A writer. That’s what I am now. This book is proof of that, don’t you think? I’m not saying what kind of a writer, mind you. But a writer – I guess I can say at least that about myself. This book was written in those six weeks. What’s more, I really enjoyed writing it. There were so many times when I felt completely lost in it, so that hours and hours would go by and I wouldn’t be aware of it. Sometimes Mum would leave for work in the morning and then be home about five minutes later, or so it would seem. And I’d have filled pages and pages, without being aware that I’d filled them. A bit scary in a way.
And at some stage in the writing – I don’t know when, I’m not even sure that there was a specific moment – I made up my mind to go back to school. There was a time there, you see, when I didn’t think I could face it. After everything that had happened, I thought it might have been easier to avoid all the problems associated with school. Maybe get a job for a while and then do a bit of travelling before I finished my education. But I know now that I really enjoy writing, that I want to make a career of it, if I’m good enough. And I don’t want to wait. So that means doing English in senior school. Learning more about Shakespeare and sonnets and all that kind of thing. Getting some idea of what real writers are like and how they go about the whole business. I know that I’ll probably be doing a lot of essay writing, which isn’t the stuff I’ve got into over the last six weeks. But it’s all writing. And there is something exciting about having a blank page in front of you and filling it with not just words, but the right words, in the right order. Yeah, I know. I’m a bit odd. I suppose I’ll have to be happy with being odd. To be honest, I think I always was happy with it. Maybe it just took Kiffo to make me realise it.
I guess you weren’t expecting a happy ending, not after everything that happened. A good job, too. Here I am, alienated from school with a mother who’s barking mad and not even one good friend to share things with. So a not unhappy ending is perhaps the best we can hope for. So here it is.
While I was writing everything down, I came to a few conclusions about what went on between me, Kiffo and the Pitbull. Isn’t it strange? You can be there, living a life, but not fully aware of what it all means. Writing has given me a different perspective on events. Homophones, for example. I never realised how important homophones could be. Or the power of the Internet. Or the power of perseverance. I explained all of these things to that police officer, the one with the shifted face. Remember her? I went to see her at the police station just before I wrote this chapter. Turns out her name is Alyce Watson. Constable Alyce Watson. And do you know something? She’s really nice. And smart.
So, are you totally confused now? Don’t be. It makes perfect sense. You just need to look at it from a different angle.
Harrison paced the carpet, puffing away on her meerschaum pipe. I knew the signs of old. My friend was onto something and the game was afoot. I knew better than to interrupt her train of thought, however. If I knew one thing about Harrison it was that she would reveal the products of her singular mind when the time suited her, when all the pieces had fallen into place. I pretended to read a report that lay on my desk. Not five minutes went past before Harrison stopped pacing and seated herself in the old horsehair chair in the corner.
‘Homophones, Constable Watson,’ she said.‘A much underrated linguistic phenomenon, don’t you think?’
I glanced up at Harrison. There was a bright gleam in her eye and I knew that whatever she had been considering, in that remarkable brain everything had fallen into place.
‘Homophones, old girl?’ I replied. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
Harrison took the pipe from her lips.
‘Indeed, Watson! You should really broaden your mind. I am, of course, referring to words that have identical phonological characteristics but widely differing semantic qualities.’
Harrison could see that I was no wiser, so she put it into layperson’s language.
‘Words that sound the same, but have different meanings! Like “bough”, the branch of a tree, and “bow”, the act of bending at the waist. Or “waist”, the expanding flesh between your ribs and your hips, Watson, and “waste’’, what time is going to, while I am engaged in explaining the obvious! Homophones.’
‘Steady on, old girl,’ I remonstrated. ‘I know what you mean, but I’m afraid I don’t see what it has to do with the case.’
Harrison sprang to her feet and resumed pacing.
‘It has everything to do with the case, my dear Watson. Everything. Let me explain. You remember my meeting with Jonno, the tattooed scallywag employed by Kiffo to trace the movements of my arch enemy, the Pitbull?’
‘Indeed I do, Harrison.’
‘Then you may remember that at one point in the conversation, Jonno said, “And the address of this pain?’’ ’
Once again I was amazed at Harrison’s prodigious memory.
‘Words to that effect, Harrison.’
‘No, Watson. Not “to that effect”. They were the exact words. But my point Watson, is that one might reasonably assume that “pain” was being used in that colloquial manner that some chaps employ when they are referring to people who are an inconvenience.A “pain in the arse”, I believe. But what if Jonno was actually saying, “And the address of this Payne?” P-A-Y-N-E.’
‘Good Lord, Harrison,’ I exclaimed. ‘The real name of the Pitbull! But hold on a moment, old girl.So what if he was saying “Payne”? I can’t see how that would be significant.’
‘My dear fellow, Jonno should not have known her name. He expressed an ignorance of her very existence. Neither Kiffo nor myself revealed any such information, yet Jonno, it seems, knew her name.’
My head was swimming, but I felt that something was not quite right. Finally, I spotted the flaw.
‘Perhaps Jonno did say “pain”. P-A-I-N. Maybe you’re looking for a homophone where one doesn’t exist, my dear Harrison!’
‘Indeed,Watson. The thought had occurred to me.Yet as I was writing the sentence, from my recollections of our meeting, it struck me as wrong somehow. It jarred. I have, as you know, an encyclopedic knowledge of contemporary slang and I feel certain that this particular phrase is not one that would have occurred to someone like Jonno. It is too middle-class, hardly “colourful” enough for someone of his social background. No, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Jonno did indeed know the Pitbull and that he was keen to keep this information from us. I was then forced to think about his motivation. What if Jonno was working for the Pitbull? He is, as we know, a small-time figure in the criminal underworld. What if he alerted the Pitbull to the fact that Kiffo and I were on her trail? What if, as a result of this information, the Pitbull decided to arrange the untimely death of Kiffo? And myself?’
‘Good Lord, Harrison!’ I exclaimed, leaping to my feet. ‘It fits. But proof, my dear girl. Where is the proof?’
Harrison puffed on the pipe, and a foul cloud of acrid smoke curled up to the ceiling.
‘I needed to clarify the links between the Pitbull, Jonno and the Kiffings. The Pitbull asserted that she had had dealings with a member of Kiffo’s family, presumably in her capacity as a drug counsellor. And I do recall seeing that family member in the company of the aforesaid Jonno some years ago. Kiffo confirmed that the Pitbull had had contact with his family in the past, contact that he did not like or trust. However, he was very protective and may have resented the kind of professional help that she was offering. So, as I said, the connections were there, but something didn’t ring true. Consequently, I did some more checking. It transpires that the Pitbull did not receive her counsellor qualification until three years ago, a full year after the tragic demise of the Kiffing family member. Why would she have had dealings with that person, if she was not a qualified counsellor? This leaves us with the intriguing notion that, rather than counselling him on his addiction, she was possibly encouraging it!’
‘Dash it all, Harrison,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you a
re right. When have you not been right? But we still don’t have proof of a link between Jonno and the Pitbull!’
Harrison took the pipe from her mouth and reached down into the pocket of her tweed jacket. She produced two photographs and handed them to me.
‘There is a local casuarina tree with which I am familiar,Watson. I spent many hours under its gentle boughs recently. Fortunately, I took with me my trusty Canon compact camera. The two photographs you have in your hand are evidence that our tattooed scallywag has made visits to the Pitbull’s house. Long visits, Watson. Now I know that this could be explained away. Jonno is, after all, the kind of person who might want to avail himself of the Pitbull’s professional expertise, if he indeed suffers from an addiction to narcotics. But why go to her house? That would, I feel, be unlikely. It does not seem consistent with professional practice.’
As always, I was amazed by Harrison’s ability to make connections. I could only gaze in awe as she continued, unperturbed by my thunderstruck expression.
‘And, finally, my dear Watson, there is the strange business with the naltrexone. If you remember, Kiffo and I saw her receive a bag of white powder from the Ferret, a bag that she asserted contained naltrexone, a drug used in the treatment of heroin addiction.Yet it is a matter of public record, Watson, and one that can be verified easily through the World Wide Web, that naltrexone is generally prescribed in fifty milligram tablets to be taken orally. There would be no reason to grind those tablets down to a powder. In fact, it would make the administering of the drug much more difficult. Which leads me to conclude that it wasn’t naltrexone at all.’
I considered everything Harrison had said. It made sense. There was no hard evidence, of course, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before she produced it. There was only one thing I could say.
‘Brilliant, Harrison.’
‘Elementary, Constable Watson.’
Actually, she didn’t say ‘brilliant’. But she was interested. She took the photographs from me. And she took loads of notes. She said that she would have a word with a couple of her colleagues and that she’d keep me informed. I think she will, too. I can generally tell when I’m being fed bullshit, and she didn’t give me that impression.
Oh, she also warned me to leave it with her now. Not to go back to the Pitbull’s house, or anything. Maybe she was worried about my safety. Then again, perhaps she was conscious of the whole stalking issue. I can’t tell. It seemed like excellent advice to me, whichever way you looked at it.
Trouble is, I never have been good at following advice. It’s one of the many things that me and Kiffo had in common.
PRESENT DAY.
You pick up a sheaf of papers from the printer, and a sigh of satisfaction escapes your lips. It is done. Finished. You raise your head from your desk and look at a photograph hanging on the wall in front of you. It is a photograph of a red-haired boy and a flat-chested girl with glasses. They are leaning casually against the school railings. They look happy together. You smile even as you feel a hard lump of pain in your chest.
‘Kiffo,’ you say. ‘I think that in the end you’ll find I kept my promise.’
Chapter 26
Connected
‘Hello. You have reached the home of Calma and the Fridge. We can’t come to the phone right now because, frankly, we suspect that you want to sell us Life Insurance, an investment opportunity on the Gold Coast or solar heating for a pool we don’t own. If that isn’t your intention, please leave your name and number after the beep and we’ll get back to you. Or not, as the case may be . . .’
‘. . . Calma Harrison? Alyce Watson. Hi. Listen, there have been a number of developments regarding the matter you brought to our attention and I think you’ll find them . . . interesting. We will need a formal statement from you. Could you please call to arrange a time to come in? Speak to you soon, Calma. Bye.’
Dear Calma,
A charming and sophisticated gentleman at the pub last night kindly attempted to re-adjust my underwear for me. Not realising that he had only my personal comfort in mind, I punched him in the face and catapulted his false teeth into another customer’s steak and chips. As a result, my employment has, by mutual agreement, been terminated.
I can’t say I’m disappointed. Reluctantly, I am starting to think that, despite your many and obvious faults, you might have a point about my work ethic. Fancy discussing this, and other issues, over a toothless steak and chips tonight? My treat.
Love,
The Fridge
Dear Fridge,
It’s amazing what a change of rubber seals and a quick defrost will do to your efficient running. I think I can fit you in to my busy schedule, particularly since I am keen to hear all the sordid details of your last day at work.
Love,
Calma
P. S. Incidentally, do you think there might be a market for steak fillets that chew themselves?
ASSIGNMENT:
Write a description of a place, person or thing in such a way that you demonstrate an understanding of the use of similes.
RESPONSE:
Student’s name: Jaryd Kiffing
Subject: Calma Harrison
Calma is like a girl that I know. She’s like, you know, smart and everything but she’s also like the best mate that anyone could have. She’s never talked to me like I’m dumb. I like her, like loads. I trust her like I don’t trust no one else.
END OF SEMESTER REPORT:
Student’s name: Jaryd Kiffing
Teacher: Ms Brinkin
Subject: English
Grade: E
Attitude: E
Comments:
Jaryd has completely wasted his time this semester. He has been resistant to learning and disruptive in class. His written work shows little understanding, insight or sensitivity.
Acknowledgements
There are two things that all writers need: encouragement and then more encouragement. I have been fortunate that so many people have supplied these unstintingly. Thanks to my family, local and distant, for their support. Kris and Kari, you always believed. Lauren and Brendan, thanks for reading the manuscript and providing important insights (and for water-throwing, Lauren!). My gratitude, also, to Peter Styles for checking certain parts of the narrative.
Jodie Webster and Erica Wagner, of Allen & Unwin, took a raw manuscript and transformed it. This book could not have been written without their expertise and belief. I would also like to thank Penni Russon for her intelligent and sensitive assessment of the first draft.
Above all else, my wife, Nita, was a reader, critic and guide, and an unfailing support when things got tough. It is impossible to adequately acknowledge her influence and contribution. Beggar that I am, I am poor even in thanks.
The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull Page 19
