

“Nah. They're bluffing.”

“I don't care, Kiffo. I don't give a stuff! If they're bluffing, then they've succeeded. I throw in my hand. Game over.”

“So you're out, is that it? You're not going to try to get the Pitbull?”

“I thought that was what you wanted!”

“It was.” Kiffo ran a hand through his hair. “It was. But… it's like you said, Calma. We're in this together now. We've
come too far.” He looked uncomfortable, his eyes flicking everywhere but never making contact with mine. “I… I need your help.”

I nearly fell off the bench. For Kiffo to say something like that, he must have been desperate. It was like him confessing to buying Nikki Webster CDs. I glanced over. He was sitting forward, his hands nervously interlocked. If ever there was going to be a time, this was it.

“If you're serious, Kiffo, then you've got to stop lying to me,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“You and the Pitbull,” I said. “What is there between you? What happened in the past? Tell me that and I'll believe that we are truly together on this.”

That shook him.

“I… I don't want to talk about it, Calma,” he said.

“Then you're on your own.” I meant it too. I couldn't keep on with this, not with half-truths and half-stories. So much for my resolution not to push! I waited. After a time, Kiffo sighed.

“All right,” he said. “Yeah, I'd seen the Pitbull before she turned up at school. Years ago, in grade school. My…” He shook his head. “I saw her with… family, you know… before all that stuff happened. We went to her house, just the two of us. Twice, maybe three times. I sat by myself, while she and him … I dunno what they did, but I didn't like her then and I don't like her now. I didn't trust her. That's it. That's all.” He looked at me and there was agony in his expression. “I don't want to talk about it anymore, Calma.”

I put my arm around his shoulder. You might not think it, but that was more information than I had been expecting. For Kiffo, it was like baring his soul. And it made sense to me, knowing what I did. I could see more clearly what was driving him on.

“Okay, Kiffo,” I said, gently. “Count me in. What are we going to do?”

Kiffo sighed and leaned forward on the bench, head down. There was a long silence while he contemplated a dried-up dog turd between his shoes. Finally, he leaned back with the air of a man who has come to a momentous decision.

“Right,” he said. “You can't go near the Pitbull. And I can't stake out her place by myself. Not every night. So it's time to call in a professional. It's time to pay a visit to Jonno.”