The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull (23 page)

I got to my feet and moved towards the pulpit. I kept my hands in my pockets. The priest was smiling. He held out a hand and took my arm, guiding me up the steps. After enquiring if I was ‘up to it' he glided away. I looked briefly at the congregation and began. My voice was a little quiet, but you had to admit that the PA system was good.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. There has been much said today about Kiffo. In particular, I want to focus on one statement from our Principal, Mr Di Matteo. He said that Jaryd enriched the lives of all who knew him. That's certainly true of me, but I would suggest that many others would disagree. They might argue that he actually
impoverished
their lives. To the tune of TVs, video recorders, computer equipment, stereo systems, DVDs and other sundry personal items. Let's be honest, ladies and gentlemen, he did have a marked inclination to break into people's homes. And if something wasn't nailed down, he would have it.'

I paused here for dramatic effect, and to watch the reaction of my audience. Kiffo's dad was leaning forward slightly in his pew, hands plucking nervously at each other. He was taking in nothing at all. The wheel was spinning, it would appear, but the hamster was dead. Among the others, though, there was a distinct stir. People were shaking their heads slightly as if they distrusted the evidence of their own ears. Like giving the TV a bit of a thump, they seemed to be under the impression that a quick shake of the head would improve the reception. Mr Di Matteo's reaction was the best, however. He wore the bewildered expression of someone who had just been beaten, violently and unexpectedly, around the back of the head with a piece of lead piping. His mouth hung open a little and his eyes were glassy. I smiled sweetly and continued.

‘Yes, Kiffo was not exactly a saint. Not when he was alive and certainly not now he's dead. Call me old-fashioned, but I don't believe that a person's character changes simply because he has stopped breathing. Do you want to hear the truth about Kiffo?'

Judging by the head-shaking out there, the general opinion seemed to be, ‘No thanks, if it's all the same to you.' Certainly the mourners were getting restless at this point. In fact, the Principal seemed distinctly angry. He turned quickly towards Mrs Mills who had the expression of someone who had had a cattle prod administered to her rectum. And then the Principal was on his feet and moving towards the pulpit. Like a superhero, he was leaping into action to save the situation. And there was only one way to do that – to forcibly remove me. All he needed was his jocks on the outside and he would really have looked the part. Complete and utter dickhead though he undoubtedly was, he nonetheless had the strength and the authority to do it. So I put Plan B into action.

Reaching quickly into my pocket, I removed the fluffy pink handcuffs that I had purchased earlier at the Adult shop. Thirty-five dollars and fifty cents' worth of kitsch bondage gear. With a fluency that surprised me, I slapped one cuff around my left wrist and the other around the brass rail of the pulpit. That stopped him. Whether it was the sight of one of his Year 10 students manacled to a religious icon with something that was more at home in the Sydney Mardi Gras, or simply that he recognised the futility of any further action, I cannot say. But he stopped in his tracks. I looked him squarely in the eye.

‘Please sit down, Mr Di Matteo. Sit down NOW!'

And he did. Possibly he understood that I had him by the short ones. Unless he had a pair of bolt cutters tucked into an inside pocket, I was staying attached to the pulpit for the foreseeable future. No one else moved.

‘The truth about Kiffo?' I continued. ‘It's a difficult one. Someone once said that the first casualty of war is the truth. And Kiffo's life was a war zone, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised to hear the offensive horseshit that's been offered up to this point. Come on, people. Let's be honest. None of you liked Kiffo. The “grieving father” least of all. Kiffo didn't tell me much about you, Mr Kiffing, but he didn't need to. I could see it in his eyes and the bruises that he did his best to conceal. I'm not a psychoanalyst, but I do know that a lot of the anger that Kiffo carried around with him, the hatred of authority figures, his tendency towards mindless violence, had to have their roots in your treatment of him. Some of his worst characteristics were those that you taught him.'

Boy, I had their attention now. The congregation sat still, eyes fixed and glassy. They looked like a whole bunch of rabbits caught in a powerful headlight. Part of me wondered why they didn't just leave. I suppose that would have stopped me. Made me look a bit foolish as well, handcuffed to a pulpit in an empty church with just a coffin for company. I honestly don't think it occurred to them. I had them hypnotised. Mr Di Matteo's expression was still the best. I swear that he could see the big bold headlines in the local paper if news of this got out. He was a man staring at the death of his career.

‘And then there was school,' I continued. ‘The place where abused kids should be able to find support and understanding. So what did he get at school? A different kind of violence, that's what. A worse type of violence, if that's possible. Because his father was just beating his body, whereas the school was breaking his spirit. All the time I knew him, and I spent a lot of time with him in class, he was told that he was stupid. Stupid because he didn't know what a metaphor was. Stupid because he couldn't see why it was important to know. And if you tell someone they're stupid enough times, they will believe you. And Kiffo did believe it.'

I could feel small beads of sweat gathering on my face. Maybe the airconditioning had broken down. I brushed a damp lock of hair from my eyes and carried on.

‘His teachers hated him. I don't blame them, particularly. He could be absolutely vile in class. And he was a thorn in your side, Mr Di Matteo. But he's just a larrikin now, isn't he? Because he can't answer back.Death has removed the problem and you can afford to be generous. It's easy to like the dead, Mr Di Matteo. They make so few demands.'

I paused once more. The headache was starting to kick in again and tiredness was flooding through my body. I felt on the point of collapse. My legs were starting to tremble and drops of sweat stung my eyes. My thoughts were muddy. Why was I doing this? What was it I was trying to say? When I had started out on my speech, the conclusion had been clear, a bright destination. Now, it seemed beyond my reach, like the name of someone you've forgotten. I forced myself on, in the hope that the destination would reveal itself in the process of travelling.

‘And what about me? Do you know, I still don't know what Kiffo thought about me. Not really. He didn't see things the way others saw them. He knew, I suppose, that I was the best learner in the class but I don't think he was impressed by it. It was something I had that he didn't, but he placed no great importance on it. Like his red hair or his bandy legs. A characteristic – it didn't make you better or worse. An accident of birth.'

The lock of hair had crept back. I plastered it behind my ear.

‘And that's what I learned from Kiffo. That underneath we are all pretty much the same, that we shouldn't judge by appearances, as he was judged his entire life. Recently, there was an unpleasant rumour about me, and, for a time, my life was hell.'

I looked at Rachael Smith in the front row. Her eyes flickered downwards.

‘People avoided looking me in the eyes,' I said. ‘Others just avoided me. And for a while, I knew what it must be like to inhabit Kiffo's world – a world where everyone judges you and finds you wanting. The only person who didn't do that was Kiffo. It didn't matter to him what other people thought. He accepted me. He gave me friendship and support.'

I was building up momentum again and the destination, if not sparkling clear, was at least getting less blurry around the edges. But the light-headed feeling was still there and I had to force myself to focus. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I had to get through this first.

‘I have only vague notions of Kiffo's true feelings towards me. But I know how I feel. I loved Kiffo. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum. And now I find myself here with a box beside me and a mouth full of empty words. Perhaps, in the end, at the end, this is all I can do – present for him the most absurd image I can, chained to a pulpit with a tacky sex toy. And Kiffo would have loved this. He would have laughed because this is his kind of style. So come on, guys, let's have a good laugh, for Kiffo's sake. And then take that damn box away and burn it so we can get the hell out of here.'

I could feel myself going in the last couple of sentences. The light shifted and swirled. The last image I saw was the Principal leaning forward in his chair before the world tilted and crashed. And then, as it says in all the best books, there was only darkness.

Chapter 24
Mediation

The chairs were set up in a circle. Mrs Mills sat in the one directly opposite me. Mum was on my left. The police officer with the crooked face was on my right. I still didn't know her name. To the left of Mrs Mills was the Pitbull. To the right of Mrs Mills was my Home Group teacher, Miss Blakey. The room was comfortable and quiet. It had soft lighting, deeppile carpet, pot plants with glossy leaves arranged artistically in corners. And there were posters on the walls. You know the kind of thing. Helplines and stuff. I didn't pay them that much attention. After everybody sat down there was an embarrassed pause, as if we realised the show had started, but no one could remember who should deliver the first line. Why was I here? The question fluttered across my mind and was gone. Mrs Mills cleared her throat.

‘We are here today to engage in a process of mediation and I welcome you all. It is not the purpose of this meeting to decide who is right or who is wrong, whether people are good or bad. We are not here to allocate blame. What we
are
here to do is to repair any damage that might have been caused by recent events. As far as we can. The death of Jaryd Kiffing cannot be undone by anything we might say here. But we can start the process of healing. Calma, would you like to start? Have you anything you want to say?'

I shook my head.

‘Miss Payne, perhaps you could start us off then?'

I kept my head down. I didn't want to look at anyone. There was another pause.

‘I'd . . . I'd like to say that I am so, so sorry about the death of Kiffo. This is the first time, in all my years of teaching, that I've . . . lost . . . a student. And it was so sudden. I know that you cared for him, Calma. And I feel for you. My heart goes out to you. It really does.'

I looked up then. I couldn't help it.

‘I don't believe you,' I said. ‘You hated him.'

The Pitbull leaned forward in her chair and fixed her eyes steadily on mine.

‘I understand why you don't believe me, Calma. And maybe I don't blame you. I know how I appear to students, particularly at the beginning of a course. Trust me, I know. Horrible, nasty, strict, no sense of humour? I know. But I do care, whatever you may think. Perhaps I care too much. It would be very easy to be a popular teacher. I could make jokes, get the students to like me. You look as if you don't think that is possible, but it is. I don't do things that way, Calma. Maybe I
can't
do things that way. I get my students under control. In order to
teach
them. Only when they are under control can I relax the tight grip, give a little more freedom. Only when they are learning. It's what I am paid to do.'

‘The students hate you.'

‘That's actually not true, Calma.' This was Miss Blakey. ‘Oh, I'm not saying that Miss Payne is the most popular teacher in the school. She isn't. But she is one of the most respected. Would it surprise you to know that Vanessa Aldrick thinks that Miss Payne is the best teacher she has ever had? That she has learned more from her in one term than in all her other terms of English? And Vanessa's not the only one. Not by a long way.'

Vanessa? Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, the world had been making a habit recently of turning my expectations and perceptions upside down. But Vanessa?

‘Think of it this way, Calma,' said the Pitbull. ‘You are talented at English. Perhaps the most talented I have ever taught. But the other kids in the class, they're not like you. I could leave you alone and you would be fine. In fact, for someone like you, it is probably better to leave you alone. But not the others. They need teaching, Calma. And that's what I do. You might not like my style. Hell, I don't like my style sometimes. But it does get results. And that, as I said before, is what I am paid to do.'

There was silence for a while. Mrs Mills broke it. God, there was something about her voice that made me want to scream. So professional, so soothing. So reasonable.