The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne

by Barry Jonsberg

  “I thought… I thought you were dealing drugs.”

  “I know,” said the Pitbull. “And now that 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 patronizing 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 counselor 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 than 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 strange 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 drug counselor. 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 halfhearted 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 summarize. 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 realized 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 counselor, 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 by 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 toward 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 midyear 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 the 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 realization that I had suspicions the Pitbull was working with an organized 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 afterward. 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 body 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 realized 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 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 substitute 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?

  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 away.

  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 traveling 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 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 realize 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 realized 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 on to 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 archenemy, 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 I 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 ‘colorful’ enough for someone of his social background. No, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced thatJonno 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.