The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘The star on my inferior copy was very badly stitched. It might have fooled a non-expert at a distance, but close up it was an obvious fake. Another thing. The red on this shoe is of a very deep hue. That’s quality dyeing. Mine was more of a dirty pink.’

  I tossed the shoe back onto the desk.

  ‘No. This is not my shoe, I’m afraid. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  Just for a moment I thought I was going to get away with it, that they were going to say, ‘No, that’s all. You’ve been very helpful.’ Unfortunately not. The Principal leaned back in his chair and assumed his chief prosecutor expression.

  ‘You say you have a pair like this. Would it be too much trouble for you to bring them in?’

  I adopted a sorrowful expression.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see, I was watching a documentary recently. An exposé on bootlegging. I was shocked to discover that many companies employ child labour in undeveloped countries to make poor quality copies of well-known brands. These children are exploited disgracefully and I realised that by buying these fakes I was contributing to their exploitation. So I took them to the Salvos. The shoes, not the children.’

  I could tell by the look on their faces that they knew I was lying through my teeth. To be honest I was a touch annoyed. Did I look like the kind of person who wouldn’t be moved by the story of child exploitation? I mean, what I had told them about the documentary was true. However, I couldn’t really get too self-righteous since I was actually lying through my teeth about the rest. Miss Payne looked me up and down. I think the intention was to wither me with her contempt. However, when she reached my footwear her eyes nearly did one of those cartoon tricks where they come out on stalks.

  ‘And these . . . things . . . are now your preferred footwear, are they?’

  The three of us silently examined the monstrous white meringues on my feet.

  ‘They might not be pretty, Miss Payne,’ I said in a voice dripping with sincerity, ‘but they are the genuine article. I might look a little strange in them, but I am prepared to put up with that, so long as I know that no children have suffered in their manufacture. Besides, they belonged to my father. My father who left me when I was in Year 6. They . . .’ I attempted a catch in my throat ‘. . . have sentimental value.’

  What a bunch of garbage! I was starting to embarrass myself. But I could tell by the way the Prinny and the Pitbull exchanged glances that they knew it was the end of the tenth round and they were way behind on points. Then I was worried that they’d ask me to take off my shoe and show them my foot. Not that it would have proved anything. I could have injured my foot in a thousand different ways other than having it used as a doggy chew. But after a moment of quiet reflection, I knew they couldn’t really demand that I remove my footwear. It’s one thing to search your bag, but quite another to demand that you expose parts of your anatomy to school authorities. Clearly, Mr Di Matteo had come to the same conclusion because he swept an exasperated hand through his thinning hair then waved at me to leave.

  I turned and walked slowly towards the door. I had just touched the handle when Miss Payne spoke again.

  ‘Just one minute, Miss Harrison. You seem to be walking in a very strange manner. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you had injured your foot in some way. Like being bitten by a dog, for example. Now I know that this couldn’t possibly have happened to you, but I want you to listen carefully, Miss Harrison. If I ever find out that you have been following any member of staff, me for instance, then I promise you that this won’t just be a school matter. I will prosecute with the full force of the law. Do you understand me, Miss Harrison? In theory, I mean?’

  I tried a long-suffering glance of silent reproval.

  ‘Of course, Miss Payne. As far as my walk is concerned, I realise that my gait is consistent with an injury. However, without wishing to be indelicate, it is an unfortunate side effect of a certain feminine problem. You know, down there.’

  I loved the look on the Prinny’s face as I turned to go. As I left the room I heard the Pitbull say, ‘You should see the nurse, Miss Harrison!’

  Yeah, and you should see a plastic surgeon, I thought, as I closed the door behind me.

  I filled Kiffo in at lunchtime. When I had finished, he turned to look at me, the flaming red hair standing up at bizarre angles, as always.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Time for you to take a back seat, Calma.’

  ‘Forget it,’ I replied. ‘ You don’t get rid of me that easily. True, it’s too dangerous for me to be lurking outside her place just at the moment. But she obviously didn’t see you, Kiffo, or suspect that you were there last night. If she had, she’d have dragged you down to the Prinny’s as well. I think you should carry on as normal. I’ll give it a few days and then join you, when things have settled down. In the meantime, I’ll try and check out the Ferret guy. Mind you, I’ve no idea where to start!’

  Kiffo didn’t even try to argue. He went back to kicking a footy about while I pondered the problem. I kept on thinking all through Science, which meant that I totally messed up the experiment and burned a large hole in a test tube with my Bunsen burner. The teacher had to spray my bench with that foam stuff, and evacuate the classroom. The whole class was extremely pleased with this little drama and for a while they forgot to be horrible to me. Until Sarah Parker said, ‘She was probably dreaming about the Pitbull! Love does that to you.’ She clearly thought that she was an expert on that subject, since she had been going out with Clayton Rioli for about a month.

  [Clayton Rioli – Cancer. You are a diseased little specimen with all the sex appeal of a bird-eating spider. This will prove no impediment to your love-life, however, since you are romantically involved with a primordial life form who cannot afford to discriminate in affairs of the heart. ]

  After that there was the usual chorus of jeers and immature comments, so I retreated back into myself.

  The last lesson of the day – of the week – thank God, was English. The Pitbull thumped into the classroom and thirty bodies instinctively cringed in their seats. It reminded me of that Russian psychologist, Pavlov. He had this experiment with dogs. What he’d do is feed them when he rang a bell and after a while they would begin to drool whenever they heard a bell ringing, even if no food arrived. They associated the sounds with what they anticipated was coming next. Well, it was a bit like that with us. When the Pitbull came into the room we knew what to expect.

  This time, though, it was different. Instead of leaping straight for the jugular or ripping out entrails, she smiled. Well, I call it a smile, but it was more like a crack appearing in the centre of her face. It was unnerving.

  ‘I would like to place it on record that you have all worked exceptionally well this week,’ she said. ‘There has been a remarkable improvement not just in your attitude, but in the quality of the work you have been producing. So today, I think we can afford a little relaxation as a reward for our efforts. What do you say to a game of literary Pictionary? I give you the name of a famous novel or poem and you draw pictures on the board as clues for the rest of the class who have to guess what it is.’

  I knew what I wanted to say. Something to do with inserting the game into a place where the sun doesn’t shine. I kept quiet, though. I knew what she was doing and I knew it wouldn’t work. You can’t terrorise students for weeks and then expect them to eat out of your hand or roll over on their backs to have their tummies rubbed. Just how stupid did she think we were?

  ‘Yeah, Miss!’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Can I go first?’

  I looked around the class in bewilderment. What was going on here? Kids were smiling, putting their hands up in excitement. Melanie Simpson was rolling over on her back, exposing her belly. I felt betrayed.

  ‘Why don’t you begin the game, Kiffo?’ continued the Pitbull. ‘I’ll give you an easy book title, just to get us started. There’ll be prizes for those who do the bes
t drawings or get the answers quickest.’

  Kiffo! She called him ‘Kiffo’! No one other than his mates called him ‘Kiffo’! He glanced at me across the room. It felt like the two of us were alone in a world that had just gone crazy.

  ‘Nah, thanks, Miss,’ he said. ‘I’ll sit this one out.’

  ‘All right, Jaryd. That is your prerogative. So who’ll start? Melanie, your illustration skills are excellent. I’ve got a title here that I think you will find challenging.’

  And Melanie Simpson came to the front, looking like the cat who had not just got the cream, but had followed it up with a couple of succulent goldfish. What followed was fifty minutes of screaming laughter as twenty-eight kids had what looked like the best time of their lives. You got the impression that in fifty years they would be telling their grandchildren all about it. You know, sometimes human nature sickens me.

  I felt like standing up and giving them all a lecture on basic psychology. When you’ve been savaged by a rabid dog, it might seem a welcome relief to have it licking your face, rather than trying to tear it off, but there’s a limit to what the human mind can cope with. Violent extremes are unsettling, if not downright dangerous. They can lead to a nervous breakdown. Which was just what I felt like having as I looked around my English class. I would have preferred a normal lesson, with gnashing teeth and involuntary bowel movements. You knew where you stood with them. I was relieved when it was all over. There’s only so much fun and happiness you can stand.

  I went straight home after school and made myself a cheese and Vegemite toastie. The Fridge came home briefly, heated up some mess and then was off to the bar where she worked five nights a week. She’d be home some time around midnight. I wanted to talk to her.

  OKAY!! I know. I know what you’re thinking. And I can’t blame you for it. Moody bitch, that’s me. Wants to talk one moment and then doesn’t the next. I guess I was mixed up. But I’d got it into my head that I needed to discuss what was happening with another woman. The trouble was that the Fridge and I didn’t seem able to talk anymore. And I know it wasn’t all her fault, but it sure as hell wasn’t all mine either. She was fiercely proud after Dad took off. There was no way, for example, that she would claim any benefits for being on a low income, even though I knew for a fact that we were entitled. The one time I suggested it, she delivered such a lecture about bludgers that I didn’t have the courage to broach the matter again. The way I see it, earning your way was all well and good, but there were other important things in life as well. Like having a daughter who you had time to talk to, or a mother who was around a little bit. But I knew that I wasn’t the one to tell her. And that made me lonely and sad.

  I was half-hoping that Kiffo would turn up on his way to the Pitbull stake-out, but he didn’t. So I had a shower and bathed my injured foot. It seemed to be settling down. The swelling had subsided and the colours weren’t quite so psychedelic. It was still a bit tender, but I could walk on it without looking like I had lost control of my extremities. Then I went to bed early and lay awake thinking over the events of the day, the cunning of the Pitbull and the best way of tracking down a man you had only seen once, briefly, under a streetlight in the middle of the night. By the time I fell asleep, I was no nearer to a solution. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. I virtually fell over the guy the next day.

  MAY: Primary school, Year 6.

  You are sitting next to the red-haired boy in a quiet classroom. You are doing a maths test, working quickly because maths is easy for you. With fifteen minutes to go, you’ve finished and your eyes stray to the answer sheet of your neighbour. He is doodling a skull and crossbones. You notice that he has finished the first two questions, but the rest of the examination has not been attempted. You glance at the teacher who is sitting at his desk marking, his head down. Your hand gently slides his answer sheet towards you. You manage to get twelve of his questions answered before the time is up. It will be enough to pass.

  You leave the classroom together. The boy touches you quickly on the shoulder.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  You look at him. Your expression is difficult to read.

  ‘Fuck off,’ you say, without malice.

  Chapter 13

  Working girl

  I woke up late, about eleven. The Fridge was at work and the whole day stretched out before me. I decided to get a bus into the CBD. I’d stashed away twenty dollars of my pocket money and I fancied spending it on a blue halter-neck top I’d seen in a city market stall. Donning my pink and yellow glasses I headed off into the sunshine.

  There’s not much to do on a bus other than stare out the window or examine the graffiti on the seat-back in front of you. In this case, the only thing to read was ‘Darryl is nuff ’ which was a little skimpy in terms of plot, though high on romance. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. The thin little man. He was hurrying along a busy shopping street, looking like a man with a purpose. I caught a glimpse of his profile and then the bus swept me away. Without even thinking about it, I pressed the bell, praying that the next stop wouldn’t put me out of distance entirely.

  When I got off the bus I was at least four hundred metres from the place I had spotted him. I walked back quickly, scanning the streets, but he had disappeared. It was really frustrating. Unless he had got into a car or hailed a taxi or something, he had to be around here somewhere. I decided to wander the streets and see if my luck was in.

  For the longest time, it seemed it wasn’t. Then, just as I was about to give up, I saw him again. I had stopped outside a restaurant and a familiar silhouette caught my eye. I peered through the window into the gloomy interior and there he was, sitting at a table with four other guys. They all looked like extras from The Sopranos. I glanced up at the sign above the restaurant. ‘Giuseppe’s.’ That figured, I thought. They were probably planning to take out the Mayor with machine guns once they’d finished their pasta and meatballs.

  So now what? I needed to hear what they were saying. I had this really strong feeling that if I could just get close enough, I’d get some crucial information. Two options presented themselves. One: I could go into the restaurant as a customer and sit at a table next to them. I still had my twenty dollars, after all. The trouble was, the lunchtime rush hour had just started and the restaurant was crowded. There was one small table in the corner that was vacant, but I’d have needed a boom microphone to listen in to their conversation. Second option: I could try lip-reading. I had done a lip-reading course in Year 8 – well, not really a course as such, more an introduction. Still, I had been quite good at it.

  I moved a little further down the street so that I wasn’t directly in front of the window. I didn’t want the Godfather to look up from his garlic bread and find a large pair of lurid spectacles watching him above a mouth moving silently in translation. I crouched behind a parked car where I still had a good line of sight to their table. They say that nothing you have ever learned is entirely lost, it’s just locked and filed away somewhere in your brain under ‘completely useless information’. All I needed to do was find the key. I let my mind go blank and just watched the Ferret’s lips moving, hoping the words would float unbidden into my consciousness.

  And it worked! Suddenly I heard a little voice in my head saying, ‘My bum was anointing the jelly and scotch.’ Perhaps they were speaking in code. Maybe I’d got it slightly wrong. Perhaps it was really, ‘My gun was pointing at his belly and crotch.’ That would make sense, particularly if the person he was talking about had a very large, overhanging stomach. I concentrated again and this time picked up, ‘If the telly welly bit the leopard hard my pants were wet with dew.’

  It was no good. This was getting me nowhere. Anyway, my cover was blown when the driver of the car I was hiding behind accelerated into the traffic, leaving me crouched in the middle of the street and the subject of a few strange glances from passers-by. There had to be an option three, though I was buggered if I could think of it.
r />   And then, like the first flash of lightning in a storm, the solution seared across my eyeballs. A blimp in a red and white checked uniform hove into view. It was Rachael Smith. She of the lesbian taunts. The one who had spread rumours about me to the entire English-speaking population of the world. She was a waiter at Giuseppe’s! I watched as she leaned over a table with a carafe of water, smiling at the customers. They looked a little startled, but that might have been because she blocked out all available light. They also looked as if they were tourists. Rachael was probably going to tell them about me.

  Now I want some credit here. You will understand that of all people in the world, Rachael Smith is the one I definitely wouldn’t wee on if she was on fire. Yet I needed her help. The fact that she was a loathsome putrescence wasn’t going to deter me from talking to her.

  I ducked down the side street beside the restaurant and found a back door which gave onto a storeroom. I stood unhappily among the vats of olive oil, looking for inspiration or Rachael Smith – whichever came first. I have to admit I was nervous. I have no idea if it is some sort of felony to be lurking with intent among industrial packages of lasagne, but I had sudden images of a police loudhailer crying, ‘We know you’re in there, Harrison. Come out slowly, with your hands on your head, kicking the tagliatelle in front of you.’ Fortunately, at that moment another door opened and Rachael came in.

  When she saw me, a huge, imbecilic smile spread across her plump cheeks.

  ‘Calma Harrison,’ she said, proving that she could remember a name overnight. ‘Or should I say, Gayma Harrison?’

  ‘Great one, Rachael,’ I replied. ‘You must have been Oscar Wilde in a previous existence. Look, I’d love to exchange witticisms with you, but tempus is having a damn good fugit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Time flies. Oh, never mind. I have a proposition for you. I want to do your job for the next hour. No pay, of course. You keep that. I just want to do your work.’