The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘I told you, Calma. I told you there was something going on. Now we know.’ He was almost dancing down the street now, bandy legs skipping from side to side.

  ‘Hang on, Kiffo,’ I said. ‘We suspect that there is something going on. But suspicion is a long way from knowing. Listen, if this were a TV show, there’d be some balding guy in a shiny suit, saying to us,“ Harrison and Kiffing, I need more than circumstantial evidence. Sure, we could put out an APB, bring her in, but her attorneys would make damn sure that the case would never stand up in court. She’d walk. Get me solid proof I can take to the DA. It’s our only chance of an indictment.” You see what I’m getting at?’

  ‘No.’

  I grabbed Kiffo by the arm and sat him down on a park bench that was grubby even by his standards. Scrambling around in my bag, I came up with a battered envelope and a rather leaky red biro.

  ‘Let’s jot this down, shall we?’ I scrawled three columns on the back of the envelope.

  Behaviour Suspicions evidence

  Pitbull gets a phone call in the middle of the night. She’s arranging a deal with criminal underworld. None - hearsay from burglar.

  Pitbull has suspicious meetings in the middle of night. As above. The word of two schoolkids.

  Ferret gives Pitbull a bag with white stuff in it. Heroin/coke drop. None.

  Ferret talks about heroin drought. Business meeting, discussing possibilities for organised crime. None. Hearsay. Could be an innocent conversation among concerned citizens about state of society.

  I handed the envelope to Kiffo.

  ‘You see? There’s nothing here. Nothing that we could use if we went to the police. They’d laugh at us. We need hard evidence, Kiffo. Something that isn’t just our word against two respected members of society. Fingerprints, tape-recordings, photographs. That kind of thing.’

  I was starting to reconsider my career aspirations. Maybe I should become a police officer. Chief Superintendent Calma Harrison, the scourge of the underworld. Tough, streetwise, folding twenty dollar bills into the top pockets of grasses, busting bent coppers, feared and respected. ‘She’s tough, but she’s all woman!’ Or maybe a lawyer! I could just see myself pacing up and down in front of a jury, hypnotising them with my impeccable logic and oratory skills in an emotional closing address.

  So I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that all the facts point in one direction and one direction only.The defendant, Miss Payne, or as she is known in the seedy drug underworld, the Pitbull, has for years been polluting the streets of our city with the most evil of substances – heroin. She has been preying upon the young and the helpless for the saddest and most despicable reasons of all – personal gain. Did she care that our nation’s youth were dying in the streets? Did she care about their untold misery? She did not, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. She did not. I ask that we send a message in this case. A message to the law-abiding citizens of this wonderful country of ours. A message to the parents of those who have died and are continuing to die. A message that we care, that we are determined to root out this cancer in our society. I call upon you to hand out the most severe sentence the law will allow. I know that I can rely upon you all to do your duty. I rest my case.

  I’d almost forgotten that Kiffo was still there. He folded the envelope and handed it back. We started to walk again.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said finally. ‘But if it’s hard evidence we need, then hard evidence is what we’ll get. If I have to stake out her house every night, we’ll get it!’

  ‘Maybe so, but after what she said to me today, you’ll have to get it by yourself. I can’t go near her house again. I mean, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t risk getting into trouble with the police. That’s what she threatened me with in the Prinny’s office. Prosecution. And then it’ll be game over.’

  Kiffo snorted.

  ‘You don’t have a clue, do you, Calma?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Prosecution, trouble with the police, all that stuff. You’ve no idea. Like I’ve got no idea with a poem, you’ve got no idea about the law. There ain’t many things I’m an expert on, but the police is one. Let me give you a lesson. Firstly, police time. They’re so busy tracking down thieves, doing drug busts and handing out speeding fines that they’ve got no time to scratch their arses, let alone chase a schoolkid for hanging around a teacher. Secondly, you haven’t done nothin’ to her. What’s she gonna say? There’s this kid who talked to me outside my house, then my dog chewed her shoe while I was meeting someone in the middle of the night. No, officer, I didn’t see her, but she had a pair of red shoes. And she bumped into me in town, on a busy street. They’d laugh at her, Calma. Maybe, if we were real lucky, charge her with wasting police time. And thirdly, she’s up to no good herself. So who’s the last people she’s going to contact? The police, that’s who. Nah, you don’t have to worry about the Pitbull. She’s not going to do nothin’. ’

  Kiffo fell silent. Given that he had probably used up an entire month of vocabulary in one hit, I wasn’t surprised. He reminded me of one of those geysers in North America: dormant for years, maybe the occasional dribble, and then – boom – you find yourself drenched.

  I don’t think either of us had planned it, but we had wandered, by degrees, into my neighbourhood. I thought about what Kiffo had said and he did have a point. If we had no evidence against the Pitbull and the Ferret, then what evidence did they have against us? And given the soaring crime rates in the city, why would the police be bothered with something so trivial? It seemed much more likely that the Pitbull was trying to frighten me with threats she knew she would never be able to follow up. Scare me a bit and hope that would be enough to discourage me.

  So I probably would have been much encouraged by Kiffo’s analysis if it hadn’t been for a couple of things. I could see the driveway of my house, and my mother’s car was there. She should have been at work. But that wasn’t the most worrying thing. By far the most worrying thing was the police car parked behind our old Ford.

  Kiffo scratched behind one ear.

  ‘Course, I could be wrong,’ he said.

  AUGUST: Primary school, Year 6.

  It is the end of the school day. You leave the classroom with the red-haired boy. The sun is shining and there are a couple of hours of daylight left. You feel good. You have put to the back of your mind what is waiting for you at home. It is not something you want to think about: the darkness, the confined rage and your parents’ faces closed to each other.

  As you pass through the gates of the school, the red-haired boy turns from you and runs towards two young men leaning against the school fence. You watch. One young man is about seventeen. He has red hair and eyes that look through you, as if he is focusing on something just beyond your vision. The other young man is muscled. He has a shaved head and tattoos on his arms and neck. He says nothing.

  Your friend throws himself into the arms of the red-haired young man. He looks up into his face and you see something in his expression that you have not seen before. It looks like love. The older boy ruffles the hair of the smaller boy and then his gaze turns towards you. You are alarmed by his stare.

  ‘Who’s your girlfriend, then?’ the older boy says.

  Chapter 15

  The lull

  I walked very slowly towards my house. Kiffo said something, but I don’t know what it was. All I know is that by the time I got to my front door he had gone. I’d heard of tunnel vision before – that medical complaint where you can’t see anything at the borders of your vision – but this was my first experience of anything like it. It was as if everything else had disappeared. I could see the old off-white door, with its familiar scratches and stains. And it seemed as if it was approaching me, looming larger and larger while I stood still. Nothing existed beyond it. If a truck had been coming down the street I wouldn’t have heard it, wouldn’t have seen it. The way I was feeling deep inside my numbness, I’d have been happy for it t
o hit me. Anything to keep me away from that door.

  I saw my hand reach out and push against the panel, just above the ragged wound where I had crashed my bike when I was eight years old. The paintwork felt cold. A hinge complained feebly and briefly as the door swung open. It had obviously been left slightly ajar. The dark hallway stretched out in front of me. Little specks of dust swirled in a thin beam of light that angled in from outside. At the end of the hallway, the kitchen door was half-open, though I could see nothing except a corner of the fridge. Low voices drew me slowly towards them. Towards the kitchen door, the corner of the fridge and whatever lay to one side of it.

  I could have run. Even then I could have run. Waited until the police had gone. Until my mother had gone to work again, or gone to sleep. Put it all off to another time. Prepared my defence, settled my mind. Maybe I should have run. But I know now that nothing could have stopped my slow progress towards that door, that confrontation. I was powerless to resist it.

  I pushed open the kitchen door and, with that one small movement, stopped the voices instantly. I went inside. At the kitchen table, facing me, was my mother. She looked up at me as if meeting a stranger. I could see wetness on her cheeks, but her eyes were dry. One hand fidgeted with an unlit cigarette. The other plucked nervously at a loose strand of hair. It was as if a powerful hand reached inside me then and squeezed. It hurt so much that I gasped.

  Sitting opposite Mum, his back to me, was a police officer. He had turned in the chair and was looking at me over his left shoulder. For a moment, I had the strangest notion that he was someone I knew, someone who had dressed up as a police officer. You know, as if he was going to a fancy dress ball. And then I knew why he was familiar. It was Constable Ryan, the school-based police officer. I had seen him hundreds of times at school. He’d often wave to me and smile, exchange the occasional, ‘G’day.’ He wasn’t smiling now. To his right, standing up, was a female police officer. She didn’t seem much older than me. Her face was slightly twisted, as if something had slid from the plane of her face and then halted. It gave her a fractured look that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. There was the hint of a light in her eye, like a smile that she couldn’t release. It was strange. A strange expression in that company. In that kitchen.

  Everybody looked at me for a while and then I sat in the chair to Constable Ryan’s left. I placed my elbows on the table and linked my fingers. What I wanted to do was keep my eyes firmly on my interlocked knuckles. I knew that would be bad. But I couldn’t look at Mum. So I forced myself to look at the female police officer. I tried to fix my eyes on the point of her chin. But what took my attention most was the handle of her gun. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it in my kitchen. And I couldn’t escape the certainty that I had brought it here. The silence gathered. I could hear the tiny electronic click of the kitchen clock.

  And then the talking started. I can’t remember everything that was said. I don’t want to remember everything that was said. But I remember enough. And the thing I remember most vividly is not the words themselves, but rather the absence of words. Throughout the whole time, Mum did not say a thing. Not until the police had gone. I hated that most of all. I don’t think she made a sound. I don’t think she even moved. It was if she had been frozen there or was simply a part of the furniture. Like the fridge.

  In the end, what Constable Ryan said wasn’t of much importance. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. Because he said serious stuff. It’s just that it was the situation that was really important, the fact that he was there in my kitchen at all. The words were accessories after the fact – though each one cut into me like tiny slivers of glass. He told me about the laws governing stalkers. He told me that what I was doing was illegal. Even if we ignored the fact that I was breaking the law, he said, there was still the pain and suffering that results from a person’s privacy being invaded, the sense that they can’t go anywhere and feel safe. He told me about terror. That it was emotional brutality, an act of violence as real and as undeniable as physical violence. But we couldn’t ignore the fact that I had broken the law. He told me about trespass orders, juvenile courts, criminal records. Even if I wasn’t prosecuted, and he couldn’t promise that I wouldn’t be, I was still guilty. This was not a game, he said. This was not a schoolgirl prank. I mustn’t fool myself into thinking that all I had done was make a nuisance of myself. This was serious.

  All the time he talked, I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the chin of the woman opposite. I said nothing as Constable Ryan continued. He told me that I had previously been of good character. The school had reported that I had never been in any trouble before. A search of the police database had revealed nothing. All the reports indicated that I was an intelligent student and, before this, a responsible student. I had great things ahead of me. But whether I achieved those things was up to me. I had important decisions to make. And one of those decisions would have to be about the people I chose to associate with. He told me that he had known many good kids get into trouble because they got in with the wrong crowd. We all knew that he was talking about Kiffo, though his name was never mentioned. He told me also to think about the pain I had caused my mother, who was doing her best to raise me properly, who was working hard to make sure that I had the best start in life. Did she deserve to be called out of work to hear all this about her daughter? I remember thinking vaguely that they must have got her work number from the school’s records. I wondered how they had broken the news to her.

  And then they went. I remained seated. I couldn’t swear to it, but I think the woman gave me a small smile before she drifted out of my field of vision. But it might have been a facial tic. I can’t be sure. Mum saw them out. I heard the front door close and her slow footsteps returning to the kitchen. She sat down in the same chair. I still had my eyes fixed on the point where the woman’s chin had been. Now there was a pepper grinder on a shelf, occupying the line of sight she had vacated.

  Inside me, something was breaking. It was like when you have to throw up. It comes from the core of your being. But I was throwing up feelings, chunks of feelings that burned my throat. And my mother still stayed silent. I was scared.

  Chapter 16

  The storm

  Mum didn’t exactly break the silence. She shattered it, smashed it to pieces, destroyed it. One minute, we were sitting there, a still life of misery, the next, she erupted.

  Ask me now what I should have done and the answer is easy. I should have kept quiet. I should have taken it. Mum had a right to be angry, she needed to lash out. And maybe I needed to take some punishment too. I’ve tried since to look at it from her point of view. I’ve tried to imagine what it might be like if I had a daughter and the police came to my workplace. No warning, no hints. I know that I would react as she did. Probably worse, knowing my tendency to be verbally trigger-happy, to use words that fire and tear.

  So I’m not proud of my part in the argument. But, as you must know by now, I can’t help myself sometimes. When there’s a word brawl around I’m always going to find myself in the thick of it. Mind you, I wasn’t in top form.

  ‘What the hell is going on, Calma? What is going through your head? A stalker? My daughter, a stalker? Following a teacher around, attacking her . . .’

  ‘I didn’t attack her!’

  ‘Hanging around her house at night. Why, Calma? Tell me! Because at the moment I don’t know what is going on.’

  ‘I didn’t attack her!’

  ‘That’s not what the police say. They say you could be charged with assault or stalking or both. Charged, Calma. Court. Magistrates. Juvenile detention. And I see that you don’t deny you were following that poor woman! Kept that quiet, didn’t you? So why should I believe you didn’t attack her as well? Why should I believe anything you say?’

  ‘Well don’t believe me, then. I told you I didn’t attack her. It was a stupid accident, that’s all. But if you think I’m a liar, fine.’

  ‘Answer my question, then. Why? Why have
you been doing all this?’

  ‘Like you’d be interested!’

  That was a mistake. A big mistake. I see that now, but it just came out, like these comments always seem to do, without my permission. Mum smashed her arms down on the table. I jumped. I had never seen her so angry or so hurt and betrayed. I knew the storm was building but I was helpless to do anything other than be swept along by it.

  ‘How dare you?’ she screamed.‘How dare you say that to me? For years I’ve been bringing you up by myself, working myself into the ground so I could give you the best of everything. Nothing I have done, in all that time, has not been for you. Do you think I like the work I do? Do you think it’s a great job standing at a check-out all day, scanning bloody packets of pasta for bugger-all money? And when I finish there, I come home, get something to eat and then spend hours at the pub, pulling beers, putting up with drunken bastards making lewd comments. Do you think I like that?’

  ‘I never asked you to do any of it!’

  ‘No. You didn’t have to. I did it of my own free will. I did it for you. So that you could have a good education, have all the things you need to make a success of your life. Because there’s one thing that terrifies me, Calma, and that’s the thought of my daughter working in a supermarket or a pub for the rest of her life, scraping by, never able to dig herself out of the poverty trap. So don’t tell me I’m not interested. I don’t deserve it.’

  And she didn’t. I know that. I knew it then. But it’s hard, when you’re under attack not just from your own mother but also from your own conscience, to do anything except fight back with all the dirty tricks you can find. I needed to build up some indignation, a sense that I was being unjustly accused, so I could bury the knowledge that I was in the wrong.

  ‘You’re not doing it for me, though, are you?’ I yelled. ‘You’re really doing it for yourself. So you can say to me, “I’ve got a shit life and it’s all your fault!” You don’t need to do two jobs and you know it. We are entitled to benefits, Mum, but your pride won’t let you claim them.’