Gary looked surprised and annoyed. He didn’t want his boss closeted with a press jackal. Anything could happen. But the PM looked determined and Gary nodded. "OK."
"Thank you. We won’t be long."
As Holden left the room, Martin looked at me keenly. "I want this chat to be off the record."
"Sure."
He looked down at my still-spooling tape recorder, as if it was an explosive device. "Then turn that off."
I complied.
He leaned forward and stared hard, hands dancing on his knees. "Umm, I understand you knew Yvonne Clarke, the woman who was murdered."
I was right: the interview was just a pretext.
Something caught in my throat. "Yes, I did. Did you?"
My question took him aback. He obviously hadn’t expected to be interrogated.
He said: "Yes. Umm, I mean, I met her a few times around Parliament House." He leaned close. His face went grey and voice dropped. "But I had no idea - no idea at all - that Graham would kill her. None at all. I hope you understand that."
"You mean, you sent Graham to recover the DVD from Joanna Parker, and didn’t realise he might get rough if she didn’t hand over?"
"Umm, yes. That’s right."
"Then you’re staggeringly naïve."
"Maybe so, but I didn't want him to kill those women. I didn't."
"Yet, even if I accept that - and I don’t - you can’t deny what was on the DVD. It shows you’re a crook and a cokehead. You’re not fit to be the Prime Minister of this country."
He hunched his shoulders and whispered: "I’m not perfect."
"You’re a fucking long way from that."
Now he looked annoyed. "Maybe. But I don’t want to talk about my flaws. I arranged this interview so I could tell you that, if you keep quiet about what happened, you’ll be well looked after - very well looked after. Understand?"
In other words, if I kept my mouth shut, his office would feed me good stories: I’d be put on the "A" drip. And if I didn’t keep quiet? Would I end up in a hearse?
However, the PM didn’t need to bribe or threaten me. I had no evidence that connected him with the murders of Yvonne Clarke or Joanna Parker, or proved he was a crook and a drug-taker.
Maybe I should have pretended that I did, and accepted his very tempting offer. But just being near him made me feel unclean. To my surprise, I developed a conscience: "You don’t need to bribe me, because I’ve got no proof against you. And even if I did, I wouldn’t take anything from you. You know why? Because you make my skin crawl." I picked up my tape recorder. "Now, is that all? I want to get out of here before I’m sick."
A big scowl. "Then go."
I headed towards the door. Halfway there I turned back towards him. "You’ve finally made it to the top. Was it all worth it?"
He just stared at me and I never got an answer. But I’m sure that, as far as he was concerned, it was worth every drop of blood that other people had shed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After a month of high excitement, I was deeply depressed, because I snared a huge story - big enough to bring down the Government - and didn’t get to publish it under my by-line. True, I fingered Barry Graham for the murder of Yvonne Clarke. But I got no credit.
My depression grew even worse, a week later, when I arrived at the bureau one morning and found Michael already sitting at his desk, typing on his computer. The fact that he’d got to work early, and was already typing, made me suspicious. Something was up.
I said: "What’re you doing here?"
He looked unusually excited. "I’ve got it. I’ve got it."
"Got what?"
"A scoop. A huge scoop."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"You know, yesterday, I was really busy?"
On reflection, I didn't see much of him, and regarded that as a blessing, not a mystery. "Yes."
"I was chasing this story."
"The scoop?"
"Yes. The scoop."
Was it really possible he’d scored a huge scoop? I felt a flicker of concern, then reassured myself he couldn’t possibly have bagged one. He was still the only person around Parliament House who didn’t know why I got kicked off the Age. He wouldn’t know a big story if he fell over it.
I leaned back against my desk and crossed my arms. "What scoop?"
"It’s about Dr McCloud."
"The Minister for Employment?"
"Yes."
"OK. What about him?"
"It seems that when he was a lecturer, at the University of Tasmania, he spent a lot of time shagging his students. Now two of them have come forward and accused him of rape."
The dour and deeply religious Percival McCloud did not seem like a rapist. Then again, who did? Indeed, on reflection, a taboo-ridden bastard like him was probably a prime candidate.
"You’re kidding?"
"No. The police have interviewed both women and they’re about to charge him."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
I stood up straight. Jesus. If Michael’s story was true, it was obviously a huge scoop, particularly for a Tasmanian paper like ours. But surely it wasn’t. How could Michael have got this story when I - and the rest of the Press Gallery - hadn’t? Impossible.
I said: "How do you know this?"
"Because I’ve talked to the cop leading the investigation. I spoke to him yesterday, on the phone. It was off the record, of course. But I taped our conversation and you can listen to it, if you want." He picked up a tape recorder. "I got it to work this time. You want to hear it?"
"How did you get this story? I mean, how did you find out about the investigation? Why’d the cop talk to you?"
Michael looked a touch - just a touch - embarrassed. "Ah, I had a contact."
"Who?"
"My Dad."
Now it all made sense. Michael’s dad, a big shot on the Apple Isle, must have got early word of the police investigation. And when he did, he dropped the story into junior’s lap.
Michael had often boasted that he’d get a big scoop, and now the self-satisfied boobie had honoured that pledge.
God, life sucked. I’d recently worked my arse off and risked my life to get a huge scoop, only to have it taken away from me. This guy, who’d spent his whole career in Canberra parked in the shade and had the sort of stupidity that loses empires, got handed one on a platter. Shit a brick.
I’m a keen student of the ironic and absurd. I can usually laugh at the perversity of fate. But his scoop was much too close for comfort.
I smiled wanly. "Congratulations. Have you written the story yet?"
"I’ve almost finished."
"OK then. You’d better let me read it, and I’ll listen to the tape as well."
"No problem. Incredible huh?"
"Yes. Incredible."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The next morning, Michael’s story dominated the front page of the Launceston Herald. Under his by-line a huge slug said "Exclusive".
That afternoon, Dr No was arrested, taken to the Hobart Police Centre and charged with rape. A few hours later, he issued a press release that proclaimed his innocence, but revealed that he’d resigned from Cabinet to focus on clearing his name - which, of course, he never did. As often happens in these situations, lots of other complainants came forward to say what a dirty beast he’d been.
After his big scoop, Michael, to his credit, didn’t gloat or show me any less respect. However, because I'm a petty man, I just wanted to strangle him.
His scoop made me even more desperate to win the job vacancy for senior political reporter on the Sydney News.
A few days later, I flew up to Sydney and was interviewed by the managing editor. Fortunately, he didn’t know I wrote a story predicting Vincent Martin would withdraw from the leadership contest or was kicked off the Age for sleeping with my bureau chief’s wife. Nor did I enlighten him.
The interview went well and Alan Casey strongly recommended
me. So I wasn’t surprised when, a few days later, the managing editor called and offered me the job. I grabbed it.
I like to think I’m a good reporter: calm under pressure, good at developing contacts and capable - on the rare occasions it’s necessary - of writing well. But I didn’t cover myself with glory on the Launceston Herald. Yet that didn’t matter, because Alan recommended me. In life, connections are everything.
I’d walked out of a dark tunnel into blinking sunlight. The new job was much higher on the Gallery pecking order. I’d also get a lot more money, better access to politicians and - let me repeat - a lot more money. My new boss would probably be a surly bastard, just like Dirk Tucker. But at least he’d be new. I needed a change.
I phoned Tucker and enjoyed telling him I was moving on, then twisted the knife. "I’ll tell you what: pay me another $50,000 a year and I’ll stay."
"Christ, is that how much extra you’ll get?"
The true figure was $20,000, but I loved feeding his envy. "Yeah. Will you match it?"
"Forget it," he snapped. "In fact, I’m glad you’re going. You’ve never been happy working for this paper: thought it was beneath you, didn’t you? You’ve also been a bloody expensive luxury. Wire copy’s a lot cheaper. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Michael, I probably would have given you the boot long ago."
"What do you mean?"
"The little bastard kept telling his dad what a wonderful guy you are. He obviously thinks the sun shines out of your arse. I couldn’t sack you."
Michael almost drove me mad. His faults ranged from missing good stories to making lousy coffee. Working with him was like putting on a bad sock every morning. He also committed the heinous crime of snaring - without effort - the biggest scoop of the year. Still, he obviously did me a big favour when he praised me to his dad. I really owed him for that.
I said: "So you won’t replace me?"
"Probably not. Michael will have to hold the fort."
Because of my new affection for Michael, I didn’t want to see him overburdened with responsibility. "You sure that’s a good idea?"
Tucker sighed: "He should cope. I mean, he did snag the McCloud story."
"That was a fluke. His Dad gave it to him."
"Maybe. I sure as hell don’t want him back here."
"Seriously, I don't think he's up to running this bureau."
"So what?"
Yeah, so what? The Herald ran few political stories anyway. "Matter for you."
"Yes."
I hung up.
When Michael slouched back into the bureau from doing God knows what, I told him I’d resigned and taken a job on the Sydney News.
He looked surprised. "Shit. I mean, congrats. But who’s going to run the bureau when you’re gone?"
"Looks like you. You’ve ridden the pine long enough. Time to be the big dog."
He responded to my pep-talk with a shrug. "I don't want to be the big dog. In fact I don't want to be a journalist any more. I've got my scoop. Time to do something else."
"Like what?"
He smiled. "Dad wants me to go back to Tasmania and work as his assistant, to learn more about the business. I reckon this is a good time to go."
At the first hint of responsibility, he was going to cut and run. I couldn’t blame him. Because his Dad owned the paper, he had a golden parachute strapped to his back. Why not use it?
The next morning, he announced that he was heading home to work with his father and would be gone by the end of the week.
Dirk Tucker said that neither of us would be replaced.
Thus it came to pass that I was the first and last national political correspondent of the Launceston Herald. History quickly swept over that fact and moved on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My ex-wife, Jane, caught my daughter, Rebecca, holding hands with her little pal, Angus. They were obviously getting serious, so I insisted that Rebecca invite him to join us when we went horse-riding one weekend.
Angus looked like a pint-sized gangsta, complete with crew-cut, nose-ring, earrings and baggy pants, into which he’d probably piss if he met a real homeboy. His hands never left his pockets and he said "cool" so often I wanted to punch him. Like most teenage boys, he obviously had an under-developed brain and over-developed balls, neither of which had any future if he hurt my little girl. I was polite and affable with him, while also making it clear this was a game of death.
However, I soon realised Rebecca had him wrapped around her little finger. He followed her around like a lost puppy. I soon felt sorry for him. He was doomed.
On the drive back from horse riding, Rebecca leaned over the front seat. "Dad?"
Yeah."
"I’ve been thinking about what I should do when I grow up."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I want to be a vet."
This was about the tenth major career decision she’d made, so I took it with a grain of salt. How could a girl who spent a week mourning the death of her budgerigar put down other people’s pets?
I said: "Mmm. That’s a good idea."
"Yeah. I don’t want to be a journalist. I mean, I hope you don’t mind."
I smiled. "I don’t mind at all. I don’t care what you do, as long as you look after me in my old age."
She frowned. "Will that be expensive?"
"Depends on whether you wipe my chin and bottom yourself or employ top quality carers."
She frowned. Obviously neither option appealed. "That doesn’t sound fair."
"It’s not fair, it’s life."
"I’ll do my best," she said without conviction.
Angus leaned forward and uttered his longest sentence to date. "Yeah, but I want to be a reporter."
"Why?"
"Because it’s not like a real job, is it? I mean, all you gotta to do is talk to people. Then you just write what they say. Sounds real easy."
I wanted to grab his nose-ring and make blood spurt. "It isn’t always easy. It can be very difficult."
He looked doubtful. "Yeah, right."
Anne had asked me to do some shopping on the way home. We stopped at a supermarket in Civic. I commandeered a trolley and prowled the aisle, with Rebecca and Angus trailing behind.
I’d almost finished when I turned a corner and almost hit a heavily-laden trolley. I looked up, innocently. It was being pushed by Andrew Reston’s bald accomplice: the spook who threatened me with a gun and probably faked Barry Graham’s suicide. Shit. He looked less intimidating behind a supermarket trolley, though not much less. Could he use it to kill? My heart rioted inside my chest.
He recovered a lot faster than me. "Hi."
"Hi," I gasped.
He smiled coolly, obviously enjoying my discomfort. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Umm, yeah."
"How are you?"
"Fine. Fine."
"Good. Good." He grinned. "I’m looking for the dairy section. Know where I can find it?"
The dairy section? Was he kidding? My brain was a mess. I shook my head. "Ah, no, don’t."
He shrugged. "Too bad. Thanks anyway. See you around."
As he cruised past, I saw he was fond of TV dinners and bought his toilet paper in bulk.
See you around. What the hell did he mean? Just a throw-away line? Or more sinister?
Rebecca watched him disappear. "Dad, who was that?"
My heart kept thudding. "What?"
"Who was the man you just talked to?"
"What man?"
"The man you just talked to." She spaced her words, as if talking to an idiot.
"Oh, him? I don’t know him."
"What do you mean? You just talked to each other."
"Really?"
"Yeah, dad, what’s going on?" She wasn’t dumb.
I desperately pulled myself together. "Oh, I met him when I was doing a story. Now I don’t want anything to do with him."
"Why not?"
"I can’t tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because you wouldn’t understand. You just wouldn’t."
Her face blazed with innocence. "Jeez Dad, sometimes you act real weird, you know? Real weird. And what happened to the story you were doing?"
"Nothing. Didn’t get published."
"Why not?"
"Because it was too big to get published."
"I don’t understand?"
"Nor do I, so let’s leave it at that." I sighed and looked down at the trolley. "We got everything we need?"
"Yeah, think so."
"Good. Then let’s get out of here."
Fortunately, there was no queue at the check-out counter and we got out without running into baldy again.
That night, I dreamed that I was back in that same supermarket, after hours, stacking boxes on the shelves. I stacked them for hour after hour, like a robot.
The next morning, I woke and realised I had no idea what the dream was about. That was not surprising, because I was a journo, not a shrink.
THE END
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