Smithy's Cupboard

By Ray Clift

Smithy's cupboard has always been his refuge despite its different locations and uses. It serves him well in his childhood days on the Wimmera area broad-acre farm in Victoria where he was born and grew up. He plays with his toy soldiers inside the secret place. As he grows to observe wild life and later hunt game, he makes hides. His career in the army leads him to join the SAS as one of Australia's top snipers. His clever use of hides and secret areas makes him well known and respected, and he is drawn deeply into CIA operations. A family tragedy changes his outlook and leads him into a crime of vengeance. He uses various means to assist him in his own personal therapy and he frequently seeks the confessional, yet perdition ticks away inside his mind like a noisy metronome

• Language: English
• Publisher: DoctorZed Publishing
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780992555320

Ray Clift

Ray Clift lives in Adelaide with his wife Ann, who is an avid reader and a great cook. Between them they have several grandchildren. He writes, walks and sometimes talks to God. He uses his gym machine a few times each week. He plants native trees and feeds native birds. His 47 years in law enforcement has filled his head with many scenarios. Amongst those decades were 15 years as a court sheriff in Elizabeth. He managed to squeeze in another 15 years with the Reserve forces in Army Intelligence and the Military Police. Retirement saw him with a writers' group, which enabled 16 novellas which have been published with Ginninderra Press. His books are available in print and ebook editions from Amazon and other online sellers. He can be contacted through the Ginninderra Press website.

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Note

Prologue

Melbourne, Australia, 2005

Smithy climbed the few stairs, passing by old Ted the black Labrador, deaf and happy with his frequent naps and snores. He straightened his front legs, stretching and wagging his tail slightly, yet would not respond to the urgings of his master to climb the stairs. He sat with his chin resting on his front paws, his eyes were wide open, unblinking and starey with a look of fear on his features.

‘You’ve seen things a dog shouldn’t see – haven’t you, mate?’

Ted whimpered in reply.

Smithy saw the moonlight with its cascade flittering down the curtains which were hand-made by Joan many years ago. The pleats still hung firm and straight along with the hems all proudly sewn in a time when happiness and adventure held pride of place in their lives.

He looked at Ted before entering the master bedroom. ‘I wish you’d met her, Ted.’

The dog groaned in response as if he had picked up the vibration of his master’s voice, yet he still refused to look up.

Smithy stood in front of the mirrored robes and gazed at the figure which sent a message to him of long ago when he was an SAS trooper in the Australian Army. The mirror replied without any sound being heard, ‘Slack soldier,’ and the reflection spoke back, ‘I agree.’

The neighbours would have heard the vigorous teeth-brushing ritual with the tap being turned on and off: the ceaseless water hammer replying each time until the ritual was finished. David Alexander Smith hated wasting water. Gargling sounds would have also been heard and clocks would have been set at 1800 hours by the folk next door – signifying the nightly news was about to commence. He wiped his face on the unwashed lavender hue hand towel which was kept inside Joan’s glory box and brought out after the wedding in 1969. He gazed at the towel and knew she would have hated his neglect of her treasured gift.

The 1800 news held no interest for Dave. He entered the robes and tossed his clothes on top of the expanding pile of crumpled food-stained articles, discarded, ignored and hovering parallel with the plimsoll line. He squatted in the small space which he had cleared, enabling his slender hindquarters to fit comfortably just like he did when he made hides in South Vietnam. He found a comfort within his space in the wardrobe and he was able to dwell on the musty smells, some having a residue of camphor flakes. Those odours revealed evocative moments of long ago when he was vigorous and buoyant.

His frozen smile remained when he remembered how they jived together and the dance hall clapped

Edward Smith, usually called Ted (Smithy named his dog Ted in honour of the patriarch of the family), would never have gone off the rails like his son. Smithy knew his father had a life which was preordained. It was as if a parchment had fallen from great heights without damage, with a mission inscribed.

The parchment had acquired creases with age, built up red dust from the Mallee farming country. Some microdots of spillage might have faded the parchment rules yet the mission remained intact like an unmovable granite boulder.

Edward walked out each day at the same time and mounted the giant tractor with his two dogs already in the cabin, tails wagging and yelping in excitement. He was armed with sandwiches lovingly made the night before by his wife Maud. Beef and pickles one day, cheese and chutney the next. An apple munched later to clean his teeth and great swigs from his screw-top bottle of black tea, no sugar, no milk. Off they would roam all day over the vast broad acres of wheat, barley and oats She would welcome him home at dusk and the family ate together. Sleep would prevail after he counted the stars blinking through the skylight, shining the bedroom. What wonderful times, he mused

There came a time after Maud died when he missed the years of stability. However, Ted still worked the land with Smithy’s brother Adam. Smithy loved to reflect on those times.

He thought about the walking frame they bought for Ted. It slowed his pace and his injuries from his time as an army engineer in World War II did not help. Although it made him appear brittle, the power in the man was obvious. When he spoke anywhere about anything, people stopped and listened, as if Moses had returned with an addendum.

‘What would he think of me now?’ Dave grimaced, thinking of the enemies he had killed in battle from his hidden spots.

The killing outside of the military caused him some nightmares, however, and he struggled putting the thoughts aside in the way he usually did – in separate folders, as if his mind was a computer.

He rose to his feet and threw a yellowed robe with his initials emblazoned in bold green and walked to the mirror.

‘Am I searching for my real self? There’s a double marching alongside me. Is it taking over?’ And those thoughts flooded his dreams in the cupboard, the lounge and the bed. ‘Will I be forgiven?’ was a thought which remained in focus during waking hours and in sleep.

1

Smithy

I was born in 1947. The war had ended and the broad-acre family