‘You shitheads!’ he said. ‘You shitheads are the biggest dick-heads I’ve ever met.’
You might remember that I never got round to telling you the worst piece of news – the ‘just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, then something comes and kicks you up the arse’ piece of news. It happened on Thursday after school. Jonno was waiting for us, leaning up against the school railing, smoking. I noticed, without surprise, a can of VB in his hand. Kiffo and I stopped outside the gates and Jonno looked us up and down, taking a final gulp of his beer before crushing the can in his hand and tossing it away.
‘You shitheads!’ he said. ‘You shitheads are the biggest dick-heads I’ve ever met.’
‘Whaddya mean?’ said Kiffo.
Jonno just chuckled and shook his head.
‘What a pair of dickheads!’ he repeated.
‘Look,’ I snapped. ‘Just tell us, will you? I don’t want to stand around out here listening to insults, particularly those that are inconsistent about the precise composition of our heads. I don’t remember that being included in the price. And, frankly, I’ve been insulted by better people than you. Certainly more articulate . . .’
Jonno put his hand close to my face and pointed. The glowing end of a cigarette wavered millimetres from my eyes.
‘You watch your mouth, lady,’ he said. ‘Where I come from, we don’t make no difference between punching a woman or a bloke. So if you want to keep those specs on the outside of your face you’d better shut up.’
I decided to shut up. Jonno didn’t look the sort of person to make idle threats.
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Kiffo. ‘Let’s stick to business. Because if you start on my friend here, we’re goin’ to find ourselves fallin’ out. Big time. I might be half your size, but you know me, Jonno. If I get it into my head to fight you, you’ll have to kill me before I’ll stop.’
Jonno looked at Kiffo, as if weighing things up. Then a big grin spread across his face.
‘Never short of balls, Kiffo. I’ll give you that. Right. I’ve done the job, but you aint gonna like the results. Subject’s name is Payne, aged 45. She is into drugs. But she’s not pushing. She’s a volunteer for DARP, the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Program. They have a 24-hour hotline. Payne goes out on calls maybe two, three times a week, to deal with junkies and alkies. Tries to keep them straight. She’s not a drug dealer, for chrissake. She’s a pillar of the community. Probably get a medal.’
Jonno flicked his cigarette butt away and produced a can of beer from a side pocket. Did he have an esky in there? Kiffo and I looked at each other. I could see denial written all over his face. As for me, I knew. I knew, with that awful sense of inevitability, that what Jonno had said was the truth. I could almost taste the bitterness of it.
‘What about that bloke, Ferret-face?’ said Kiffo, an air of desperation in his voice.
Jonno popped the ring-pull and took a big swallow.
‘Name is Collins, a director of DARP. Doctor, apparently. Big shot.’
Giuseppe’s. A group of businessmen. ‘We mustn’t miss this opportunity, gentlemen. There is a huge shortage of top-grade heroin on the streets at the moment . . . and we must hope it stays that way, if we are to rid our society of this appalling disease.’
‘Nah!’ said Kiffo. ‘It can’t be.’
‘I’m telling you straight,’ said Jonno. ‘Two nights I followed her. One time she met Collins at this hall place. That’s how I got to check him out as well. Anyway, this hall. It’s a sort of safe haven, a place where junkies go to get decent needles, hot food, that kind of stuff. It’s what she does, Kiffo. I seen it with me own eyes.’
Calma and Kiffo stand on a pile of milk crates as they watch Miss Payne and Dr Collins talking inside the Drug Rehabilitation Centre.
Jonno prised himself away from the fence.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Got to go. Business appointment. I’ll expect payment by this time tomorrow night, Kiffo. Come round to my place. I’d hate to have to come round to yours. Know what I mean?’
If Kiffo heard, he gave no sign. He was still shaking his head as Jonno strolled away down the road.
‘You’re wrong, Jonno. You’re wrong,’ he said. But his voice was almost a whisper. I reached towards him and linked arms. It was some indication of his state of mind that he didn’t resist, didn’t even seem to notice.
‘Come on, Kiffo,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you a coke or something.’ He turned towards me.
‘You don’t believe it, do you Calma? You didn’t buy any of it.’
‘Yeah, Kiffo,’ I said. ‘I bought the lot.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it fits. Because it’s what happens in real life, not the stuff we’ve been spinning. Don’t you see? This whole thing, this whole fantastic adventure. We wanted to believe it. It was brilliant to think that a teacher we hated was also a criminal. But we were wrong. It’s not good enough just to want something to be true. Because then we’re simply part of a game – a terrific game, an exciting game. But in the end, only a game. And now we know, Kiffo. We know. It’s game over.’
Kiffo plodded on for a few more paces, his eyes fixed on the ground. But then he stopped, grabbed me by my free arm and swung me round to face him.
‘Not for me, Calma,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’
I shook my head.
‘Come on, Calma. Think,’ said Kiffo. ‘How do we know Jonno is telling us the truth?’
‘Why would he lie?’
‘Why? ’Cos it’s second nature to him. He can’t do nothin’ else. What if she bought him off? What if she realised we were on to her and she decided to cut Jonno in? What if he’s working for her? What if he always has been?’
‘If, if, if. If your aunt had testicles, Kiffo, she’d be your uncle! It doesn’t make sense.’
‘What about that bag? The one with the white stuff, that the Pitbull took from the Ferret?’
‘I’ve no idea, Kiffo. Maybe it was medication. It might have been instant mashed potato for the junkies’ dinner for all we know!’
I put my arm around his shoulders and he didn’t remove it.
‘I know you’ve put a lot into this,’ I said. ‘We both have. And it’s difficult sometimes to accept that all the hard work, all the emotional and physical energy, has been for nothing. That we’ve wasted our time. But we’ve got to accept it. Give it up, Kiffo. Cut our losses. It’s time to get back to normal.’
Kiffo’s face twisted in concentration. He could never win a rational argument with me and he knew it.
‘Okay, Calma,’ he said, finally. ‘Just one more try. Give me that. Just one more go. If we don’t get nowhere, then I give up. Come on. It’s not much to ask, is it? A last chance?’
Maybe I was feeling a little confused and dispirited by the events of the week, but I felt myself weakening. He was looking so intently into my eyes. Pleading almost.
‘I’m not going anywhere near the Pitbull, Kiffo. No way.’
‘You don’t have to, Calma!’ Kiffo was so excited by the implied agreement of my last statement that he was almost shaking. ‘You don’t have to. We go after what’s-his-name, Collins, the Ferret bloke. One day. One day, Calma. We get nothing, that’s it. Finished!’
‘One day? Daylight? No messing around at night?’
‘Swear! It gets dark, we’re done.’
‘When?’
‘Saturday.’
I pretended to consider it. In fact, I knew immediately that I couldn’t refuse him. He was so desperate for the game to continue that I couldn’t bear to be the one to call it off, to take my bat and ball and go home. This way it was a shared, negotiated ending. Anyway, to be perfectly honest, I felt reluctant to give up myself. What I had said to Kiffo about the sense of waste wasn’t just words. I felt it acutely. That there was something shameful in surrender. Just one more go? I had little to lose, particularly since it was extremely unlikely that the Ferret could dob me in to the police for stalking after just one day. And maybe, just maybe . . .
‘All right, Kiffo. Saturday. But that’s it.’
Kiffo beamed. I had rarely seen him look so pleased about anything. He was lonely too. He needed the warmth of shared experience.
‘I’ll pick you up, Saturday morning, at eight,’ he said, looking like he wanted to hug me.