The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne

by Barry Jonsberg

  [Constable Ryan—Capricorn. You will find that your reputation as an easygoing, paternal figure is severely jeopardized as a consequence of scaring the crap out of impressionable and possibly misguided young women wearing glasses.]

  Have you ever been in an argument where you've just got more and more unreasonable and unfair and cruel, simply because you're angry and frightened? If you have, then you'll understand about that crazy urge to hurt the very person you know you've wronged. I don't know why. All I know is that I felt it strongly. I think, in Mum's situation, it would have been sensible to have left the whole business alone for a while, given me time to chew on things before leaping in with recriminations. At least, that would have been the best theoretical option, the textbook approach. I also know that it's an option I wouldn't have taken. Too volatile, that's me.

  Anyway, I left the house ablaze with indignation—me, that is, not the house. Mind you, given the heat generated by the argument, it wouldn't have been surprising if smoke had been pouring from the roof. There was only one place to go. Only one place I wanted to go. After what Mum had said, I had to see Kiffo, if only to punish Mum further. Besides, where else could I go? As far as friends were concerned, I wasn't exactly bursting with options.

  I wasn't even aware of the journey. The adrenaline rush was still going strong and I knew it would take time to subside. I covered the ground like a thing possessed, probably pushing old ladies out of my way for all I knew. Before I had time to think I was outside Kiffo's house, storming up the path toward the front door. I had my hand raised to knock when I heard it. The sound of voices raised in anger told me I wasn't the only one having difficulties with a parent.

  Now. Imagine this is a survey in one of those teen mags.

  You have just turned up at your best friend's house and hear a fierce and personal argument going on between your friend and his or her parent. Do you:

  a) leave quickly and never mention it again because you are worried about embarrassing your friend;

  b) walk away, but remain close in case your friend needs to talk to you;

  c) intervene and attempt to act as a mediator between the two parties;

  d) put a glass against the door and listen, with your tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth?

  You go for b), right? Gets you ten points and ultimately a character description along the lines of “You are a true and trusted friend with the emotional maturity of a forty-three-year-old marriage counselor.” You'd go for b), but you'd actually do d). Am I right? All right. Just as long as you don't get judgmental on me.

  Actually, I didn't need a glass. A soundproof booth would not have cut out the grisly details. This is what I heard.

  [Parental Advisory Warning: The following scene contains strong language and medium-level violence but, thankfully, nothing in the way of nudity. It is not recommended for audiences under the age of fifteen.]

  Kiffing Senior: You're a ****ing lazy ****, that's what you are. A pile of ****. Get the **** out of this * * * *ing house.

  Kiffing Junior: **** off, you ****** ****. Call me ****ing lazy! That's ****ing rich, that is, you ****, you ****** old **** bunch of****.

  Kiffing Senior: Just like your ****ing brother! A useless piece of ****. Go on, ****ing **** off, you *****.

  Kiffing Junior: Don't you ever, ever mention him to me again, or I'll ******** kill you, you ******!

  Kiffing Senior: **** you and your ****** brother! ***** and ***** the *****, ****** and ****** with **** all the *****, ****** ****ing ****!!

  Inanimate object: Smash!

  The door burst open and a familiar hunched figure swept past me as if I didn't exist. Within seconds, another figure appeared at the door. He yelled a farewell to his son that, roughly translated, meant “I no longer consider you the favored fruit of my loins and your reappearance in this household is not something that I am anticipating with any great enthusiasm.” Kiffo halted briefly to answer with something along the lines of “I no longer respect you as a paternal caregiver.” Roughly translated, you understand.

  Standing there, I came to the slow realization that I was unlikely to be invited in for tea, muffins and a chat about the weather. This was confirmed by Mr. Kiffing looking me up and down and then requesting that I leave the immediate environment. A believer in economy of language, he communicated this in only two words. I took his advice.

  [Mr. Kiffing—Aquarius. Family troubles are in evidence today and complications may ensue. You will find that your customary excellent communication skills are compromised by prodigious blood alcohol levels. Still, **** it.]

  Catching up with Kiffo took some doing, but finally, puffing hard, I got into step. He didn't take any notice of me but kept muttering under his breath. From the little I could decipher, it was clear that he wasn't thinking about what to buy for Father's Day.

  “Kiffo!” I said. “Hang on a moment. I can't keep up with you!”

  Only then did he stop and turn to look at me. It was as if he hadn't any idea that I was there at all.

  “Calma,” he said, his voice fragile around the edges. “Where did you come from?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let's just sit and get our breath back.”

  We had arrived at a small park. I say “park” but it wasn't really anything so grand. Just a square of sparse, wilting grass, with a couple of sad, rusted swings in a corner. I doubt if any kids played there, but judging by the state of the ground the local dogs had adopted it as their communal loo. We wandered over to a concrete bench and sat down.

  I decided to say nothing about the mild disagreement between father and son. That's part of the problem with Kiffo. Some things are conversationally out of bounds and it doesn't matter what you do, you're never going to break through the barrier he puts up. I don't know—I still don't know—how I could feel so close to Kiffo, so intimate in a way, yet be excluded from so many important parts of his life and his past. Sometimes, I guess, you just have to ride with it. You know, accept people for what they are, because if you push it too far, you drive them off. And then you really are alone.

  (That was a statement written by Calma Harrison, authorized by the Federal Committee of Staggeringly Unoriginal Homilies on Human Relationships.)

  We sat for a while, stewing in our own worlds. I knew there was precious little chance of Kiffo initiating a conversation, so I started. I told him about the interview with the police and the argument with Mum afterward. He scratched his head thoughtfully. It was like he was glad to have a change of mental environment.

  “You're not taking all that seriously, are you?” he said.

  “Well, I thought I might, Kiffo. You know, when the police come along to your house and threaten to lock you up for committing a crime, then—call me old-fashioned if you like—I thought I might take it just a bit seriously!”

  “Nah. They're bluffing.”

  “I don't care, Kiffo. I don't give a stuff! If they're bluffing, then they've succeeded. I throw in my hand. Game over.”

  “So you're out, is that it? You're not going to try to get the Pitbull?”

  “I thought that was what you wanted!”

  “It was.” Kiffo ran a hand through his hair. “It was. But… it's like you said, Calma. We're in this together now. We've come too far.” He looked uncomfortable, his eyes flicking everywhere but never making contact with mine. “I… I need your help.”

  I nearly fell off the bench. For Kiffo to say something like that, he must have been desperate. It was like him confessing to buying Nikki Webster CDs. I glanced over. He was sitting forward, his hands nervously interlocked. If ever there was going to be a time, this was it.

  “If you're serious, Kiffo, then you've got to stop lying to me,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and the Pitbull,” I said. “What is there between you? What happened in the past? Tell me that and I'll believe that we are truly together on this.”

  That shook him.

  “I…
I don't want to talk about it, Calma,” he said.

  “Then you're on your own.” I meant it too. I couldn't keep on with this, not with half-truths and half-stories. So much for my resolution not to push! I waited. After a time, Kiffo sighed.

  “All right,” he said. “Yeah, I'd seen the Pitbull before she turned up at school. Years ago, in grade school. My…” He shook his head. “I saw her with… family, you know… before all that stuff happened. We went to her house, just the two of us. Twice, maybe three times. I sat by myself, while she and him … I dunno what they did, but I didn't like her then and I don't like her now. I didn't trust her. That's it. That's all.” He looked at me and there was agony in his expression. “I don't want to talk about it anymore, Calma.”

  I put my arm around his shoulder. You might not think it, but that was more information than I had been expecting. For Kiffo, it was like baring his soul. And it made sense to me, knowing what I did. I could see more clearly what was driving him on.

  “Okay, Kiffo,” I said, gently. “Count me in. What are we going to do?”

  Kiffo sighed and leaned forward on the bench, head down. There was a long silence while he contemplated a dried-up dog turd between his shoes. Finally, he leaned back with the air of a man who has come to a momentous decision.

  “Right,” he said. “You can't go near the Pitbull. And I can't stake out her place by myself. Not every night. So it's time to call in a professional. It's time to pay a visit to Jonno.”

  Chapter 18

  Jonno

  It is not often that the discerning buyer can find a property of this potential at this price. The well-established gardens boast some unique decorative features, including a burnt-out Holden and an amusing assemblage of ancient motorcycle skeletons and their rusted constituent parts. A delightful counterpoint to this rococo landscaping is the rockery, imaginatively comprising empty beer bottles and pizza cartons. For those who might feel that art is intruding too much on nature, there is also a palm tree that, with a little TLC, might not yet prove to be terminally diseased.

  And the landscaped gardens are just the beginning! Right from the moment you push over the gate and prop it up against the wall, you cannot help but be impressed by the domicile itself. All expense has been spared to make this a quality home. The front door is just one of the surprises in store. Rather than hanging it at right angles to the doorframe in the conventional fashion, the enterprising owner has cast it at a jaunty angle, thereby allowing any available breeze to naturally air-condition the living space! And isn't it often the case that homes exclude the outside world rather than embracing it? Well, in keeping with the traditional architectural designs of Bali, this home's living space is a continuation of the great outdoors, with gaping holes in the fly screens, walls and roof ensuring tropical living at its finest!

  I gaped at what was, presumably, the place where Jonno lived. There were buildings in Baghdad that had received multiple doses of laser-guided missiles and were in better shape. Kiffo and I walked up to the door, kicking aside empty beer bottles. I grabbed him by the arm.

  “Who is this guy, Kiffo?”

  “Someone, all right?” he said, not altogether helpfully. “Someone we need. Just let me do the talking, Calma. Jonno can be a bit funny with people he don't know.”

  I had a bad feeling about this. Something told me that Jonno was not going to be the kind of guy you'd want to have a conversation with about the current state of Australian ballet or the latest contenders for the Booker Prize. This impression was confirmed when Jonno finally came to the door after Kiffo's repeated hammerings.

  The first thing I noticed was the T-shirt. It was torn and badly stained, as if Jonno had a problem finding his mouth with the soup spoon. But the shape of the T-shirt attracted more attention. It was all lumpy and disfigured, like someone had poured eighty pounds of builders’ rubble into it. Jonno, clearly, was a bodybuilder. He had all those revolting veins that stand out on the biceps like relief maps of river systems. His muscles caused him to stand with his arms splayed. He looked overinflated.

  Not content with muscles of alarming proportions, Jonno had decorated them with a bewildering variety of tattoos. A snake curled up his left arm and disappeared behind his neck. A dragon breathed fire up his right. In the few spaces left by these creatures, there was a series of vicious portraits of native Australian fauna, none known for being cute or cuddly. No koala to be seen, unless it was a bit of fluff disappearing down the jaws of a great white shark.

  It was difficult to tear my gaze away from his body, but I felt that it was probably wise to do so. Jonno didn't seem the kind of guy you could stare at without inviting trouble. I let my eyes wander up to his face and then wished I hadn't. He had one of those long bush beards you could hide a wallaby in. The facial hair might have been some attempt to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. His dome glistened in the sunlight. It was a curious effect, as if his head had been put on upside down.

  The thing was, I had seen Jonno somewhere before. God, you're not likely to forget something that looked like that in a hurry (Crimestoppers? The Children's Illustrated Book of Psychopaths?). But I couldn't place him. I decided to let my unconscious mind work on the problem for a while and smiled in my most engaging fashion. I couldn't help thinking that at any moment he was liable to rip my arm off and beat me to death with the soggy end.

  [Jonno—Taurus. Your sensitive and aesthetic nature is much in evidence today. You will find opportunities to engage in fruitful and creative activities, like the gratuitous bludgeoning of old people or tearing the heads off chickens with your teeth.]

  Fortunately, I never found out if this was his intention because Kiffo broke the threatening silence.

  “Wassup, Jonno, you ugly bastard!” he said.

  This did not strike me immediately as the safest opening conversational gambit with someone who was clearly an ax murderer, or at least in serious training for it. However, it soon became clear that I was unaware of the correct social protocol in this situation because Jonno appeared to take no offense. Instead, he smiled, revealing two chipped front teeth and an awful lot of blackness surrounding them.

  “Wassup, Kiffo, you arsehole!” he replied.

  I wondered if I was expected to join in the general exchange of insults but decided to keep quiet, as Kiffo had instructed.

  “Need a word, mate,” Kiffo said.

  “No worries,” Jonno replied. “Come in.”

  Look, if it's all the same to you, I'd sooner skip the description of the inside of Jonno's house. To be honest, I've blotted most of it out, the way some people do when they've been victims of a particularly unpleasant and traumatic experience. All I want to say is that the outside of the place looked warm and comforting in comparison. Still, to be fair, Jonno was a perfect host. No sooner were we inside the door than he pressed a couple of bottles of beer into our hands and got himself another. It took all my strength to unscrew the bottle top. Jonno ripped his off with his teeth, providing an obvious explanation for the deficiencies of his dental work. Now, I can't stand beer, but I couldn't take the risk of spurning Jonno's hospitality. So I nursed mine carefully as I perched on the edge of a sagging sofa, trying to keep the minimum of buttock in contact with the minimum of material.

  Kiffo, as he had promised, did the talking.

  “Now, Jonno. Me and Calma here want some information about a woman, the Pitbull. She's a teacher at our school. She's giving us trouble. We need to know who she meets in the middle of the night and what they talk about. We think she might be a dealer.”

  Jonno frowned.

  “A dealer? Be news to me. I know all of ‘em in this area. Always possible, I s'pose. Someone new in the territory. So that's it, is it? A straight tail job?”

  “Yup. As much information as you can get, soon as possible.”

  “And the address of this pain?”

  Kiffo gave it to him, but he didn't write it down or anything. Maybe that was a skill he had yet to
acquire. He just nodded.

  “And what's the rate?”

  “You tell me, Jonno.”

  “Well, I dunno. Let me think.”

  This should be interesting, I thought. A bit like watching a dog ride a bike. You're not surprised it's doing the job badly, you're just surprised it can do it at all. The silence stretched.

  “I'll want one of those new DVD players,” he said finally. “You know the kind—remote control. Japanese job.”

  “Right,” said Kiffo.

  “And a good selection of DVDs. Let's call it twenty. And none of that romantic comedy crap. Thrillers or horror.”

  “Right,” said Kiffo.

  “Plus a decent stereo system. Nicam. Surround sound. Japanese job.”

  “Right,” said Kiffo.

  “And a case—no, make it two, of Fosters.”

  Japanese job? I thought.

  “Right,” said Kiffo. “The beer you can have up front. I'll drop it round tomorrow. The rest when you get the information.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Jonno. “And how do I know you'll come up with the goods, eh? What's my guarantee?”

  “Well,” said Kiffo, “I know if I double-cross you, you'll come after me with a baseball bat. And you've got more muscles in your big toe than I've got in my whole body. And you'd never give up till you'd found me, even if I ran to Tassie.”

  “Yeah,” said Jonno. “You've got a point, mate. I'll take the job. Get me beer by tomorrow. I'll get in touch when I've got some news. All right?”

  “Done,” said Kiffo. “Right. We'd best be off, then. I'll see you tomorrow, you ugly bastard.”