The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne

by Barry Jonsberg

  Kiffo scratched behind one ear.

  “Course, I could be wrong,” he said.

  Year 6, Third Term

  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 toward 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 toward you. You are alarmed by his stare.

  “Who's your girlfriend, then?” the older boy says.

  Chapter 15

  The lull

  I walked very slowly toward 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 to 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 toward them. Toward 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 defense, settled my mind. Maybe I should have run. But I know now that nothing could have stopped my slow progress toward 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 costume party. 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 as 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 sti
ll 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. 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 checkout 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.”

  “I will not take money from the government, Calma. I will not. I was brought up to work for my money. I will not be a sponger and neither will you!”

  “How many times, Mum? How many times do we have to have this conversation? It's not sponging. It's what we're entitled to. It's what you pay taxes for….”

  Mum grabbed the sides of her head in both hands as if trying to physically stop the words from entering. But I wasn't going to let that happen.

  “And if you stopped being such a bloody martyr for a while, you might be able to spend some time with me. You know, do what mothers and daughters are supposed to do. Have a relationship, talk, that kind of thing.”

  That got through. Mum brought her hands down. Tears of pain, or rage, made her eyes glisten. Her fingers curled into hard knots.

  “So it's all my fault, is it? Is that what you're saying? That if I spent more time with you, you wouldn't be getting into trouble with the police?”

  “Well, there's a bit of truth in it, isn't there? Other people that I know have parents who talk to them, care for them, look out for them. They have parents who are there. I don't have anyone. I hardly ever see you. How do you suppose that makes me feel? I've got a mother but I forget sometimes what she looks like. And, okay, I don't go without stuff. But even you, Mum, even you must know that's not enough. Give me less stuff and more time.”

  Mum got up and stomped around the kitchen.

  “You're too bloody smart for your own good, Calma Harrison. You think it's that easy? You don't even know how much the rent is on this place. You don't know what a bill looks like. You have your AC on all night, but you never think how much money it costs. Look around. Do you see plenty of things? New microwave? A dishwasher? Hell, no. Do you know the last time I went out? Do you know the last time I bought myself some clothes? Well, neither do I! And it's not because I'm stashing the money away somewhere. We spend what I earn just keeping a roof over our heads and food on the table. So don't lecture me about finances, ‘cause you know nothing about it. God, do you think I wouldn't spend more time with you if I could? Is that really what you think? And I'll tell you another thing. You're not going to blame me for this. I'm not taking responsibility for your behavior, do you hear?”

  I jumped up out of my chair. I wasn't going to let her have the advantage of the moral and physical high ground. And anyway, if I didn't start moving, physically, the emotional energy would be hard to sustain. We faced each other, like boxers, both bloody and battered but unable to stop swinging.

  “No, Mum. Don't take responsibility. Why break the habit of a lifetime? Just keep earning the money. But don't think that entitles you to the right to ask me what's happening in my life. Because that's the one thing you haven't even tried to earn!”

  I thought she was going to hit me then. I even flinched in anticipation. But she kept her hands at her sides, though I could see the effort it took. Her voice, when she spoke again, was cracking at the edges, splintering under a weight of emotion.

  “So I haven't earned the right to an explanation? I don't deserve to be told why the police came to my workplace to tell me that my daughter is behaving in a criminal fashion? I don't deserve to know?”

  “No. I don't think you do!”

  “Well, what about this Kiffing boy? The police said you had been—what was the word?—'associating’ with an undesirable character, a young man known to them as a criminal. He's got a police record! Did you know that?”

  “I don't care, Mum! I don't give a crap about any of that.” I was suddenly aware that I was shouting at the top of my voice. “Kiffo's a friend. He's been there for me when I've needed him.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  I leaned close in.

  “Mind your own damn business! That's the kind of thing that a daughter might talk about to a mother. And until you start behaving like a mother, I'm telling you nothing.”

  She hit me then. A sharp crack across the side of the face that twisted my head around. The storm had broken. There was a silence. My cheek felt numb and then it tingled with the onset of pain. I turned back to face her. Her expression was wide, frightened, as i
f she couldn't believe what had happened. I could see that she was saturated with sorrow. It was oozing from every pore. Her hand crept upward toward her mouth in contrition. But I was hardened. I had my grievance now and nothing was going to take it away from me.

  “Calma…”

  “Go to work, Mum,” I said quietly. “Just go to work, will you? There's nothing else to be said here.”

  And I walked out of the house. As I opened the front door, I could hear great gulps of grief coming from the kitchen. The sound of her tears as I left was like a song of victory. I felt washed of guilt.

  Year 6, Third Term

  You watch the three young men and feel as if you are intruding. Part of you wants to walk away because you are embarrassed, but another part wants to stay. You have never seen your friend look so happy and you are curious.

  “She's not my girlfriend,” says the red-haired boy. “She's just a friend.”

  “Let's get a photo,” says his brother. It has to be his brother. The resemblance is too marked.

  “Like the camera?” says the man with the tattoos. “Our latest acquisition. Japanese job.”

  He takes photos of the two red-haired boys and then you and your friend are persuaded to stand up against the school railings. You feel shy as the shutter is clicked. But you also feel good.

  “It's important to keep a record,” says the older red-haired boy. “Memories are sometimes all you have.”

  Chapter 17

  Kiffo takes charge

  I want you to think well of me. Whoever you are. But I also know that it's pretty unlikely you will be feeling very charitable toward me right now. I don't blame you. I acted very badly. I know that. But you need to understand a couple of things. The first thing is that I didn't have to tell you everything. I could have toned it down, made myself look more reasonable than I was, and you would never have known the difference. So now you know. I can be a real cow. But at least I'm an honest cow. The second thing is that I think some allowance should be made for the stress I was under at the time. I was terrified. I can't even begin to describe how I felt when I saw that police car outside my house.