“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 counselor. 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 counselor 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 counselor? This leaves us with the intriguing notion that, rather than counseling him on his addiction, she was possibly encouraging it!”
“Dash it all, Harrison,” I said. “I'm sure you are 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 readjust my underwear for me. Not realizing 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 into 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: F
Attitude: F
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.
Acknowledgments
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 and Nancy Siscoe for the humor, enthusiasm, and skill with which she guided the U.S. edition.
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.
Here is a special preview
of Barry Jonsberg's upcoming novel:
Excerpt copyright © 2007 by Barry Jonsberg.
Published by Alfred A. Knopf.
Chapter 1
Six snippets
One
It was a wet-season day in the tropics. Swollen clouds swept in from the south and squatted over my house. A massive clap of thunder shook the floors and gave the signal for the clouds to discharge their load. A gentle drumroll of rain on the roof built to a thrumming crescendo. The temperature dropped instantly by ten degrees. Through the window I could see water flooding off the roof, a curtain enveloping the house. The roar of rain drowned out all other noises.
No one deserved to be outside in that.
The doorbell rang. It usually had the decibel count of a nuclear-warning siren, but I could barely hear it against the background clamor. I put down my book and peered out the front window. Even under the best viewing circumstances, you could see only a small portion of anyone standing at the door. Perhaps a profile of buttocks and, if you were lucky, the back of a head. But with the rain the way it was, I couldn't see anything.
I hesitated. Mum was at work and I was home alone. Not normally a problem, but the weather made me wary. Who would be out in such a downpour? To my mind, there were only two possibilities—a mad ax murderer or a religious fundamentalist. If I was really unlucky, it would be the latter. I suppose I could have pretended not to exist, but I'm a person with a social conscience. The weather was foul. I'd have let in a cane toad for shelter and a mug of cocoa.
So I opened the door.
The man was below medium height. Actually, well below medium height. He was wearing a white shirt and a broad silk tie decorated with Santa Clauses. He held a dripping bag in one hand and swept sodden, thinning hair from his eyes with the other. Niagara Falls flowed over him. His clothes stuck to his body, and as he shifted position I heard the squelch of rainwater in shoes. He looked at me and blinked rain. A small smile, hesitant, unsure, played around his lips.
“Hello, Calma,” he said.
“Dad!” I yelled. “My God! Dad! Don't stand out there in the pouring rain, Dad.”
His smile broadened.
“No,” I added. “Piss off!”
And I slammed the door in his face.
Two
My local grocery store glories in the name of Crazi-Cheep. It's one of those places that advertise on local TV channels by assembling a cast of plug-ugly employees dressed in spectacularly nasty uniforms and forcing them to sing a song with banal lyrics, written by a tone-deaf lower primate. The employees all look embarrassed, and so they should. You could force slivers of red-hot bamboo up my fingernails and lash me with rusty barbed wire and I still wouldn't do it.
The employees are very young, presumably so the company can pay them about two dollars an hour and pass on the savings to customers. Crazi-Cheep closes the checkouts by degrees during peak times, so ultimately there is a line of fifty people at one register, staffed by a pubescent operator prone to pimples, lank hair, and narcolepsy. You can visibly age in one of their lines. Not that anyone would notice, because most of the customers are so old they'd be candidates for carbon dating.
Crazi-Cheep is not high on my list of not-to-be-missed shopping experiences.
This, however, was an emergency. I braved the depressing canned music—a compilation CD probably entitled Major Manure of the Seventies—and took my place in a line whose length might have been justifiable if they were handing out free hip replacements. The old lady in front of me was certainly a worry. It was only the fact that she wheezed from time to time that indicated she was still breathing.
Time passed. I grew a few centimeters and the old lady shrank a few. The CD was on repeat and a particularly annoying track came on again. Finally it was almost my turn to be served.
In Sicily they call it the thunderbolt. I read about it somewhere. It's when you see someone and all these hormonal reactions kick in. Your heart thumps, you sweat profusely, your stomach dips to your shoelaces, and bits and pieces you didn't know you possessed start tingling like you've been plugged into an electric socket. Well, that's what happened to me when I saw … him.
I don't want you to think I am a shallow, superficial person, so I won't start with his physical appearance.
Stuff it. Of course I will.
He was tall and rangy. As I watched him scan a tin of Spam (and he did it so effortlessly, with such grace and ease of movement, like a balletic sequence), I caught the hint of lean muscles flexing beneath the uniform. I could picture him on a beach, the sun reflecting off defined biceps and pectorals you could graze your knuckles on. His face was classically sculpted, high cheekbones framing a pert and flawless nose. His eyes were deep brown, liquid with sensitivity and hidden passion; his olive skin gleamed beneath the overhead fluorescent lights. During a particularly tricky scanning maneuver, involving shrink-wrapped bok choy, he parted his full lips to reveal faultless, even teeth. Glossy black hair fell in a perfect curtain over his left eye.
Basically, he was all right, if you like that kind of thing.
As for his personality (the most important factor, of course), well… hey, how the hell would I know? I stood there with a glazed expression on my face, like someone had smacked me around the head with a frozen chicken carcass. Luckily the old dear in front of me was not the most efficient of customers. The Greek god had finished scanning her groceries and she was gazing into the middle distance with rheumy eyes.
“That'll be twenty-five dollars and fifty-five cents, please,” he said.
I loved him for the “please.” What a polite and considerate young man! And his voice was like honey dripping over truffles….
“Hey?” said the crone.
“Twenty-five dollars and fifty-five cents, please.”
She looked amazed, like the last thing she had been expecting was to have to pay for the groceries. I knew what would come next. She'd burrow into her bag for her wallet, which would be right at the bottom. She'd pull out bus passes, framed photographs of her grandchildren, a prosthetic leg, and a packet of surgical bandages, and each item would be placed carefully on the counter. Finally, when she had accumulated enough material to fill a wheelie bin, she'd find the wallet, count out the sum in nickels, and painfully repack. Then she'd want her FlyBuys card, which would be in a secret compartment at the bottom of her handbag, and we'd go through the whole process again.
This time, though, I wasn't complaining. It gave me the chance to drink in every detail of Jason's appearance. Jason. He had a little name tag. I love the name Jason. Don't you love the name Jason? It's classical and conjures images of flashing swords, short tunics, and Golden Fleece. I was so struck I didn't have time to panic. It hadn't occurred to me that once the old lady had hobbled off, it would be my turn to be served and, for a moment at least, Jason's attention would be focused on me.
When he turned to me, my hair clogged up with grease and four pimples spontaneously erupted on my nose. I wanted to die.
And then it got worse. I remembered what I had been standing in line for half a millennium to purchase. It was clamped in my hand. I froze. I wanted to turn back, but forty-five pensioners were behind me and they didn't look friendly. With a sinking feeling, I placed my purchase on the belt and watched it slide toward Jason.
Feminine hygiene products. Or FHP, as I like to call them.
Hang on. Don't get me wrong. I know it's nothing to be ashamed of. The trouble was, it was Crazi Brand FHP. I mean, Crazi Brand. Not even FHP in a cool, sophisticated box that hinted at a high-flying businesswoman with a cell phone and investment properties on the Gold Coast. Just a tacky white box with Crazi Brand in big green letters. They should be labeled Cheapskate Crap for Losers. It would be more honest.
Jason smiled at me.
“How are you today?” he said.
It briefly crossed my mind to reply, Great, thanks, Jason. In full flow and deliriously happy. I didn't, though. Instead I mumbled, “Good.” Can you believe that? Good! Boy, I blew him away with wit and sharp repartee there, didn't I?
“That'll be two dollars twenty cents, please.”
I dug
in my purse for a five. I could feel the pimples on my nose pulsing. They were probably flashing in sequence. If it had been dark, they could have used my face for disco lighting. Forty-five pensioners break-dancing in the aisles.
Look, by that stage, I just wanted to get out. With any luck, Jason might not have noticed me. Not properly. Not enough to recognize me in the future. I tried to keep my lank, greasy hair over my face. Thank God I wasn't wearing a name tag.
“Calma Harrison, is that you?”
The woman behind me tapped me on the shoulder. There was not much I could do. I turned. It was Mrs. Elliott from the library. I had known her since I was four years old—I virtually lived at the library until the age of eleven. She was well past retirement, but no one cared because she was popular with customers, sharp as a razor blade, and knew her books. The way she talked about Charles Dickens, you got the impression they had hung out together at the local mall. Normally I would have been happy to see her. Now I wanted to shrivel.
“Hi, Mrs. Elliott,” I said.
Jason handed me my change and I tried to slink away. Mrs. Elliott was having none of it. She piled the rest of her groceries on the belt and continued to talk.
“My goodness, Calma. Those pimples look angry. Are you washing your face properly, dear?”
Not knowing she was one remark away from hospitalization due to an unfortunate accident with my fingers and her eyes, Mrs. Elliott continued blithely.
“Ah,” she said, glancing at my purchase through the transparent supermarket bag. The plastic was so thin it could be measured in microns. They have expensive machines in hospital laboratories that can't cut as thin. “I understand. I always used to get a bad complexion at that time of the month myself.”
I was surprised she could remember that far back. I wasn't surprised things were getting worse and worse. An involuntary fart would have capped the whole experience.
The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne Page 19