But all of those thoughts came later. I was running to find Kiffo. He lay at the side of the road about fifteen yards away. It was bizarre that, on impact, we had shot off in entirely different directions. I guess a scientist, armed with rates of trajectory, angles of impact and all that, would probably have explained it logically. I didn't care. The only thing I could focus on was Kiffo's small, inert shape. Other cars had stopped by now and people were converging on him. I saw someone talking into a mobile phone. I pushed past the gathering knot and flung myself down at his side. A sudden terror came over me then as I reached out a hand toward him. He was lying with his face away from me and I was scared about what I'd see when I turned him over. My fingers were brushing his jacket when he gave a big shudder and turned to face me. I looked into his eyes and they seemed clear. There was no sign of blood.
“Bugger me,” said Kiffo. “Bloody women drivers!”
I was so relieved that I almost burst into tears. I could feel them prickling up behind my eyes. Instead, I burst out laughing.
“It's all very well for you to laugh,” said Kiffo indignantly, “but that bloody woman nearly killed us!” He sat bolt upright. “Oh, shit, the bike!”
I think the conventional wisdom when dealing with accident victims is to keep them quiet, preferably motionless, until medical help arrives. Conventional wisdom, however, didn't have to deal with Kiffo. He was up on his feet and shoving his way through the crowd of onlookers before I could do anything at all. I followed.
He looked around and spotted the wreck of the bike about thirty yards away. As he ran toward it, I noticed that he was limping a bit and that one leg of his leather trousers was torn. There was a patch of what might have been blood on his left thigh. I caught up with him as he fell to his knees in front of the bike.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Look at it!”
I looked at it. Now, as you know, I am by no means an expert in the field of motor mechanics, but I could see instantly that it was not in what you'd call showroom condition. There were a few clues that I followed here. Firstly, the engine was at an angle that I suspected was a far cry from the original engineer's intentions. When Kiffo touched it, something fell off with a dull thunk. It might have been the carburetor, it might have been the gearbox. Like I said, I'm not an expert. Secondly, as far as the bodywork was concerned, it was still red. But it was also in about a thousand pieces, scattered over at least thirty square yards. One wheel was bent almost at right angles to itself. Interestingly, the only thing that seemed to be undamaged was the headlamp. It was still rolling gently at the side of the road. I thought about pointing it out to Kiffo, but then reconsidered. I guessed it wouldn't exactly lift his spirits.
We sat on the side of the road until the ambulance and the police arrived. Kiffo seemed to be in shock, either from the accident or the certain knowledge that he owed some friend of his a considerable sum of money. I kept my arm around him, but he didn't seem to notice. He just stared at the bike and groaned. I took the opportunity to look at his leg. There was a ragged tear in the leg of his leather pants, surrounded by blood. I was relieved to see that there didn't appear to be any fresh flow, but I couldn't tell how badly he was injured. Considering what had happened, it was a miracle that we had got off so lightly.
A couple of people came up and asked if we were all right and I assured them we were fine. I was surprised at how calm I felt and how my voice didn't even tremble. Even the thought that I was going to be in trouble with the police didn't faze me too much. Before the accident, I would have been in panic at the prospect. Now it seemed an irrelevance somehow. Being alive—that was the important thing. Everything else was secondary.
I noticed, briefly, the woman who had been driving the white car. She was leaning over by the side of the road, throwing up. A couple of people were attending to her. I remember thinking how strange it was that she should be physically sick when Kiffo and I were basically okay. After all, she had been protected by her car. We had nothing. Of course, I knew somewhere at the back of my mind that the shock was only delayed, that it would kick in later. But just then, sitting on the grass with my arm around Kiffo, it all seemed tranquil. Right, somehow.
What happened next remains sort of blurry. I remember the flashing lights and being helped into an ambulance with Kiffo and the woman from the car. There were police around, but they didn't bother us much. They were more concerned with the wreckage and the line of cars that had formed on all sides of the roundabout. I supposed that they would be coming to see us at the hospital later, once they had sorted out this mess. It didn't seem important. I remember very little about the actual journey to the hospital. I think the woman was crying. Kiffo was just silent, lost in his thoughts about the bike.
We were taken to the emergency department at the hospital and checked over. I remember that there were X-rays and a number of examinations by a series of doctors. One, a rather gorgeous guy who looked about twenty, smiled at me and said, “You look in pretty good shape to me.” I blushed. I still don't know whether he was making a medical judgment or flirting.
After a while, I was taken to a waiting area and found myself sitting next to the driver of the car. She was really sweet. I didn't have to say anything about it being her fault. Not that I would. Blame seemed irrelevant. But she was still crying and apologizing, saying that she hadn't seen us at all, that she could have killed us, that she had a granddaughter a little older than me and when she thought of what might have happened, she doubted if she would ever forgive herself. I found myself in the strange situation of comforting her, telling her that an accident can happen to anyone, that it wasn't anyone's fault, even though I knew it was hers. I felt sorry for her.
Sometime later, a nurse came and took her away and I was left alone. Then a doctor told me that the police were waiting to interview me and that my mother had been notified. He said they still wanted to run a few tests, so the police would have to wait. I wouldn't swear to it, but he seemed pleased at keeping the police waiting. Finally, Kiffo was brought out in a wheelchair, which worried me until the nurse explained that there was nothing major wrong, just a gash that had been stitched. The wheelchair was to help take the weight off for a while. I smiled at Kiffo.
“Wassup, Kiffo?” I said.
“Wassup, Calma?” he replied.
I was relieved that he was in a pretty good emotional state. Maybe the hours of tests and X-rays and stitches had given him time to reach my perspective, that nothing else really mattered other than the fact that we were alive.
“So what happens now?” he asked.
“I dunno. I guess we'll get interviewed by the police and at some stage they'll let us go home….”
“No. I mean about the Pitbull.”
“What are you on about, Kiffo?”
He leaned urgently toward me and lowered his voice, even though we were completely alone.
“You don't really think that was an accident, do you?”
I felt like smacking him around the face then. Instead, I resorted to my old favorite—sarcasm.
“No, of course not, Kiffo. Just because it was clearly an accident, and about fifty people could testify to it being an accident, doesn't mean I'm not suspicious. It's all a conspiracy organized by the Pitbull!”
Kiffo nodded.
“I'm glad you think so. I thought you might have been fooled.”
I felt like screaming. Instead, I rolled my eyes as Kiffo continued.
“It's obvious that they spotted us. That's why the Ferret slowed down and then took off at that speed. I reckon that he had a phone with him and rang his accomplice, the woman in the white car. Her orders were to take us out. We were too close to them, Calma. We were a threat that needed eliminating.”
Maybe I should have humored him. It was clear that nothing was going to deflect Kiffo from his theory, certainly not facts or reality. But I couldn't let it go.
“Kiffo, listen,” I said. “It was an accident, pure and simple. Get that throug
h your head. I talked to the woman in the car. She's got white hair, a touch of arthritis and a grandchild about our age. She was so upset that she was vomiting and crying at the same time. She's not a geriatric hit woman, for God's sake! It's over, Kiffo. Finished.”
It was his turn to roll his eyes now.
“Don't take that attitude with me, Kiffo! It's not my fault that you have a problem facing up to the real world, that you're lost in your own little fantasy. Well, I've had enough of it.”
But Kiffo was still rolling his eyes. I could see nothing but the whites. And he was twitching, like an electric current was going through him. I heard a scream and I suppose it must have been mine. Then there was a whole bunch of people in white and a lot of shouting and yelling. Someone dragged me to my feet and bustled me out of the room. The last I saw of Kiffo was a glimpse of red hair beneath a tide of white uniforms.
Chapter 23
Not to praise him
I stopped off at the adult shop on my way to the funeral.
Everyone else went by car or by bus. I walked.
It was a blazing hot day. Even at nine in the morning the heat was solid. The sky was cloudless, and asphalt sparkled in black pools. Within five minutes, I was bathed in sweat. I could feel droplets gathering under my tank top and running down my stomach and sides. I could feel a damp stain growing in the waistband of my shorts.
Mum had offered to drive me but I just felt like walking. I don't think it was one of those grand emotional gestures or anything. Who can tell? I suppose that any other form of transport would have cut out the visit to the adult shop, but I swear that I had nothing specific planned, despite any evidence to the contrary. Let's be honest. I wasn't thinking clearly. I felt sick and dizzy even before the sun worked on me. Everything had the blurry edges of a dream.
I can't remember any details of the walk, except for the constant fist of heat. But I did some thinking. I remember thinking that they had got it right in films. Funerals should be in driving rain. There should be a huddled knot of mourners around an open grave. Women should hug small, grim-faced children to them. A priest should crumble earth over the grave and there should be a mysterious stranger standing off to one side. Kiffo's funeral was to take place in the air-conditioning of the Methodist church. We were to sit in rows on comfortable chairs. There would be a public address system.
I had been told in great detail what would happen. We had rehearsed it at school, like a play. And I suppose that's what it was, a dramatic performance in which we all had our roles. Even the stage had been carefully managed. Kiffo wasn't religious. But the school had arranged everything, including the booking of the church. Yes, everyone had gone to great lengths to make sure that it all went off well, that the show was flawless. I guess I let them down.
I remember thinking about my own body as I was walking. Sweat was dripping into my eyes and making them sting. Whatever I looked at was tinged with a milky sheen. The sun made my arms and legs tingle. I could feel chemical reactions going off, like little bombs, all along my skin. Cause and effect. Like Kiffo's death. Someone—I can't remember who—told me that Kiffo had died from an embolism. A little clot of blood, no bigger than a baby's fingernail, had formed when he had been hit by the car. Or when he hit the ground. It had stayed there for a while and then, released into his bloodstream, traveled like a missile to the brain. Boom! Gone. It was a freak occurrence. Any kind of trauma could manufacture this little bullet and set it speeding toward its target. Nothing anyone could do.
I almost hated Kiffo for that. Something so silly, so un-dramatic, so childish. How could he have let it happen? It felt fragile, this business of living. An accident that could fold up on itself at any moment. I brushed the sweat out of my eyes, but they filled up again almost immediately.
When I reached the church, everyone else was already there. People milled around outside, finding shade wherever they could. The principal moved among the small crowd, chatting briefly with everyone and wearing an air of solemnity like an ill-fitting suit.
Kiffo's dad was there. For a moment, I didn't recognize him, but then I realized he had shaved. Normally he wore a thick stubble continuously, but now his face was blotched with the violence of the razor. It looked like a potato. His eyes moved constantly and his fingers clenched and relaxed all the time. It was as if a drink lay somewhere just beyond his sight and the effort of finding it was making him flinch.
I didn't know many of the people there. A couple of teachers, some rellies. Maybe a neighbor or two. Jonno wasn't there. I spotted a few of the kids from my class. Melanie Simpson, Rachael Smith, Natalie Sykes, Nathan Manning, Vanessa Aldrick. They stood around, looking embarrassed. Vanessa, for once, didn't seem bored. I suppose that might have been too difficult to manage, under the circumstances, even for her. I walked slowly to the doors of the church and joined the strange assembly. I didn't know what else to do. The principal dutifully made his way toward me.
“Are you all right, Calma?” he asked in the tone he reserved for occasions when he wanted to be seen as caring and sensitive. I noticed that he gave me a quick look up and down, taking in my sodden clothes and limp, drenched hair. His eyes showed a flash of irritation. I had not dressed the part. I was letting the side down. But then his eyes closed down again and concern struggled to the surface once more.
“You seem a little distraught. Are you sure that you are up to this, Calma?”
I simply nodded. It was too much effort to talk. Luckily, the principal saw someone he wanted to speak to and hurried off.
I looked at the church doors and wondered why we were locked outside. Had someone forgotten the keys? Was there an opening time, like a pub? I had images of a priest inside the cool church looking at his watch, waiting for the second hand to sweep past the hour before he would open up and let us in, the great churchgoing public thirsty for God. Even as these ideas were going through my mind, the doors opened and I realized what was going on. There was another funeral taking place in there. People filed out, shaking the hand of the priest or whoever it was, muttering a few words before they made for the car park. Some walked briskly, clearly relieved to be out of there. Others walked slowly, bent with grief or exhaustion. I saw a woman being supported by someone who might have been her son. She looked puzzled, but only faintly, like this was a problem that had touched her briefly before being dismissed as beyond her understanding. It was almost like a revelation. I saw that she was in a situation where things had happened to her but they made little sense, exhibited no logic. The death she was there for had forced itself on her. Since then, the world had forced other things—funeral, flowers, arrangements, insurance, who knows—and these were things that happened also. They happened without her. She was powerless. I felt the same.
Within minutes, they had all disappeared, taking their world with them. It was our turn. The priest shook the principal's hand and spoke quietly, presumably an apology for the lateness. We filed into the church. It seemed tinged with other people's sadness. I took up my position in the front pew. We had rehearsed all this. As one of the speakers, I had to be in the right position, waiting for my cue. The school had asked me to say a few words, you see. After the principal, of course. I was going to be the last to speak and was stuck on the outside of the row.
We made a small congregation. I looked around as we waited for the ceremony to start. The church was big. The air-conditioning made my skin prickle. Hot sweat was battling it out with the chilly atmosphere. I could feel my wet tank top crinkle. I could sense it drying.
The front row was filled with people from the school. The rellies, or whoever they were, had been stuck in the rows behind. With the exception of Kiffo's dad, of course. He was in the front row next to the principal, as if the school had done him a big favor, giving him a ringside seat. Letting him in on the show of his son's funeral, like it was a special privilege. I noticed the principal patting him on the arm, but Kiffo's dad wore a haunted look. He wanted to be down the pub, where at least
he knew people, where it was a familiar world, not this strange, alien place run by people he didn't know and couldn't understand. His hands trembled.
Then I noticed Kiffo's casket. It was already in place at the side of the pulpit. It was so bizarre, so strange and sad. I had an overwhelming urge to check inside it, to see if Kiffo was really there. It didn't seem likely to me. This wasn't the sort of place Kiffo would be seen dead in. He would have hated this. The lights were too bright, for one thing. And it was too quiet.
The priest climbed up the few steps to the pulpit and looked down at the small gathering. For a moment, I had this wild idea that he was going to start off a stand-up comedy routine. You know, “My wife is so ugly that when she was born the midwife smacked her mother….” It was all I could do to stop from laughing.
We sang a few hymns, none of them appropriate. If I'd been running the show, I'd have at least chosen a couple of rap songs. Kiffo liked rap. When we had finished singing, we all sat down again and the priest composed his features. You could tell that he had done this a thousand times before. He looked over us for a few moments and then he started to speak.
“We are here today to say goodbye to Jaryd Kiffing and, if I may say so, to celebrate his life, tragically short though that may have been. Jaryd was taken from us quickly and unexpectedly. He was a boy who was full of life. He had a bright future in front of him …”
I couldn't help it. I started thinking, what if Kiffo had a bright future behind him? Did I have a bright past ahead of me, or a bright present in front and behind? It's easy to get off track in circumstances like this, so I tried to refocus.
“… and yet he was cut down before he had time to bloom and flourish. It is at times like this that we ask ourselves: Why? Why Jaryd Kiffing? He was no more than a child. He was innocent. And yet he was taken from us without explanation. It is not surprising that under circumstances like this we tend to doubt. Yes, we doubt the God that seems so capricious. I have encountered this doubt many times, from grieving parents like William here…”
The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne Page 16
