Smithy's Cupboard (6 page)

She spoke with her eyes closed. ‘Take more care of yourself.' The voice, which came from somewhere in the room, sounded like Joan. His hair stood on end when the booming laughter came out and he knew it was Joan.

‘Maud's lip is not hairy any more.' The medium opened her eyes and rubbed them. Her face went pale and she started to sob. The shawl fluttered again yet the windows were closed. She stood up and said in a shaky voice, ‘I can't speak to you again…too much blood.' She put her head in her hands and waved her long fingers. ‘Please go. Now.'

He walked out, guessing she had seen some of his kills. He looked down at his unwashed clothes and the stains and knew it was an accurate reading. She saw, through the eyes of Joan, his slip into decadence. A sudden gust of wind blew off his baseball cap. He chased it as it tumbled, propelled by something, though the wind had abated. The cap kept on and on, crossing the major road, missing traffic, hitting shopping trolleys, and his breath was running out. ‘Gotta get back in shape,' he muttered.

The cap had stopped, edged into a doorway, and was held down by the foot of a tall thin man who he knew, though the face looked mottled and drawn.

‘Smithy. How are you?' the man said. He coughed.

And recognition came to Smithy in an instant when the man wiped specks of blood from his lips.

‘OK, Bill. How long have you been out of the slammer?'

‘Some time, mate,' he said between wheezes. ‘The big C finally got me – engine rooms and everything else since I left the army.'

‘The vets looking after you, Bill?'

Bill nodded. His attention, however, was focused on another matter. ‘Those mongrels that raped you. They're both dead. One got knifed in gaol. The other was killed, down in the Nelson/Glenelg River area, in a shack, so it's said.'

‘I heard about the Nelson thing.'

Bill looked at his former cellmate with an expression which was begging an answer. He pursed his lips. ‘Thought you might know something about it…'

Smithy did not reply.

Bill went on, not letting go, it seemed to Smithy, and needing a reply. ‘Shot with a crossbow, pinned against a door, they say.' His lips formed another phrase. He looked down and away and plucked up courage. ‘Raped kids, they say,' he probed, his question still hanging in the air.

‘Still, justice comes like a north wind, like the Aboriginals say.' Smithy looked directly into Bill's face.

‘Sure does, Dave.'

Smithy ended the dialogue, which he knew had not satisfied Bill. He shook the frail limp fingers as gently as possible and walked away after saying, ‘Take care.'

Bill watched as the gap widened. He surmised, based on information he had gathered from ex-army friends, that there went a man who belonged to that unknown world of power. He whispered, ‘He's capable of materialising from shadows into open spaces. He has honour yet I wouldn't like to cross him. Have I put
myself in harm's way by too much probing?' As an afterthought, ‘So what, I'm going to die soon anyway. Rather be shot and get it over with.' Little did he know how accurate his assumptions were.

However, Smithy was held in the grip of forces beyond his control. He belonged to the world of power brokering and the covert monitoring of citizens, the buzz of which had never left him. He knew he was soon to return to the world from which he was powerless to escape. Guidance and a hand on the tiller were marking him for a return, and he was comfortable with the entrapment which followed. Yet there were small times in his cupboard when the word perdition poked its head up. ‘I wouldn't hurt old Bill, though…despite his guessing games,' he muttered His assumption circled for a few seconds.

11

The Return

In his office in Langley, the CIA headquarters, Brigadier General Jack Curtis read through a file marked Top Secret.

The one-star matched the relatives in his family, going back to the ones who fought with the South in the Civil War. His career had been mapped out from the day he was born. He removed the yellow tab which reminded him to ring an old Australian military comrade from their days when the two Aussie SAS men attended the US Navy Seals course. Great guys, and their beer wasn't too bad either.

Captain Stephen Howlen belonged to the team of agents which had been assembled under friendly country agreements and led by a two-star general who was senior to Jack. The captain picked up the phone after four rings, which was the current code, and answered promptly, ‘Howdy, Jack. Been a long time, mate.'

‘Fine, Stephen, fine,' the soft Virginia drawl coming through which led the listener to think of Teddy Roosevelt when he declared, ‘Walk softly and carry a big stick.'

‘I heard about our friend Smithy. Did some time in Pentridge for threatening life.'

‘He doesn't need to threaten, he just does.'

‘You kept a low profile, I hear, Stephen.'

‘Best, I thought. How did you find out?'

‘The judge helps us from time to time. He's connected with our legal service team.'

‘Bloody hell.' Stephen never new the full bag of tricks which
they possessed. ‘Smithy kept his head down. Pleaded guilty, didn't want the lawyer to speak about the SAS.'

‘I know, I know. We haven't used him for a while. Thought it best for him to really get over Joan. I sent one of our guys to the funeral.'

‘He told me so and was grateful.'

‘I'm told he went feral for a while.'

‘He's OK now. My mate from the police kept an eye on him. Another vet– but not SAS. A grunt in ‘67.' A pause followed and Stephen guessed the next subject.

‘A job's coming up down the track. Can you give him a nudge?'

Stephen prepared an answer. ‘What about the conviction?'

‘Don't worry– it's already scrubbed.'

Stephen gave a low whistle in response and was conscious of the power brokering which occurred. ‘Don't worry, Jack. I'll get back to you soon.'

Two days later, Ted barked. Captain Howlen walked in after Smithy called, ‘Come in.'

He looks a bit older, Smithy mused while he turned on the kettle.

‘How are you, Smithy?'

‘On the mend, mate. Let myself go for a while, though.'

‘Jack Curtis wants you back. A few jobs coming up. OK with you?'

‘Is the Pope Catholic?'

Neither man spoke. The pause was like a hawk hovering in the air marking time, studying lunch on the ground.

‘They scrubbed the conviction, mate.'

‘Bloody hell. The power they wield. It's scary, isn't it?'

‘Does it surprise you, mate?'

Smithy shook his head in response.

‘Still building hides?' Stephen knew his friend very well. His
style of merging, being still, seeking silence and waiting, the best sniper in the country with the coolest head and nerves. Brave, loyal resolute and secretive. Hard to replace.

‘Yeah, mate…the bedroom wardrobe.'

‘Must push on, then.'

They shook hands and Ted came up for a pat at the front door.

Stephen loved dogs and patted him. ‘Great dog, Smithy. Where did you get him?'

‘Don't ask.'

Stephen left. He had heard rumours of a killing on the Nelson River. He phoned Jack Curtis, who listened while the phone rang four times.

‘He's fine with it, Jack. Raring to go.'

‘Good. I'll make contact when the ops order comes out. Might be some time yet. Come over sometime, Stephen, and bring that good-looking missus -- Ann, isn't it?'

‘Yep, sure will, Jack. See ya.'

Smithy sat in his secret spot after his friend had left. He knew he would always be embroiled. Mostly, it kept his senses alive, but five per cent told him, ‘Can't leave, know too much.' The questions which demanded an answer more often of late were ‘Is it in the interest of national security? How are decisions made regarding a state-sanctioned killing? Is it so far down the road that the organ grinders don't have to worry about it, leaving it to us monkeys? Justification: what a word, one which can be used to sanction everything.

He sat in the wardrobe and brooded until he had figured out what to say and something or someone might listen. No use asking for forgiveness. Best attend a confessional afterwards. What must it be like for Father Kelly with all my secrets? The burden of it all.

Still, the pile of unwashed clothes had gone and the area had been scrubbed clean after the first message he had received from beyond the veil. Joan would be pleased.

A flopping noise followed his thoughts. It was like an old wheelchair which had a bump on its tyre; Joan had used a chair many times before her death. He shivered and shook in the sudden burst of cold air which was becoming more frequent and always caused the hair on the back of his head to stand up. Maybe it was an unseen hand brushing the back of his head. The atmosphere was heavy and moonlight sent spears into the hiding spot.

‘Smithy.' A cracked voice spoke several times like a vinyl record with a scratched groove. It stopped as quickly as it came.

He sat perfectly still. The sound of his thumping heart beating out a percussion.

‘Get sorted.' It was delivered like an order, like Joan did on occasions.

A rose scent drifted past his nostrils and occupied the space in the closet. He waited for another message and the cold air cleared. He sat up straight, his shoulders back. He held his hands upwards with the palms facing out just like the medium said, in order to receive healing.

He closed his eyes and spoke. ‘Joan.' He moved his head from side to side as if he could trap her spirit into his body. ‘You know what I do, don't you?'

There was no reply.

‘I confessed to the priest.' He paused.

‘Good.'

He was sure it was Joan who spoke.

‘Will God forgive me for my sins?'

There was no answer from the beings in the afterlife, the evidence for which was mounting up in Smithy's mind. ‘Crikey. Good chance of meeting all of my victims,' he muttered.

The next day, Shane sat on the old lounge which his parents had never replaced. Ted was at his feet with his head pushing against the police officers's hands for another scratch. His father handed
him a mug of coffee and sat opposite. He eyed his son, who had a cardigan over his blue shirt in the manner which spelled off-duty.

Shane enquired how he was feeling.

‘Fine, son, fine.'

‘You've got to get over Mum.'

‘I talk to her.'

‘Where for God's sake?'

‘In the cupboard.'

‘Shit– I hoped you cleaned it up.'

‘She told me to.'

Shane dropped his eyes and drained the coffee in one swallow. He looked at his father. Still looks good. Always overseas. Still the spook, I'm told. He remembered the CIA and Brit spooks always at the house. They had one feature which marked them: hard-looking unblinking eyes which did not smile. Joan made up for them with her bellowing laugh and the buckets of food which she supplied and then the men would wander off out of earshot where the serious nature of their work and their deeds could be spoken about. Sprinkled in amongst their huddles were bawdy sayings and discussions about the latest weapons available.

‘Dad, you need a therapist.'

‘Nup. Got my old army mates here and in the States.'

‘The spooks… Dangerous stuff, Dad.'

‘Gotta die sometime, son. Hey, what about some grandkids?' changing the subject as he was wont to do.

‘Working on it, Dad,' Shane said in a jocular fashion. He stood and hugged his father, which he rarely did, and patted Ted as he left.

He was greeted at the police station with ‘How is he?'

‘He talks to Mum, sarge, in his bedroom cupboard.'

The senior sergeant was a friend of Smithy's from Vietnam days. He was well aware of Smithy's losing Joan, and gaol would not have helped.

‘So what? So do I. I sit in the pantry with Mum's old spices and have a chat.'

‘What does your wife say about that?'

‘She's used to it.'

Shane walked to his locker and opened it and placed on his tunic. He gazed in the mirror in the washroom. ‘Will I get as mad as those two?'

The mirror did not reply.

12

Adam

Dave rolled into the drive in his twin-cab Nissan and offered to stay for a week while my farm hands had some leave. And Ted his black Labrador hopped out with him, after the long trip and eagerly ran around playing with the two farm dogs.

It was a bit lonely on the farm after Mum and Dad had passed on well over a decade ago. I had an important story on my mind which I had written out for my young brother to read later on.

I helped him with his bags and we went into the house.

He looked around. ‘Hell, does this bring back memories, bro. Nothing has changed in here.'

‘Not even your old room, with your old cubby house.'

He hastened into his room and I followed while he touched the artefacts and I felt he was transported back to the time when he and Blackie played in the old box. His eyes were glazed over so I quietly left him to his memories for a time.

‘Got a carton of VB in the back, bro. Want one?'

I told him there were cold ones available and we sat on the lounge. The dogs walked in and Ted trotted over and sat at my feet as if he knew his new name had honoured our father.

‘I've got to go to the States on a job soon. Would you look after him for me for a while, bro?'

‘Love to. Leave him here till you come back.'

‘He'll love the farm. No more snakes about, are there?'

‘No,' I replied, remembering the sadness with Blackie.

‘Probably won't want to leave.'

I appreciated his work about the farm over the few days and he spoke of how the hard labour over the long day had hardened him up once again. I knew of his fall from grace yet we rarely spoke about it.