She Walks the Line

by Ray Clift

  Suzie waited for Martin to speak again. She knew that he had found the truth.

  He agreed. ‘Bloody hell, all those years. If he’d told someone, they would’ve shoved him back into some paperwork job.’

  ‘Maybe his ego couldn’t stand the thought. He bragged a lot when he was with Joan. Showed us his Purple Heart as well.’

  Martin swung round with anger welling up in his face. ‘You didn’t tell me that, Suzie.’

  Suzie saw that he was owed an explanation. ‘It wasn’t of any consequence to me. He didn’t mention you so I didn’t mention him. Look, Martin, it’s all over. That’s the end of it.’

  Which they both believed.

  Bill the bomb maker sat in his cell and could hardly suppress his laughter when he heard about the explosion which all went wrong and blew Victor Byron Marshall, instead of the intended victims, Martin MacRae and Suzie Marshall, into little burnt bits. Bill sat musing on how Victor thought he could have it all. The drug ring inside and outside the prison. He imagined the thoughts of the bomber when he pushed the wrong wires together. The gleaming red eyes and the broken teeth. He thought he could go round as a cop standing over people and bashing women, women who were sick or without support. There had been a succession of them to judge from the way he used to brag. And he also bragged that he’d drowned his father and his two dogs. Bill didn’t much care for fathers but he did for dogs. Dogs loved him and he loved his sister dearly. His beloved older sister. The great musician in Suzie’s band. The great writer who sang like Joan Baez. The great sister who had signed over one of her houses for her younger brother when he got out of gaol. The great lady who had been bashed senseless by Victor. The great lady who died of breast cancer and maybe of the stress caused by the mongrel Victor.

  ‘Rest in peace, Joan. And you, Victor: rest in pieces, as we used to say in the engineers till I was caught peddling the weed. I promise, dear Joan, to go straight from now on.’

  14

  Suzie

  2024

  I woke from my long sleep and looked at my bedside clock and realised I’d slept for twelve hours. The dream needed to be analysed but that was for later.

  Now it was the other ritual, which was the church, and a prayer and maybe a talk with Martin’s spirit. Not that he had much to say. It was just a smile, a nod and whispers which I could not decipher. The ritual was a comfort after his massive brain tumour took hold with the sudden vomits. The anger. The sparks appearing in the corner of his eyes. The loss of his freedom with the car licence and worst of all the motorised chair which propelled him around for a while. Was it all the high drama which finally undid the happy vigorous man? However, the priest had no answer.

  The usual military funeral on a cold bleak December day just before Christmas 2022 and just past his Capricorn birthday. They fired the customary shots, said many words, gave me a flag and we watched when what was left of his mortal remains sank in the earth.

  The end of his seventy-two-year reign. I thought my grieving was almost gone because I had mourned, was bitter, was in denial, ranting, raving, kicking chairs about when he was sitting with the morphine pump on his chest. He wished to die in the last stages and I agreed with him. If there had been a firearm in the house he would have taken his head off.

  Once the ritual was done, I made my way to the Two Dogs bar and had a few beers with friends, who all said how much they missed him and what a shame it was, and (in the next breath) asked, ‘Are you still singing?’ just like they were putting up a closure to their own mortality. So it goes. I stayed away for a while till they recovered from Martin’s death.

  Dad was ill before the tumour came on Martin and I lost him in 2020 from a sudden heart attack. It was the very last trip back to Australia for the both of us. A repeat performance with Martin two years later. And how I missed Dad and his wisdom. But he’s gone and that is that, so I’m told. I must get on with my life. What’s left of it.

  Perhaps I was thinking about the deaths of my two men and perhaps it sparked the evocative dream which I recall so vividly I can still see the very bright colours of the spectrum. But there’s more. I was like an observer just watching in my Australia. And there they were, Dave and Joan my mum, having a good old Q and A.

  But they must have seen me in the dream because Joan said, ‘Did you see that look, Dave? Just like yours, squinting eyes and scratching the top of her head? OK, what? She’s planning something. Another cupboard somewhere to sit and talk to us.’

  Then Dad spoke. ‘Perhaps that’s a good thing, Joan.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me the whole truth, though, Dave, from your cupboard.’

  Dad spoke. ‘I know, but it seemed to be the right thing to do then.’

  ‘Got you into gaol, though, didn’t it? Got you raped in gaol as well.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t bring that up, Joan.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I think she’s going to do. She’s going to clear the pantry and sit there. Maybe writing music, I hope.’

  I thought about what she said in the dream and cleared the pantry. There were smells of camphor left over from Mum and surprisingly some Metsal cream which must have travelled back from Oz when I took some of Dad’s shoes. He had a small foot and his joggers fitted me.

  A lectern and two stools were soon in place inside the large pantry. My guitar and music and Martin’s harmonica sat on the other stool. It occurred to me he might come back one night and play it. Well, it happened. He came back another night. It wasn’t music but garlic, which he munched right through his illness. The garlic smell came into my senses when I put on Dad’s shoes and started walking again. Martin was with me but I didn’t look around. He was with me in the Two Dogs bar with his garlic smell about but George the barman didn’t say anything. George looked at me, though, when I spoke to the open space.

  ‘Have you seen your parents, Martin?’ I smiled as well and thought that George would think I’ve lost it, but I knew I’d get a positive answer because that’s Martin – always in the affirmative. And I listened with interest to what he said.

  ‘Sometimes, though they’re not together now, but I speak to your mum Joan at times. She’s a good sort. Gives me lots of advice. Like how to watch over you.’

  I turned round on the stool and I thought I’d speak to George. His eyes were stary.

  ‘How’s the wife, George?’ (knowing she had cancer).

  ‘Good days, bad days. Bad days getting to beat the good ones.’ He paused and said, ‘Jeez, I miss him and your songs, Suzie.’ He would not have known that Martin was with me on the other bar stool.

  15

  Washington DC

  2025

  In the three-bedroom flat, the large man wearing the balaclava lay dead with his head twisted at an awkward angle. The owner of the flat, Suzie Smith, was busy at her fridge cutting up small goods and glanced furtively at the detectives.

  The detectives already had a statement from the neighbour who raised the first alarm and advised them, ‘Not much use trying to get anything from her. She’s gone gaga.’

  They realised the truth of the statement when Suzie disrobed and stood naked, urging them to sing with her the US national anthem. They looked inside the freezer and saw row upon row of frozen shoes and knew it was useless to interview her.

  The ambulance came and took her away while she smiled and waved at the police officers, who gazed own at the body, a man they recognised as Mark Marshall, recently released from the federal prison. They assumed a lot and saw a lot but were stuck for a motive as the owner, obviously a martial arts expert, judging from all the belts found in the flat, had broken his neck. He had certainly been an intruder and the case was closed.

  ‘Stiff shit for him,’ said the CSI man named Johnathon.

  And Stan the detective agreed, hoping, after gaping at the well built naked woman, that his erection would soon subside.

  They were not aware that she had lured Marshall there with a form of entrapment after he stalked
her. It was payback time after all the hurts she had suffered but first she had to put on a convincing act of having dementia. The time would come later for her to pretend to be better for release

  Nine months later

  Suzie was on her walk back to the flat reflecting on the demise of Mark Marshall. She spoke to a spirit who claimed to be her double. For the sake of simplicity she called the spirit Number Two. However, Suzie was not in total agreement with the advice offered by Number Two. When the intruder broke in nine months ago, however, it was the only plan available and she always had confidence in Plan A.

  Suzie received some advice which she acted on regarding Mark Marshall. It was in-the-moment speech with the intruder.

  ‘Number One calling. I hear footsteps outside.’

  ‘Yes, Number One, this is Number Two speaking. Listen for the sound of broken glass right now.’

  ‘Number One calling. I hear it right now. He’s here.’

  ‘Watch out, Number One. He’s wearing a balaclava. Go into attack mode now.’

  ‘Number One calling. What do I do again?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Number One, kick him in the balls. When he falls, rabbit chop his neck, OK.’

  ‘Number One calling. It’s done. What now, Number Two?’

  ‘Break his bloody neck. You’re trained do it. Now, Number One.’

  ‘I heard the click. It’s done, Number Two. What now?’

  ‘Number One to Number Two: I run next door and go into my gaga act like we agreed. They’ll call the cops. Is that right, Number Two?’

  Number Two did not answer.

  ‘Number One calling again. Yes, it’s done. I hear the sirens coming, Number Two.’

  ‘OK. Your last message was broken. When the cops come, make sure your boots are in the fridge and don’t forget, Number One, to put on the tape of the national anthem and drop your robe. You’re to be naked, remember, and get the cops to sing along with you. Conduct the choir with the tongs. That will nail it. You’ll go to a funny farm but only for nine months. It’ll all have blown over by then and you’ll be able to go back home. Got that OK, Number One?’

  ‘Yes, Number Two. Should I talk to you in the home?’

  ‘Number Two calling. Not actually recommended, with all the trick cyclists poking and prodding. OK, Number One?’

  Suzie took the advice and thought about a lot in the home until she was released.

  ‘Number Two, this is Number One calling after a nine-month break. I have some reservations about all of this, actually. I think I’m coming unglued. What do you think, Number Two?’

  ‘Number One, that’s bullshit and you know it. Let’s go home and have a drink. You’re out and in the clear. Stop worrying.’

  Suzie set two glasses of white wine out. Number Two’s glass had not been raised.

  ‘Number Two, please respond. You haven’t drunk yours.’

  There was total silence.

  Suzie woke up during the night and saw that Number Two’s glass was still untouched. She knew then what she had to do. She dialled the number of a therapist she knew. He was James Morris, the retired federal consultant, who was a friend of Martin.

  ‘James, I need help,’ and then, as an afterthought, she dialled Johnno’s number.

  Detective Stan Harris sat in the cheaper coffee shop close to the station because he was scraping every dollar together since his pretty model wife, the Golden Goddess, had left. When she was naked she stood like a marble statue, even a blue heron, while he humped away without much love. It was always the knee trembler because she hated getting her hair in a mess by lying down. He figured she was after more gold than he could supply so he let her go.

  The naked figure of Suzie Smith standing there nine months ago with the dead intruder and singing the national anthem urging them to sing along and conducting with two barbecue tongs was not only funny but sexy. He felt the rising in his loins whenever he thought about her. But she’d been sent to the funny farm.

  ‘Hey, Stan, it’s me, Johnno.’

  ‘How’s the new job, Johnno?’

  Johnno came over and pulled out his wallet, which bulged with money. ‘Good. Lots more money. Private is the way to go.’

  Stan remembered the last job at the flat before Johnno left and also the great body of the fifty-five-year-old naked Suzie once again. She was haunting his dreams.

  ‘Hey, Stan, remember Suzie Smith who killed the intruder in her flat?’

  ‘How could I forget? Naked and all of us singing the national anthem. In the funny farm.’ Stan wondered how strange it was when he was just thinking about the gorgeous woman and his erection was still rising under the table, hopefully out of sight of nosey Johnno.

  ‘Nup, she’s out. I forgot to tell you before. She rabbit punched him. She kicked him in the nuts and the rabbit punch followed afterwards.’

  Stan sat up with a question. ‘So how did you catch up with her, Johnno?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Stan, she was sitting on a stool in Two Dogs bar and I hear a voice. “Hi, Johnno,” she says. “Still breaking necks, Suzie?” I says. “Only my Dad and Martin called me Suzie, God rest them,” she says. “How’s the dementia?” I says. “What dementia?” she says.’

  Stan thought for a while and then the penny dropped. And he stroked his chin beard and started to giggle about how clever she had been. ‘Well, I call that justice, mate. How often do we see that now? Christ, what a woman. So she planned it all. I remember there were reports of a man stalking her.’

  ‘There’s more. She’s back on stage back on her country and western gigs. In fact, she gave me two tickets for Saturday.’

  ‘Shit, can you get me one?’

  ‘Piss off, Stan.’

  The author can be contacted at rayannclift@bigpond.com. He is also on Facebook and has a blog – http://www.raysbooks.blogspot.com