The Crimes and Punishments of Miss Payne by Barry Jonsberg

I'm a step below a cockroach. Do I let that worryme? Hell, I am what I am. I don't look for people's approval and you shouldn't neither. What you did for me was real good, a real nice thing to do.”
    “Thanks, but—”
    “If it's caused other people to think bad of you, well, that's their problem, not yours. At least two of us know the truth about you and the Pitbull. The rest can shove it.”
    This was, by some considerable margin, the longest speech I had ever heard from Kiffo. I wasn't used to being talked over by someone whose preferred mode of communication was an occasional grunt, normally accompanied by offensive body language. I felt touched that my predicament had moved him to that extent. What's more, he was right. There wasn't anything I could do, but just ignoring the situation didn't seem too appealing either. For all that, what he said was important to me, particularly the bit about the two of us knowing the truth.
    “You
don't fancy
her, do you?” he added.
    “Christ, Kiffo!”
    “Sorry. Just checking.”
    We sat for a while, lost in our own thoughts. Talking to Kiffo had done me good, just like always. It had taken my mind off my own problems a bit, which was ironic, really, since that was all we had been talking about. Maybe it was something to do with the surroundings, the evidence of Kiffo's bleak existence. I mean, the room
was
disgusting. I'll say that for the Fridge. She might be working every waking hour, but she still has the time and the energy to keep thehouse pretty tidy. But Kiffo and his dad? It was a different world they lived in, a world where normal standards didn't apply—exactly, I suppose, the kind of world that the Fridge didn't want for me. I mulled that over for a while. I could see what she wanted to achieve. I just couldn't tell whether it was worth the price we were paying to achieve it. Gives you a headache, thinking about stuff like that, so I stopped.
    Anyway, my eye had been caught by a framed photograph on the wall. It was of a young man in his late teens, leaning against a wall. He was smiling broadly, as if in response to something said as the shutter was clicking. Whatever that might have been was gone, the words long since evaporated, but the reaction was still there, frozen in that grin. He looked happy, full of life, energy radiating from the posture, the narrowed eyes, the red hair spiked into crazy angles. The glass of the photograph gleamed. There was not a mark on it, or on the frame, which had obviously been polished recently. It was a small oasis of cleanliness against the stained backdrop of the wall.
    I glanced over at Kiffo. He was looking at me, his expression neutral.
    “Kiffo, look—”
    “Time to go home, Calma,” he interrupted. “We wouldn't want you to catch anything life-threatening here, now, would we? I'll walk you back.”
    It doesn't do to argue with Kiffo. I got up from the stool and checked myself for alien life-forms while Kiffo rolled another cigarette and opened the door for me. We walked fora while in silence. The streetlights around his place were all out, probably smashed by those in his area who preferred darkness as a business environment. In other circumstances, I would have found it frightening, but Kiffo's presence was reassuring. I looked up at the sky. The stars were hammered into its blackness like small, bright nails. I wanted to talk about the photograph, but didn't know how to start. I guess I didn't have the courage.
    “Kiffo?” I said.
    “What?”
    “If I ask you something, will you answer me honestly?”
    “Depends.”
    “Why do you try so hard to give the impression that you're dumb?”
    “I am dumb.”
    “No.” I stopped. This was important and I wanted an answer. “You're not. And you know it. All that stuff you were telling me back at your place, about looking for people's approval. That's not the kind of thing a dumb person would be saying. So why pretend?”
    He shrugged, like the topic of conversation