by Ray Clift
Marshall’s traits were obvious. He was a sleaze, but Joan would hear nothing bad about him. From what I picked up, the sex was good so in that area I guessed they might make it. Her only child Annette lived with a healer in Brazil, which Joan did not approve of. Joan is agnostic. Not like me, who talks to God or whatever spirit comes through. My mum comes through at times. I’ve not seen her full-on but hope I will one day. She appears in dreams and frequently sends messages like ‘Watch Marshall’. However, I just turn over and go to sleep. How could I tell Joan about a message from beyond? She would just laugh.
Until the day I was woken up by a disturbing phone call from the local hospital. Joan had been bashed and wanted to see me. I scratched off a note to Martin and fled out the door.
Her face was puffed around the eyes and black bruises were showing up, yellowing at the edges almost while I watched.
‘Don’t tell me, Joan. It was Victor.’
She nodded with a painful move of her head.
‘Why?’
‘We had a blow-up. He wanted access to my bank deposit box and I refused.’ Joan groped in her handbag and produced a duplicate key, and asked that I keep it. She added, ‘My will is also in the bank box. You’re written in it with my daughter Annette.’
‘Stop, stop. You’re not dead. You’re going too fast for me.’
She looked at my face just like Mum did and read my next response, just like Mum would do.
‘No. Not going to the cops. I just want him out. They wouldn’t believe perfect Victor the non-smoker could be a crook.’
I was intrigued by the remark about him being a crook and she saw the question on my lips.
‘Yes. He’s a big drug dealer. Can’t stand druggies but doesn’t mind fuelling them.’
‘How do you know he is?’
‘Phone calls all hours, creepy people banging on the door. And then I spotted a stack of coke in his car.’
She was exhausted by all of the emotion so I left her quiet and headed towards the cop shop.
‘Where is Victor Marshall?’ I demanded from the young cop. I showed him my White House staffer’s pass and he almost jumped to attention, calling me ‘Ma’am’.
‘Cut the crap. Get me Marshall now – right now.’
Victor came to the counter all silly smiles. ‘What’s up, Suzie?’
But I wasn’t in a smiling mood. I was in a rare rage at that point and would have hit him if he’d stepped too close. ‘Don’t call me Suzie. Come outside.’ Outside, I went on, ‘You’re fucking lucky she won’t press charges. Stay away or I’ll get some high-powered people to fix your wagon.’
‘Oh, oh, I’m so scared of big White House staffer.’ He turned away, walked back into the police station and lifted his middle finger at me.
I watched the arrogant walk and thoughts pounded in my head like ‘Mate, you have no idea what I’ll bring down on your head, you arsehole.’
*
Victor went back again and bashed her. She reported him to the police and told them the whole story. They found masses of drugs in his unit. He was arrested and charged. When I told Martin about Victor, he remembered him from 1968 but hadn’t been aware of his police career.
We sat together in the court when Victor was sentenced to a long stretch. He was about to be propelled out to the cells by the guards when he looked up to where we sat and saw us three. It must have dawned on him that Martin and I worked together. He probably knew what Martin’s secret role was. Probably made enquiries, unbeknown to Martin.
‘Fucking dogs,’ he yelled when they carted him away. ‘I’ll kill you’ were the words on his lips as the cell door was slammed shut.
A man in a crumpled suit sitting in front of us turned round and studied our faces. I instantly felt the danger and the revolving gut. I scratched the top of my itching head and knew by the features of the man that he was a close relative. He turned out to be Mark Marshall, Victor’s younger brother. A person of interest; a man with a mission.
Joan’s breast cancer began that year during the terrible time.
7
Suzie
2014
My fortieth birthday has come and gone. It was a good show with Joan and my friends. I hoped Mum might show in spirit but I’m still waiting. Maybe she’s gone on to some sort of parallel dimension.
Forty is dreaded by some, yet a milestone for others. It was a huge milestone for me after ten years on the White House staff and all the madness which went with it. My, where did it all go? I thought many times. So much has happened but it’s nothing in comparison with the Earth, which was still able to circle the sun ten times, despite all the dire predictions from the many cranks I met on my tours.
I know there’s an ending soon to this life of secrets, especially with Martin, and I duck about wearing out shoe leather, wasting petrol and pushing aside little hints from people who are suspicious, hoping for a little gossip to make their day happier (until the next breath of scandal). I’ve witnessed many so-called scandals which have ended in tears and walking away from a good career. Another president is looming on the horizon and may not appreciate what I did ten years ago.
I’m still held in the grip of the forces of espionage, forces which are beyond my control even though I was a minor partner in that world of brokering, coupled with covert monitoring of citizens, the buzz of which has never left me. But its main thrust was the right-wing crazies who wish to harm the chief. Dotted among all of that mess of disconnected wires and disconnected people were the benign ones and the malignant one, and I have encountered both.
Yet it’s not easy to leave that world behind and forge ahead to something else. I’m comfortable with the entrapment which has topped up my bank balance for many years. The ride has been good, generally speaking, and I didn’t have to participate in any kills, or give evidence in any commissions of inquiry. In spite of what you see in the movies, intell can be very boring. My job was just the steady collection of information for the back-room boys, who made what they could out of it all, turning some of it into intelligence.
I currently crave another tour to Nashville and other places with Joan, who wants to make it her swan song before the lump becomes the body and the body disappears, leaving its malignant double. Above all, our plan is to be married this year, with Joan as my matron of honour. Martin can at least continue, relaxed about not being found out. He’s coming with us on the last tour before I leave and has brushed up on his harmonica.
Don’t know where those days went but the group are on the stage setting up in Nashville. I’m about to walk out. The crowd are foot-stomping and many are boot-scooting in the aisles, much to the anxiety of the security staff. There I am with my big John Cash black outfit and my twangy guitar. The crowd know what’s coming and I don’t keep them in suspense when I launch into ‘I hear the train a coming, a coming round the bend, and I ain’t seen the sunshine since I know when I’m stuck in Folsom Prison’. I hardly hear the rest of my words and hope I’ve got his quiver right. Number after number goes on. I stop for a while and drink a lemon squash and honey mix.
I save one of my favourite writer-singer’s songs to the last. I say ‘Joan Baez’ and the sound is deafening. Maybe they’ve got over the freedom rides.
‘The night they drove old Dixie down.’ Silence took over the hall. I looked at the faces of men and women wearing Rebel hats and knew I was on a winner. ‘Virgil Caine is the name’ and then I went on with ‘And the bells were ringing’. Many of those giant good old boys were sobbing as if they had been at the small house when General Robert E. Lee surrendered his army of Northern Virginia to the scruffy but brilliant U.S. Grant.
There were more tears when Martin strolled out in his brilliant coloured marine blues with all his medals and played his harmonica to the old Reb martial tune ‘The Bonny blue Flag’. And the audience quite remarkably knew the words and sang.
We left the stage but were called back for an encore. Martin started me off with the harmonica and I
started to sing, ‘I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time.’ I finished with ‘I walk the line’ and I confess that when I bowed I was caught up in the moment, with the tears flooding down. It was the last round for Joan and I asked her to stand, which she did, to another round of applause. We had to leave just after.
I resigned when I was back in DC. I was tearful because I had made many friends and a lot of them were coming to the wedding. Many of them had guessed about us, but to their credit they kept their mouths shut.
It is the wedding and we stand in the small Catholic church. Joan is my matron of honour. We picked ‘Stand by your man’ and then the marines’ hymn and walked out with laughter and happiness following us. I wished Dad could have been here but he’s suffering from a broken rib (a martial arts injury, of course).
Joan had two weeks to live. She had hung on by the skin of her teeth just like the biblical Job said. She died and many bands were there to send her off into her agnostic plane. She was happy to go, she told me through pain-racked lips. Joan was great lady, a great muso and my surrogate mum. Annette was there and I showed her the will. The two had reconciled well before the funeral.
A decade-long chapter of my life had closed and I looked forward to another time. It came in 2015.
Martin works a few less hours of late and I still have my gigs. Dad is better and we talk a lot more via email. Although he won’t say anything in the text about my last career, I knew that he knew, in some fashion, after the funeral in 2008. We leave it at that. Once we get to Australia, and out of bugging range, we can chat about it.
I’m excited about my trip back to Oz. I can’t wait to meet my nephew Michael with his dad Shane and his mother Teresa, my sister-in-law. Haven’t seen her since Dad went off his rocker at Mum’s funeral and later on went to gaol. But that’s another story.
8
Suzie
Australia
Dad met us both in Perth for a reunion with his old SAS mates. It’s where he first met Joan, who was a Perth girl, daughter of a warrant officer and a farmer just like my grandad Ted, who was an army engineer and also a broad-acre farmer.
Adam my uncle was there with his Asian wife Loan. I hadn’t seen him for years; he had aged and his face was lined but his body looked lean and hard. He had giant farmer’s hands just like his father. Not bad for a man in his mid-seventies.
Dad picked Martin up for a day at the RSL. The old men loved him and asked him about the middle east wars – he had some views about why we should be there and when we ought to pull out. He was shouted so many Swan lagers that Dad had to pour him into the car, where he fell asleep on the way back. He snored all night, waking up with a great headache caused by the heavy Australian beer.
The president of the RSL invited him back to speak. He was highly regarded by the old diggers, some of whom had fought in Vietnam with the marines. So much for my concern. I realised that Martin had studied politics and accepted other people’s views and countries.
In his talk, he showed some slides of Da Nang and other places of interest. He was warmly welcomed and cheered at the end of his short speech. I’m sure he assisted in propping up US–Australia ties. He declined the offer of more Swan lager and stayed with Margaret River white wine, some of which he brought back. So we both ended up with headaches. Dad was proud of him, as was I. I had made a great choice in a husband and protector after all those years.
The drums sounded into the corners of Perth and it was clear that the message had got out. Home-town Aussie girl Suzie Smith was in Perth. The hall was packed.
There was a hint in Dad’s voice the day before. ‘Take your instruments. There’s a band there, OK.’
I briefed the band about what I’d sing and they agreed.
I called to Martin. ‘How many out there?’
‘It’s packed,’ he replied.
The band leader announced my appearance. I walked in and bowed in a sweeping Peter Allen outfit with an Aussie shirt. I loved Peter, our icon, as did Broadway, and I’d practised his tunes for many years. I’d had piano lessons with Joan Oliver.
I sat at the piano and began ‘I still call Australia home’. The chorus went on, with the audience standing and singing and crying along. I went into ‘Tenterfield Saddler’, Allen’s signature song, and after the noise settled I sang the song made famous by Melissa Manchester, ‘Fly high and wide’, and then Peter’s ‘I am not the boy next door’, his song about being gay.
I looked at Dad in the front row. He was wiping his eyes, along with Adam and the rest. More Johnny Cash and June Carter songs were sung until I had to take a break.
Martin strolled out in his marine dress blues, harmonica at the ready.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this fine-looking sergeant major of marines is my husband and he plays a mean harmonica.’
The audience cheered. Many of them would never have seen a senior NCO of marines in full dress.
Martin had a voice not unlike Elvis. He started to play the famous number when Elvis sang the combination of Dixie and the Battle Hymn of the Republic. We played along with him in the breaks when he blew and sucked into his harmonica. He then played and sang ‘God Bless America’, followed by ‘Advance Australia Fair’. I’m sure many of the females in the audience would have abducted him if it were possible. I rounded off by coming out in my big John outfit and sang ‘I walk the line’.
It was over and I had a sore throat to prove it. But there were autographs to sign and CDs to sell. I was busy with the fans but noted that Martin’s fan club was swarming around him. I knew he was a chick magnet but the surging crowd were starting to scream. Some were touching his uniform, and clutching hands ripped a badge off his collar.
My fans were drifting away and it was then that my eyes locked on a woman about Martin’s age. She was staring intently towards me and I of course went into my non-blinking routine. A woman who I judged to be around mid to late forties was with her and their looks were similar. I guessed she was the daughter. They both suddenly turned about and walked off, but the face of the older woman stayed in my mind for a long time. Her expression was not one of kindness and indeed I felt some hatred drifting towards me. My tummy started to rumble and I knew in that instant she would bring danger somewhere along the track.
We had never discussed fame and its effects. Like most people, Martin had no idea of celebrity status and the sting in its tail. That was my cross to bear, not Martin’s, until now. People want to know the famous person yet it is only to corroborate their own imaginary image, their perception of themselves. Poor Martin. He doesn’t know how dangerous it is. He doesn’t know how many fans would like to bring their idol down. Good old friends and family who know your flaws provide the checks and balances and are the answer to fame. Not the agents or the herds of emotional sponges who gather like vampires and suck the marrow out till nothing is left and even the bones are consumed.
9
Suzie
Melbourne
The farm boy in Martin came out when we entered the expansive property in the Wimmera district of Victoria. Dad had driven down with us as well to stay with his brother Adam. Loan had flown back to Vietnam. The two had an arrangement in which she stayed alternative months with Adam and during that time cooked masses of great Vietnamese food kept in containers in the giant freezer. I sampled some of her cooking when we first arrived and I’m hooked forever on Asian food. Martin is easy peasy but generally he’s a meat and potatoes man.
I still can see the look on Martin’s face after he asked Adam how big the property was.
Forever the laconic Aussie, even more so than Dad, who is usually 180 degrees, Adam replied, first taking off his usually fixed bucket hat and scratching the back of his head. ‘Ten thousand acres.’
I held Martin’s right arm because I thought he’d faint.
‘Holy mother of God,’ he breathed and just shook his head.
I helped him through his wonderment. ‘This is dr
y land. He needs that much for a big broad-acre crop. Wheat, barley, oats, lots of canola and some lucerne as well. And a lot of sheep in the back paddock.’
The dogs barked and ran out when they heard the giant tractor start up. Adam opened the door and in they jumped with wagging tails. I remembered Grandad when they all went with him throughout the day, killing any snakes which were about.
I turned to Dad. He knew I’d ask about Ted, his great Labrador.
Dad pointed. ‘Up on that hill.’
I brought Martin into the conversation as well. ‘Martin, do you remember when Dad sent photos of Ted? He said Ted followed me home but I heard a different story of how Dad came to have him. Ted went to live on the farm later as Dad was away a lot. He was a great mate.’
Adam joined in singing the praises of Ted the Lab. However, Dad made no further comment about how he acquired Ted.
Adam spoke. ‘Well, jump in, young fella.’
Martin obeyed and off they went all day.
I heard the noise of the tractor coming back around five o’clock and saw the dogs jumping about in the cabin. My man was driving. He jumped down with a wonderful look on his face and hugged me. I brushed his shoulder and stared at him. He had a look which I had not seen before.
He patted the wheel of the machine. ‘Thanks so much, Adam. Never been on one this big before. Hell, mate, air-conditioned cabin listening to Suzie’s CDs and nursing the dogs all day.’ Martin loves dogs as much as my family does. He shook Adam’s hand.
Then something I had never remembered from the quiet Adam: Adam hugged him and said, ‘Any time, young fella – any time.’