The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne (7 page)

So much for my Friday evening! I fell into a deep but troubled sleep. The Pitbull's face kept appearing before my
eyes, then Slasher and finally Kiffo. What a nightmare. Even Stephen King couldn't have dreamed up a more terrifying trio of ugliness.

I was woken by a scratching sound. I raised myself up in bed groggily and looked at my alarm clock. It was 5:31 in the morning. I put my head back on the pillow and gathered the covers around me. The sound came again. It wasn't scratching. It was gravel being thrown against my window. I thought I had had my full quota of sinking feelings, but it was with another that I made my way to the window and saw the bala-clavaed, camouflaged figure of Kiffo in the front yard.

“Bloody hell, Kiffo,” I said. “What time do you call this?”

Kiffo looked tired and fed up. He shook his head. “Dunno.”

“Well, at least you're safe. I had visions of you in a police lockup, spilling your guts. I was half expecting the police to show up. What happened, Kiffo? How did you get out of there?”

Kiffo sat down wearily on the grass.

“I've been in there all night, Calma,” he said. “I only got out about twenty minutes ago. Came straight here. It was a nightmare.”

I hadn't been feeling too charitable toward Kiffo, as you can probably imagine, but the sight of him melted my resentment. He was trembling slightly and there were large bags under his
eyes. He looked on the point of exhaustion. I made him wait outside while I crept back into the dark kitchen and made him a strong cup of coffee. More skulking around. If Mum woke up, she'd throw a fit. I couldn't imagine her being too keen on early-morning trysts in the front yard with camouflage-geared persons of dubious moral character. I slipped out the back door, banging my ankle on the doorframe and spilling scalding liquid over my hand. Strangling yelps of pain, I forced the cup onto Kiffo. Only when he'd got himself outside of half a cup did he tell me what had happened.

“I didn't hear her come back until it was too late,” he started.

I hadn't wanted to interrupt, but I couldn't help myself.

“What do you mean, you couldn't hear? I was making enough noise outside to register on the Richter scale. The neighbors five doors down came out, for God's sake. You must have heard.”

Kiffo looked a little embarrassed.

“Yeah, well, I'm a little… well, deaf. Just in my left ear, you understand.”

“You might have told me this, Kiffo, before you had me as lookout for you. If I'd known that letting off a cannon would have been the only way of attracting your attention, I might have been a little less willing to get myself involved in this mess.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Go on.”

“It was horrible, Calma. I was in her bedroom, checking things out. I hadn't done nothing at that stage. I was
wondering whether I should pee over her pet cockatoo, when I heard her coming up the stairs. I had no time to get away, so I hid in her wardrobe. It was awful in there. She had all these … all these… woman things hanging up. You know, underwear things.”

The image of Miss Payne's underwear was not one I wanted to dwell on.

“I had my face stuffed into something lacy with wires, Calma,” he continued, his voice catching with emotion. “And a cockroach was climbing up the insides of my trousers. The wardrobe was dark and smelly and I could hear her moving round. And then that bloody great dog started to bark. It was in the room with her. I thought that at any moment she would throw open the doors of the wardrobe and the dog would rip my throat out. If I'd known then that I would be spending the next nine hours surrounded by her… you know, things… I'd probably have been glad if it had.”

“Nine hours! But you must have had some chance to get out of there.”

Kiffo shook his head.

“Nah,” he said. “There were a good few hours when the Pitbull was downstairs, but every time I went to open the door that bloody hound kicked up a helluva noise. She got really suspicious. Came upstairs about five or six times to check the place out. I could hear her growling. Her and the bloody dog. Could be relatives, them. The worst bit, though, was when she went to bed.”

Kiffo's face drained of color and for a moment I thought he
wouldn't be able to go on. He looked in need of one of those disaster counselors they have—you know, for victims of landslides and bushfires. He was about as traumatized by his experiences as anyone could be. To his credit, though, he swallowed and carried on.

“I could hear her undressing, Calma.” His voice shook. “It was horrible. That must have been about eleven-thirty. And by that time the roach was nesting in my bal—trousers and I couldn't move and I wanted to sneeze and I couldn't do that and my nose was really itching where her thingies were hanging against my face and…”

“Calm down, Kiffo. You're safe now.”

He took a few deep breaths and swallowed the rest of the coffee. Suppressing the shudders, he carried on in a calmer tone.

“I could hear the bed creak as she got into it. Must be a helluva bed, that one. Reinforced, I reckon. And then, just when I thought it couldn't get no worse… it did.”

“Why? What happened?”

“She had a CD player by the bed. I'd checked it out earlier. You know, one of the things I was going to trash. And she put on a CD. For, like, an hour.”

“So what's wrong with that?”

“It was that Irish dickhead. You know, the one who stamps about on stage, feet wiggling all over the place, but the rest of him all stiff like he's got a metal bar up his arse? That one. It was really gross, Calma. All those fiddles and accordions and things. I thought I was going to die.”

I could see his point. It did seem unnecessary torture.

“But what about when she went to sleep? You must have had a chance then.”

“She lets the dog sleep with her. Poor bloody thing. What with her and all the Irish music it has to listen to, you can't blame it for being a vicious bastard. So there was no chance. I tried a few times, when I could hear her snoring, but as soon as I made a move, the dog would do this low growling bit and I'd have to stay dead still. I tell you, standing still for near on nine hours is not something I want to do again in a hurry.”

“Poor Kiffo. It does sound appalling. So how come you got out when you did? Don't tell me she gets up at five a.m. to go for a 10K run?”

Kiffo brightened.

“It's sorta weird, Calma. Get this. At four-forty-something the phone rings. I damn near crapped myself. I'd kinda fallen asleep on my feet by then and I thought it was a police siren. The roach in my trousers started jumping about. Like that Irish idiot. So I'm wide awake and I can hear the Pitbull talking. She's really tired, her voice all grumpy at being woken up. ‘Who the hell is it?’ she says, or something like that. And then there's this long silence and then she says, ‘What, now? It's nearly five in the morning. Can't it wait?’ More silence. And then she says, ‘Let Ravioli deal with it.'”

“She's talking about pasta at five in the morning?”

“What?”

“You said ‘ravioli.’”

“Well, it was something like that. Some Italian name.
There's more silence and then she says, ‘All right. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't let him get away from you this time, or you're dead.’ Something along those lines, anyway. So she gets up and leaves the house, taking the bloody dog with her. What is all that about, Calma? I mean, who gets up at five in the morning for secret meetings, and what does she mean about not getting away and ‘or you're dead’?”

“I've no idea, Kiffo. Business, maybe.”

Kiffo snorted.

“Business? She's a teacher, Calma. What business is she doing at five on a Saturday morning? Comparing exercise books? No, she's up to something. You didn't hear her. She sounded really mean on the phone, like whoever she was going to see was going to regret it. Like, major.”

“She always sounds mean.”

“Not like this. This was serious.”

“So what do you reckon it was?”

Kiffo leaned toward me conspiratorially and lowered his voice. Not that he needed to. There was no one awake within a ten-mile radius.

“I reckon she's a member of the Mafia.”

I shook my head firmly.

“Kiffo. As you pointed out just now, she's an English teacher in a high school. Just how many Mafia members do you think take on second jobs in the Education Department? ‘This Mafia business doesn't seem to be paying very well. I think I'll get a teaching job to enhance my superannuation.’ Come on. I mean, there'd be opportunities for drug supplying,
I guess, but it's not like she's operating a numbers racket on the oval or offering the canteen protection.”

“Well, I dunno, do I? But I'm going to find out.”

“Kiffo, give it a break. We both had a horrible night last night.” I decided that I wouldn't tell him about my protestations of undying love to Miss Payne. Kiffo's not the kind of person to take the charitable view. He'd give me heaps if he knew. “Let's just cut our losses. Anyway, you've trashed her place now, so that's it, isn't it? Revenge accomplished.”

A look of sheepishness passed over Kiffo's face.

“You did do it, didn't you, Kiffo?” I said. “I mean, that's why you went there. That's why you spent hours in her wardrobe. So you could trash her place when she and the hound left. Don't tell me you left without doing it.”

Kiffo looked pained.

“I forgot,” he said.

Mrs. Mills:
Please make yourself comfortable, Calma. How are you today?

Calma:
Fine, thanks, Mrs. Mills.

Mrs. Mills:
Anything bothering you?

Calma:
Only that I was told to come to your office.

Mrs. Mills:
It bothers you, coming to see the student counselor, does it?

Calma:
No. Well, a bit, I suppose.

Mrs. Mills:
And why do you think that might be?

Calma:
Because it suggests I need counseling, I guess.

Mrs. Mills:
And do you think that you don't?

Calma:
Why is everything you say a question?

Mrs. Mills:
Do questions worry you, Calma?

Calma:
You see what I mean?

Mrs. Mills:
Why do you think you feel the need to get aggressive when questions are being put to you?

Calma:
I'M NOT GETTING AGGRESSIVE.

Mrs. Mills:
Do you feel upset, Calma?

Silence.

Mrs. Mills:
Let's get back to the original question, shall we? Do you have any idea why you were asked to see me?

Calma:
Well… I could have a guess, I suppose. Anything to do with Miss Payne, by any chance?

Mrs. Mills:
Now, why did you think that?

Calma:
Because… oh, never mind.

Mrs. Mills:
You think about Miss Payne a lot, do you, Calma?

Calma:
No! Well, I mean, yes. But not for the reason you're thinking.

Mrs. Mills:
And what do you think I'm thinking?

Silence.

Mrs. Mills:
Tell me about your home life, Calma. Your father left when you were in Year 6. Is that right?

Calma:
Yes.

Mrs. Mills:
And how do you feel about that?

Calma:
What do you mean how do I feel? How do you think I feel?

Mrs. Mills:
It's not how I think you feel that's important, Calma. It's how
you
think you feel. How do you think you feel?

Calma:
I feel deliriously happy, Mrs. Mills. I haven't stopped laughing since he walked out on us and went to Sydney with the twenty-year-old barmaid from the Blarney Stone Irish pub.

Mrs. Mills:
Is that right, Calma?

Calma:
No, of course it's not right! I was being ironic!

Mrs. Mills:
Do you often hide your true feelings by telling … untruths?

Calma:
It was bloody irony!

Mrs. Mills:
I can see you're getting upset again. Does the mention of your father always get you upset?