Smithy's Cupboard

by Ray Clift

  Smithy stood in the dock unrestrained, being on bail. The facts had been placed before the Supreme Court, where he had pleaded guilty at an earlier hearing. The judge shuffled his papers. Secretly he did not wish to pass sentence as he had served many years in the Reserve forces and had seen war zones at first hand. He made up his mind to make the sentence as short as possible for the veteran warrant officer standing straight before him. His lawyer had tried as hard as possible for his client yet the soldier resisted all attempts to explain his SAS service, though had otherwise made full and frank admissions all along.

  The judge was forced to state that being a trained soldier with all the skills of killing it would be remiss of him not to put in place a custodial sentence. He noted that the defendant showed some contrition yet it was not coupled with remorse. The possibility of an appeal hung in the air.

  Smithy saw the hard-looking men in black suits sitting at the rear of the court and made some accurate guesses who they were. ‘Spooks,’ he said to himself.

  ‘You are sentenced to six months’ gaol. Three months will be served as a suspended sentence.’

  Smithy nodded and replied, ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  The judge stood, as did the rest of the court, and left via his rear door. Smithy was led out to the waiting van.

  Barbara Mitchell felt some unease when she walked from the court into the fleeting sunlight and looked up. A black cloud followed her on her walk to the bus station. She opened the front door and saw a note from her two daughters, who had cleaned the house. ‘Stuff him, Mum. You’ve still got us.’ Tears flushed her eyes and more were to come when she opened the mail from her GP. It read, ‘The news is not good. Please make an appointment.’ There were no warm wishes from her ex-friends, who treated her like a leper.

  A card was sitting by the doormat. It read, ‘See how the mighty have fallen.’ She washed down a sleeping tablet and went to her bedroom.

  Nightmares followed as she faded into sleep. She was in a maze. A desert appeared before her eyes and the parching air took her breath away. Her sweat mingled with the colourful sand, which stuck to her face making resemble a circus clown. She was given a choice by an unknown deep voice: ‘You have a choice to keep on crossing the desert.’ She thought it said the universe would protect her as it always did. She left the maze and crossed the desert and sighted with sandblasted eyes an oasis ahead with two massive green hedges surrounding a pool of crystal clear water. She ran towards it and drank till she was full. Dates grew nearby and she devoured them. She was in another maze and could not find the exit. Clouds came over and it was soon dark. She sat on her hands and gripped her knees and revisited memories of her childhood. She saw she was the middle child and had to scramble for favours.

  Barbara woke up and knew she had been sent messages. She prayed earnestly for guidance.

  She dressed and was calm. Instead of catching a bus, she walked to the doctor’s surgery. A homeless man came past and asked for a cigarette. She gave him a packet and walked on feeling better.

  7

  Smithy

  My relationship with God returned after chats with the priest, but I had concerns about my sins. Would he listen or did I deserve it? I had to find a way back from the mess and sort myself out. I was not interested in speaking to the trick cyclists.

  The imprisonment was not the issue, as I have survived tougher conditions than gaol. The disgrace heaped on my kids was a problem because of my police officer son. For me, it was just a matter of keeping a low profile and meditating. The guards assigned me to a cell with Bill Newman, who had served in Vietnam with his battalion when I was there on my second tour, though I didn’t know him. The buzz was about and he sympathised with the conduct which had led me to prison. He told me a few tricks which were helpful, such as getting to the shower while the hot water was running.

  Two weeks later, after some sleepless nights and chats with Bill, I headed off to the showers. There were obvious signs which I ought to have taken heed of. No guards about. Two naked, huge tattooed bikies already in the block chatting to themselves at the far end. I had heard they were serving long stretches for rape. During the day they strutted about like the Kapos in the concentration camps in World War II. Their arrogant air followed them along with the herd of admirers they had gathered about them.

  My eyes were closed because of the shampoo I was luxuriating in. My focus was on the future and my distraction was obvious and I did not hear their silent approach. It felt like a truck had hit me. Forty combined stones thrust me into the corner. Fat hands held my body tight against the tiles. Soap was flashed on my bum. I felt a sharp pain as an object was rammed in my anus. Grunting sounds, fluid entering and then it was repeated and the pain was indescribable. Blood oozed down my legs and splashed my feet. The agony persisted with each thrust, in and out as fast as a piston. Hands being changed. God, I thought, when will it stop? The yells coming. ‘Yes, yes, yes’ with each ejaculation. I kept in my tears. God was part-time for me now.

  They stopped and I still stood there against the tiles. They hummed and sang a Human Nature song. I glanced at them furtively, while they were lost in their bliss of hot water. A plan formed in seconds. No one except Bill must know of the disgrace but the beasts will, when they meet their deaths. And on their last gasp they will pray for mercy. None will come.

  I was shuffled onto a block with white-collar criminals yet the beasts never left my focus. I salivated on what torture they would undergo until they died and what measure of pain they would undergo until my pain was assuaged.

  ‘Smithy.’

  I looked round and saw Bill. ‘Yes, mate.’

  ‘The bikies are fearful of you– they know who you are now.’

  I did not reply yet I was pleased. Let them feel fear, I thought.

  I did my time and was released after signing the bond.

  I was still a member of the armed forces and no decision had been made about my future. I accepted a trip away on a houseboat to the Glenelg River at Nelson with a group of vets who had closed ranks around me while I was in gaol. The time was enjoyable, although we caught no fish. There were many nights and days when I tumbled in my bunk in a booze-filled zone and slept like a baby.

  I strolled along the bank at dusk one night on my own with the thoughts circulating again and heard the distinctive sound of a Harley Davidson. I saw it approaching along the dirt road and it stopped at a shack. The fat man took off his helmet. I gasped. It was one of the beasts. ‘Thank you, God,’ I said. I looked in the nearby scrub and it was easy to follow the scent of a crop of hemp plants growing well. Soon to be cropped. I knew he would stay for a while.

  From then on I made notes of the comings and goings. Ten in the morning and home at six p.m. Paul Thomson had rented the shack, I heard in conversation.

  We drove back to our homes and I was not able to curtail my emotions, which were at a high pitch. There was no need to write out the operation order, because it was in my head.

  8

  1998

  He watched through his old green sniper binoculars, making mental notes. The new year had come and gone and the plants were due for harvesting. His hide was constructed of local foliage and on high ground. He slept in a small dug-out and meagre rations were eaten cold in the twenty-four hours since he had been there. Alongside him was the old cylindrical tube given to him by some CIA friends. He opened it, wearing his rubber gloves, and pulled out the collapsible perfectly constructed crossbow and the steel bolt. He fitted the bolt into the frame, checking once again the operation of the bow.

  He stared through his binoculars, his balaclava now in place along with his dark tank suit. The old black Labrador sat near the door, occasionally groaning. The dog was frequently kicked by Thomson; it sat up before the sound of the Harley was heard.

  ‘Smart dog,’ the sniper whispered as the bike loomed into view.

  The fat man fell off the bike and laid for a while in the dirt. He appeared to be drunk. He lurc
hed to his feet and staggered towards the door. The dog whimpered. ‘Shut up,’ the man yelled while he fumbled with keys.

  The fat man was not aware of the dark shape behind but something made him turn round. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out and peered around in a drunken fashion.

  The bolt flew out four metres and struck the man in the middle of his chest, throwing him back and pinning him against the door. He slumped, touching the bolt with his fat hands and watching the blood pour from his chest. He tried to speak. The blood bubbled in his throat while he was held like a blinking fish dying in a boat.

  The sniper did not speak. He walked over to the dog and reached down, patting him on the head, and the dog wagged his tail. The sniper gave him a biscuit and the dog followed along with each morsel. They reached the car with the bald tyres and the dog jumped in. He had a new master who would care for him at last.

  They drove along stopping in little spots on the way. The dog, soon to re-named Ted, adapted to his comfortable home. His new owner changed all the tyres the next day and later on dumped the old ones at a junk yard The crossbow was taken out to sea in a hired boat and cast deep down in the murky waters of Port Phillip Bay. The plan was foolproof. The sniper prayed during the week. ‘Thank you, God.’

  The police investigation failed to uncover any tyre tracks or DNA. The large crop of drug plants nearby led to the conclusion that it was a drug war or a bikie gang feud. Enquiries were fruitless and the file remained open. However, gang members asked where the victim’s dog was. Had he run away?

  After the funeral, the members of the gang spoke about their dead member.

  The sergeant at arms spoke. ‘He used to kick the dog a lot. If the animal’s still alive, he’d be happy with who ever has him.’

  And the group nodded. He was not the most popular member of the gang.

  ‘Jeez, shot with a crossbow,’ one member added. ‘Must have pissed off the killer surely.’

  ‘Cops say there’s no DNA on the bolt, no footmarks, not even tyre tracks. Must have given someone the shits. The Angels reckon there was no reason to kill him.’

  ‘A careful killing, maybe a warrior… Chuck me another can, Johnno.’

  And Johnno did.

  9

  2000

  Barbara Mitchell was prone in her hospital bed in Melbourne in the cancer ward. The cancer had invaded her bones and was spreading. She had prayed to God when the prognosis was declared. Apart from her two daughters, who sat either side, there was no one else and she understood why. It was her punishment, and atonement was foremost in her mind. It was no use going over and over it all; she knew it was down to her own competitive nature, which would never let anyone or anything stand in her way.

  She grew to understand why John the brow-beaten one had finally turned on her, fleeing to the arms of a Thai woman, though her daughters wiped him off and would not communicate with him.

  In her scratchy voice, which could only be relieved by sips of mild tea mixed with honey and lemon, brewed just like her mother did, she said, ‘Did you give the letter to Smithy?’

  ‘Left it in his mailbox, Mum.’

  ‘I really would like to see him. I owe it to him.’

  Smithy read the letter and put it aside. He needed to think about it. How could he accept an apology after what she had done?

  He once again spoke to the priest, who suggested he visit the stricken woman. He rang the hospital later and enquired how she was.

  ‘You’d better get in soon’ was the answer.

  He stood at the door of the ward room and saw her lying there with tubes and noisy machines and the two daughters on either side.

  Julie the letter-sender looked round and saw him. She waited for a response.

  He took a step inside and spoke quietly. ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ and walked away.

  ‘Who was that, Julie?’ Barbara croaked.

  ‘No one, Mum. No one.’

  Smithy walked out into the sunshine and stood, his fingers itching, his head tingling, and he heard a whisper. ‘Go back, Dave. Go back. I’ve forgiven her.’ He thought it was Joan speaking and he looked around to see any other signs. He ran back to the ward and went into the room and saw the girls crying and the machine flat-lining. Barbara’s eyes were closed

  He yelled out, ‘I forgive you, Barbara.’

  Her eyes opened and a crooked smile creased her face. ‘Bless you, Smithy. Bless you.’

  She closed her eyes and the nurses walked in and turned off the dreaded noise.

  ‘Thank you, Dave.’

  And he nodded to the girls.

  10

  Smithy spoke to a medium, which was not a course he would normally have taken due to an unshakeable belief that the future can not be seen. A Vietnam vet spoke to him about the medium and he decided to try it out. Her appearance, clothes and jewellery shouted out her New Age beliefs. He thought about the movie he had seen with Rex Harrison and Margaret Rutherford, The Ghost and Mrs Muir, and other older ones and smirked to himself when he saw the crystals on the wall and the giant ball on the purple-edged tablecloth. Her face was ringed with black curls and she would have been a smasher in her youth. Emerald eyes peered over the top of Dame Edna glasses. Her long fingers were adorned with a variety of gemstones and her fingernails were so long they could have plucked a hair from a turkey’s tonsils.

  Her fingers fluttered and waved about casting shadows on the now circling crystal ball, like a phantom harp player plucking at strings. The atmosphere was surreal, and if ever a ghost would appear, he thought, it would be here, tonight. Her beads rattled when they were caught in a sudden cold draft which blew her humungous shawl across her face. She thrust it back. He was sure she muttered in the process, in an irritable fashion, ‘Fuck.’

  He guessed he looked stressed and thought she might add some wisdom before the reading. He was right in his assumptions.

  ‘Do you know, there is always someone who would gladly change places with you. If you were fifty years old you would gladly accept ten years of being forty again. If you were seventy, an eighty-year-old would look at you as a kid. Bad things happen to good people and it would be Utopia if only the bad died. Look around. Many messages come from spiritual teachers. Sometimes when we are low, I have had people come to me who I knew were so crooked that if they swallowed a nail they would probably shit a corkscrew.’

  Smithy laughed out loud. ‘My dead wife Joan would have loved you.’

  She smiled. However, it was time to get down to business and she rubbed her hands together for a short time, took a few deep breaths and looked at her client. She reached over the small table and clutched his hands. He felt a surge of heat passing along his arms into his middle.

  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 t
he 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.