The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull

by Barry Jonsberg

  I was building up momentum again and the destination, if not sparkling clear, was at least getting less blurry around the edges. But the light-headed feeling was still there and I had to force myself to focus. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I had to get through this first.

  ‘I have only vague notions of Kiffo’s true feelings towards me. But I know how I feel. I loved Kiffo. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum. And now I find myself here with a box beside me and a mouth full of empty words. Perhaps, in the end, at the end, this is all I can do – present for him the most absurd image I can, chained to a pulpit with a tacky sex toy. And Kiffo would have loved this. He would have laughed because this is his kind of style. So come on, guys, let’s have a good laugh, for Kiffo’s sake. And then take that damn box away and burn it so we can get the hell out of here.’

  I could feel myself going in the last couple of sentences. The light shifted and swirled. The last image I saw was the Principal leaning forward in his chair before the world tilted and crashed. And then, as it says in all the best books, there was only darkness.

  DECEMBER: Primary school, Year 6.

  You sit under a leafy tree in a corner of the school yard. It is recess and you have a school book open. Tucked within the pages, there is a newspaper clipping. You read.

  An inquest is to be held after the discovery on Monday of a body in a northern suburbs townhouse. A police spokesperson confirmed that the deceased was 17 years of age and a known heroin addict. The officer declined to comment on suggestions that the death was caused by an overdose. ‘Investigations are proceeding,’ he said, ‘but we are not actively looking for any other person in relation to this matter.’

  The body was discovered late Monday afternoon by the deceased’s younger brother.

  You sit back as the sun splashes through the leaves above you. In your head, a fist pounds a wall as tears fall down a small boy’s face. You notice, without surprise, that your cheeks are wet too.

  Chapter 24

  Mediation

  The chairs were set up in a circle. Mrs Mills sat in the one directly opposite me. Mum was on my left. The police officer with the crooked face was on my right. I still didn’t know her name. To the left of Mrs Mills was the Pitbull. To the right of Mrs Mills was my Home Group teacher, Miss Blakey. The room was comfortable and quiet. It had soft lighting, deeppile carpet, pot plants with glossy leaves arranged artistically in corners. And there were posters on the walls. You know the kind of thing. Helplines and stuff. I didn’t pay them that much attention. After everybody sat down there was an embarrassed pause, as if we realised the show had started, but no one could remember who should deliver the first line. Why was I here? The question fluttered across my mind and was gone. Mrs Mills cleared her throat.

  ‘We are here today to engage in a process of mediation and I welcome you all. It is not the purpose of this meeting to decide who is right or who is wrong, whether people are good or bad. We are not here to allocate blame. What we are here to do is to repair any damage that might have been caused by recent events. As far as we can. The death of Jaryd Kiffing cannot be undone by anything we might say here. But we can start the process of healing. Calma, would you like to start? Have you anything you want to say?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Miss Payne, perhaps you could start us off then?’

  I kept my head down. I didn’t want to look at anyone. There was another pause.

  ‘I’d . . . I’d like to say that I am so, so sorry about the death of Kiffo. This is the first time, in all my years of teaching, that I’ve . . . lost . . . a student. And it was so sudden. I know that you cared for him, Calma. And I feel for you. My heart goes out to you. It really does.’

  I looked up then. I couldn’t help it.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘You hated him.’

  The Pitbull leaned forward in her chair and fixed her eyes steadily on mine.

  ‘I understand why you don’t believe me, Calma. And maybe I don’t blame you. I know how I appear to students, particularly at the beginning of a course. Trust me, I know. Horrible, nasty, strict, no sense of humour? I know. But I do care, whatever you may think. Perhaps I care too much. It would be very easy to be a popular teacher. I could make jokes, get the students to like me. You look as if you don’t think that is possible, but it is. I don’t do things that way, Calma. Maybe I can’t do things that way. I get my students under control. In order to teach them. Only when they are under control can I relax the tight grip, give a little more freedom. Only when they are learning. It’s what I am paid to do.’

  ‘The students hate you.’

  ‘That’s actually not true, Calma.’ This was Miss Blakey. ‘Oh, I’m not saying that Miss Payne is the most popular teacher in the school. She isn’t. But she is one of the most respected. Would it surprise you to know that Vanessa Aldrick thinks that Miss Payne is the best teacher she has ever had? That she has learned more from her in one term than in all her other terms of English? And Vanessa’s not the only one. Not by a long way.’

  Vanessa? Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the world had been making a habit recently of turning my expectations and perceptions upside down. But Vanessa?

  ‘Think of it this way, Calma,’ said the Pitbull. ‘You are talented at English. Perhaps the most talented I have ever taught. But the other kids in the class, they’re not like you. I could leave you alone and you would be fine. In fact, for someone like you, it is probably better to leave you alone. But not the others. They need teaching, Calma. And that’s what I do. You might not like my style. Hell, I don’t like my style sometimes. But it does get results. And that, as I said before, is what I am paid to do.’

  There was silence for a while. Mrs Mills broke it. God, there was something about her voice that made me want to scream. So professional, so soothing. So reasonable.

  ‘But, in the end, it’s not Miss Payne’s teaching style that is at issue here, is it? It’s the extra-curricular activities that occurred between you, Kiffo and her that is our main concern. Now, Calma, I know that you are going to find this difficult, but I want you to remember that no one here wishes you any harm, or wants to see you humiliated. But we need to get this out in the open. Can you tell us your suspicions about Miss Payne? What was it you and Kiffo thought she was doing?’

  This was what I had been dreading. How could I say it? It sounded so stupid now, even when it was just in my head. There were all these adults around and what I was going to say would just sound so infantile to them. It sounded infantile to me. It was like I was being forced to say that I thought she was from outer space, or something. How could I, in that room, in that company, say, ‘I thought you were involved in organised crime,’ and retain any credibility? But I didn’t know what else to do. I needed Kiffo. But he wasn’t around. He was never going to be around and there wasn’t anything else to do.

  ‘I thought . . . I thought you were dealing drugs.’

  ‘I know,’ said the Pitbull. ‘And now I know what happened, I can understand just how you might have come to that conclusion. It wasn’t a stupid conclusion to reach, given the circumstances.’ I felt like telling her to fuck off with her patronising attitude, but I guess I wasn’t in a position to do so. She continued.

  ‘All I can do is answer your questions as fully as possible. I think you deserve that. I believe you know, now, that I am a drug counsellor in my spare time. A qualified one, by the way.’

  She paused, presumably to lend the point maximum significance. I kept silent.

  ‘You also know that I spend a lot of my time dealing with those who have dependencies, of one kind or another. Which means that very often I have to get out of my bed at ludicrous times in the morning. Drug addicts don’t watch the clock, Calma. They have a different way of measuring time to the rest of us. I’m not complaining. I’m just explaining it to you. Now I know that you watched me. Followed me. And you thought it was str
ange that I was meeting Dr Collins at three or four in the morning. Am I right?’

  I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Childish, I know, but I didn’t want to give her any more satisfaction than necessary. She pushed against my silence, regardless.

  ‘So. I am a qualified volunteer drugs counsellor. Would you say that explains my activities adequately?’

  This time, I had no option but to nod sullenly. This was old stuff. I’d worked all this out for myself. With assistance from the charming Jonno, of course.

  ‘Is there anything else you would like to ask me? Anything that you think might help? That’s what this is all about. To ask questions and get answers.’

  If you think about it, I didn’t have anywhere to go. If I just carried on, head down, making the occasional half-hearted comment, then I was going to appear even more of a loser. There was no option but to try to keep as much dignity as I possibly could. Ask the questions. Get the answers. Anyway, there were still things that I needed to sort out in my head. Not for their benefit, but for Kiffo’s and my own.

  Look. I don’t want to go through all of this in tedious detail. The whole thing went on for what seemed like forever. If it’s okay with you, I’ll summarise. The questions I put and the answers the Pitbull gave me. It’ll save us all time.

  Q. Where were she and the Ferret going when Kiffo and I were following on the bike?

  A. To a conference on ‘New Directions in Dependency’. Their presence was noted in the minutes. The Pitbull was the keynote speaker. All verifiable.

  Q. Why did the car suddenly speed up?

  A. Explanation a little embarrassing. The Pitbull’s watch was running slow. They noticed, during the journey, the real time on the car clock and realised they were going to be late. Hence the sudden acceleration. At no time were they aware of being followed.

  Q. Why had the Pitbull made comments about having dealings with the Kiffing family?

  A. Tricky, this one. Confidentiality, and all that. Suffice to say that in her professional capacity as a drug counsellor, she had occasion to know about . . . the problems that a certain member of the family had experienced in the past. She could say nothing more about the subject. She also admitted that she regretted having made the original remark to me, and that it bordered on being unprofessional.

  Q. What was it that the Ferret had passed to her that night? The white stuff in the plastic bag.

  A. Naltrexone. A drug widely used in the treatment of heroin addiction. Available on prescription, often used as a ‘rapid detoxification agent’ for addicts trying to kick the habit. Dr Collins was a General Practitioner and therefore qualified to dispense the drug. It was an emergency, though she was prepared to admit that receiving the bag was probably a breach of acceptable practice, since she, the Pitbull, was not herself qualified to dispense it. In the circumstances [and confidentiality prevented her from disclosing those], the lapse of protocol would be understood by all but the most unforgiving persons.

  Look, there was other stuff. But it wasn’t really very important. Mum talked. The police officer talked. Just words, after all. And right towards the end, I started to cry. I didn’t want to. God knows, I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t stop. The funny thing is, it wasn’t like real crying at all. Not gut-wrenching sobs or an overflowing of emotion. Nothing like that. It was like puking up something hard, solid, lodged in dark places I didn’t know existed.

  The tears flowed down my cheeks but they weren’t tears of remorse. They weren’t tears of humiliation, even though I knew that I had made myself look like a ten-year-old. They had nothing to do with the fact that it was:

  Game over

  Finished End of story.

  I’d known that for a long time really. The tears were, finally, for Kiffo. For the life that he had led and the life denied now forever. More than anything else, for the cold, hard, implacable waste of it all.

  And the pity of it, Kiffo. Oh, Kiffo, the pity of it.

  Chapter 25

  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 mid-year 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 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 realisation that I had suspicions the Pitbull was working with an organised 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 afterwards. 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 bod
y 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 realised 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 the 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 relief 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?