The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (22 page)

“Are you all right, Calma?” he asked in the tone he reserved for occasions when he wanted to be seen as caring and sensitive. I noticed that he gave me a quick look up and down, taking in my sodden clothes and limp, drenched hair. His eyes showed a flash of irritation. I had not dressed the part. I was letting the side down. But then his eyes closed down again and concern struggled to the surface once more.

“You seem a little distraught. Are you sure that you are up to this, Calma?”

I simply nodded. It was too much effort to talk. Luckily, the principal saw someone he wanted to speak to and hurried off.

I looked at the church doors and wondered why we were locked outside. Had someone forgotten the keys? Was there an opening time, like a pub? I had images of a priest inside the cool church looking at his watch, waiting for the second hand to sweep past the hour before he would open up and let us in, the great churchgoing public thirsty for God. Even as these ideas were going through my mind, the doors opened and I realized what was going on. There was another funeral taking place in there. People filed out, shaking the hand of the priest or whoever it was, muttering a few words before they made for the car park. Some walked briskly, clearly relieved to be out of there. Others walked slowly, bent with grief or exhaustion. I saw a woman being supported by someone who might have
been her son. She looked puzzled, but only faintly, like this was a problem that had touched her briefly before being dismissed as beyond her understanding. It was almost like a revelation. I saw that she was in a situation where things had happened to her but they made little sense, exhibited no logic. The death she was there for had forced itself on her. Since then, the world had forced other things—funeral, flowers, arrangements, insurance, who knows—and these were things that happened also. They happened without her. She was powerless. I felt the same.

Within minutes, they had all disappeared, taking their world with them. It was our turn. The priest shook the principal's hand and spoke quietly, presumably an apology for the lateness. We filed into the church. It seemed tinged with other people's sadness. I took up my position in the front pew. We had rehearsed all this. As one of the speakers, I had to be in the right position, waiting for my cue. The school had asked me to say a few words, you see. After the principal, of course. I was going to be the last to speak and was stuck on the outside of the row.

We made a small congregation. I looked around as we waited for the ceremony to start. The church was big. The air-conditioning made my skin prickle. Hot sweat was battling it out with the chilly atmosphere. I could feel my wet tank top crinkle. I could sense it drying.

The front row was filled with people from the school. The rellies, or whoever they were, had been stuck in the rows behind. With the exception of Kiffo's dad, of course. He was in
the front row next to the principal, as if the school had done him a big favor, giving him a ringside seat. Letting him in on the show of his son's funeral, like it was a special privilege. I noticed the principal patting him on the arm, but Kiffo's dad wore a haunted look. He wanted to be down the pub, where at least he knew people, where it was a familiar world, not this strange, alien place run by people he didn't know and couldn't understand. His hands trembled.

Then I noticed Kiffo's casket. It was already in place at the side of the pulpit. It was so bizarre, so strange and sad. I had an overwhelming urge to check inside it, to see if Kiffo was really there. It didn't seem likely to me. This wasn't the sort of place Kiffo would be seen dead in. He would have hated this. The lights were too bright, for one thing. And it was too quiet.

The priest climbed up the few steps to the pulpit and looked down at the small gathering. For a moment, I had this wild idea that he was going to start off a stand-up comedy routine. You know, “My wife is so ugly that when she was born the midwife smacked her mother….” It was all I could do to stop from laughing.

We sang a few hymns, none of them appropriate. If I'd been running the show, I'd have at least chosen a couple of rap songs. Kiffo liked rap. When we had finished singing, we all sat down again and the priest composed his features. You could tell that he had done this a thousand times before. He looked over us for a few moments and then he started to speak.

“We are here today to say goodbye to Jaryd Kiffing and, if I may say so, to celebrate his life, tragically short though that
may have been. Jaryd was taken from us quickly and unexpectedly. He was a boy who was full of life. He had a bright future in front of him …”

I couldn't help it. I started thinking, what if Kiffo had a bright future
behind
him? Did I have a bright past ahead of me, or a bright present in front and behind? It's easy to get off track in circumstances like this, so I tried to refocus.

“… and yet he was cut down before he had time to bloom and flourish. It is at times like this that we ask ourselves:
Why? Why Jaryd Kiffing?
He was no more than a child. He was innocent. And yet he was taken from us without explanation. It is not surprising that under circumstances like this we tend to doubt. Yes, we doubt the God that seems so capricious. I have encountered this doubt many times, from grieving parents like William here…”

I had no idea who he was talking about. It took a few seconds to register that he was referring to Kiffo's dad. By the time I was back up to speed, I had missed a bit.

“… that there is a reason, though it might be beyond our comprehension. The Bible tells us that there is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. And if a sparrow falls, how much more significance is there in the fall of Jaryd, who was loved by family and friends and, of course, by God?”

I started to zone out again at around this point. I was developing a dull headache, the legacy of my walk in the heat, I suppose. Anyway, the words started to melt into each other. I caught the odd phrase, the occasional reference to “Jaryd,” and each time he said it, the stab of pain in my head increased.
I wasn't angry, you understand. I wasn't full of indignation, as some people suggested later. I just felt tired and
irritated.
I was irritated by the priest's refusal to call him Kiffo. Couldn't he have done his research? I mean, everyone called him Kiffo. Most of the teachers called him Kiffo. Even the Pitbull had called him Kiffo.

I wasn't even aware that he had finished. I remember looking up and seeing the principal on the pulpit. The switch had passed me by, like a conjuring trick.

I forced myself to focus again. For some reason, I wanted to hear what he had to say.

“… will be remembered by all his friends and by all the staff with considerable fondness. He was a larrikin in the great Australian spirit. But he was a student with considerable potential. He had much to offer, and it is a cruel blow that he was taken from us before we had the opportunity to see him develop into the fine adult that he would undoubtedly have become. For there is no doubt that he enriched the lives of all he came into contact with. We will miss him deeply. I can only say that his spirit lives on in all of us, that though he has gone, there will always be a part of Jaryd Kiffing that stays with us. I sense him here with us now. God bless, Jaryd. Godspeed. Thank you.”

He got down from the pulpit as if expecting the round of applause that his final comment seemed to invite. It must have been a good speech. I noticed Mrs. Mills (why hadn't I seen her before?) sniffling quietly into her handkerchief. The principal moved smartly and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. Yes, it must have been a very good speech.

The priest ascended the pulpit once more. I was getting tired of the bobbing up and down. He stood for a few moments, like someone moved to profound contemplation.

“Thank you, Mr. Di Matteo. I am sure everyone is as moved as I am by your wonderful tribute to this fine young man.”

The principal graciously lowered his head in acknowledgment of the compliment and the priest carried on.

“Our last speaker is someone who knew Jaryd very well. A close friend who was with him at the time of the tragic accident. Someone who is admirably qualified to tell us about Jaryd, what he meant to her and what he meant to the rest of his friends. Calma Harrison.”

It was like an introduction in some cheap floor show. “Give it up, ladies and gentlemen, for your friend and mine …”

I got to my feet and moved toward the pulpit. I kept my hands in my pockets. The priest was smiling. He held out a hand and took my arm, guiding me up the steps. After enquiring if I was “up to it,” he glided away.

I looked briefly at the congregation and began. My voice was a little quiet, but you had to admit that the PA system was good.

“Ladies and gentlemen. There has been much said today about Kiffo. In particular, I want to focus on one statement from our principal, Mr. Di Matteo. He said that Jaryd enriched the lives of all who knew him. That's certainly true of me, but I would suggest that many others would disagree. They might argue that he actually
impoverished
their lives. To the tune of TVs, video recorders, computer equipment, stereo systems, DVDs and other sundry personal items. Let's be honest, ladies and gentlemen, he did have a marked inclination to break into people's homes. And if something wasn't nailed down, he would have it.”

I paused here for dramatic effect, and to watch the reaction of my audience. Kiffo's dad was leaning forward slightly in his pew, hands plucking nervously at each other. He was taking in nothing at all. The wheel was spinning, it would appear, but the hamster was dead. Among the others, though, there was a distinct stir. People were shaking their heads slightly as if they distrusted the evidence of their own ears. Like giving the TV a bit of a thump, they seemed to be under the impression that a quick shake of the head would improve the reception. Mr. Di Matteo's reaction was the best, however. He wore the bewildered expression of someone who had just been beaten, violently and unexpectedly, around the back of the head with a piece of lead piping. His mouth hung open a little and his eyes were glassy. I smiled sweetly and continued.

“Yes, Kiffo was not exactly a saint. Not when he was alive and certainly not now he's dead. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't believe that a person's character changes simply because he has stopped breathing. Do you want to hear the truth about Kiffo?”

Judging by the head-shaking out there, the general opinion seemed to be “No, thanks, if it's all the same to you.” Certainly the mourners were getting restless at this point. In fact, the principal seemed distinctly angry. He turned quickly toward Mrs. Mills, who had the expression of someone who had had a cattle prod administered to her rectum. And then the principal was on his feet and moving toward the pulpit. Like a superhero, he was leaping into action to save the situation. And there was only one way to do that—to forcibly remove me. All he needed was his jocks on the outside and he would really have looked the part. Complete and utter dickhead though he undoubtedly was, he nonetheless had the strength and the authority to do it. So I put Plan B into action.

Reaching quickly into my pocket, I removed the fluffy pink handcuffs that I had purchased earlier at the adult shop. Thirty-five dollars and fifty cents’ worth of kitsch bondage gear. With a fluency that surprised me, I slapped one cuff around my left wrist and the other around the brass rail of the pulpit. That stopped him. Whether it was the sight of one of his Year 10 students manacled to a religious icon with something that was more at home in the Sydney Mardi Gras, or simply that he recognized the futility of any further action, I cannot say. But he stopped in his tracks. I looked him squarely in the eye.

“Please sit down, Mr. Di Matteo. Sit down NOW!”

And he did. Possibly he understood that I had him by the short ones. Unless he had a pair of bolt cutters tucked into an inside pocket, I was staying attached to the pulpit for the foreseeable future. No one else moved.

“The truth about Kiffo?” I continued. “It's a difficult one. Someone once said that the first casualty of war is the truth. And Kiffo's life was a war zone, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised to hear the offensive horseshit that's been offered up to this point. Come on, people. Let's be honest. None of you liked Kiffo. The ‘grieving father’ least of all. Kiffo didn't tell me much about you, Mr. Kiffing, but he didn't need to. I could see it in his eyes and the bruises that he did his best to conceal. I'm not a psychoanalyst, but I do know that a lot of the anger that Kiffo carried around with him, the hatred of authority figures, his tendency toward mindless violence, had to have their roots in your treatment of him. Some of his worst characteristics were those that you taught him.”

Boy, I had their attention now. The congregation sat still, eyes fixed and glassy. They looked like a whole bunch of rabbits caught in a powerful headlight. Part of me wondered why they didn't just leave. I suppose that would have stopped me. Made me look a bit foolish as well, handcuffed to a pulpit in an empty church with just a coffin for company. I honestly don't think it occurred to them. I had them hypnotized. Mr. Di Matteo's expression was still the best. I swear that he could see the big bold headlines in the local paper if news of this got out. He was a man staring at the death of his career.

“And then there was school,” I continued. “The place where abused kids should be able to find support and understanding. So what did he get at school? A different kind of violence, that's what. A worse type of violence, if that's possible. Because his father was just beating his body, whereas the school was breaking his spirit. All the time I knew him, and I spent a lot of time with him in class, he was told that he was stupid. Stupid because he didn't know what a metaphor was. Stupid because he couldn't see why it was important to know. And if you tell someone they're stupid enough times, they will believe you. And Kiffo did believe it.”