Paranoia is the dominant emotion in most political offices at the best of times. Who is coming after us today? Media? The Opposition? Some ambitious backbencher looking for a Cabinet post? When you combine the paranoia with bad numbers then it can all go bad, and quickly. The bunker mentality sets in. You start combing the paper looking at the stories with ‘unnamed sources’ and trying to figure out who is shafting you. Everything is seen through the prism of the poll. You try everything to pull yourself out of the slump. Policies that were thrown away because they were too expensive are wheeled out; you suck up to journos you can’t stand; you start saying yes to all those interviews you had been turning down. The only thing that stops this long, slow descent into madness is another poll that shows your numbers are on the mend. Then life is peachy again. You can go back to pretending you have everything under control.
It’s the last week of the campaign and we hear the paper is about to release a poll on one of our inner-city seats. We hold it reasonably comfortably, by five per cent or so, and with the predicted swing towards us we are expecting the gap to widen significantly after election day. The other lot has a celebrity candidate, a former state, and fringe national, cricketer who has styled himself as being intellectually a cut above the typical sporting type. I had interviewed him in my days at the paper but found his claim to intellectual greatness as tenuous at best. My suspicions were raised when he tried to use a Crime and Punishment metaphor to describe being dropped, again, by the national team, but had attributed the classic to Dickens. I suppose I should have been impressed he had heard of the book but it made me think he was trying a little too hard to convince not only me of his stimulating intellect, but himself as well. I left the interview with the firm impression that he was only bright if you compared him to the other cricketers he spent most of his time with. And when the other lot picked him to run against our long-time, much-loved local MP, I was less than worried.
Not for the first time, it turned out I wasn’t the political genius I thought or, to be more honest, hoped I was. The bad news is delivered, just as it usually is these days, through the magic of my government-sponsored iPhone.
I am tossing and turning, trying to sleep, half distracted and unable to clear my mind of the collected detritus of the campaign. There is less than a week to go and no matter how often people tell us we are a shoe-in and to stop worrying, that’s just not possible. Especially with the Cavendish situation still hanging over my head. And that voice of doubt telling me: You could be unemployed next week. Then what are going to do, smartarse? It’s a fair question. The national paper rarely takes back refugees who have strayed over to the ‘dark side’. And though I had tried to look after those at the local paper whenever I could, perhaps with the ulterior motive that one day I may need them again, I wouldn’t want to rely on their generosity.
Television and radio are more about ego than journalism and hold no appeal. And then there is the world of PR—perhaps the worst of all possible worlds. I know, I know. What I am doing now is essentially glorified public relations, without the glory obviously. But at least I am working for a cause. For the most part I believe in this government and what we are trying to do. I have had friends, old journos, who have jumped into PR. Some have excelled, others have hated it. And there’s Cavendish and those like him. I am convinced all of them, if they could, would jump back into a newsroom in a second, amid the madness and dysfunction, the chaos and creativity, trying to find out first and best what is going on around them.
All these thoughts are whooshing through my brain. So I wake, still tired, vaguely nauseous, feeling as though I have made my way through the best part of a decent bottle of red when in reality I haven’t touched a drop in two whole days. There is something deeply unfair about waking up feeling you have a hangover when you’ve not had a drink. It’s like jailing a man for a crime he didn’t commit. My mood is not improved when I swipe the phone, load up the web page of the paper and find the headline: ‘Election back on—new poll says it’s 50–50’.
I sit in the dark of a kitchen lit only from the phone I’m still staring at, as I try to comprehend the information in front of me. It’s the poll we’ve been waiting for. The one we didn’t think would be a problem. Turns out we were wrong. The pull of the half-smart sportsman, one of the state’s favourite sons, is greater than we thought. It’s true he’s been in the public eye a long time but we thought people would see through the cynicism of dumping him into a seat with which he has no connection. Apparently not. The reality is most people don’t give politics more than a passing thought. Most of them are rusted on to one of the main parties and don’t need to think about how they’re going to vote. The rest don’t make up their minds until they have a pencil in hand and are pressed up against a cardboard voting box.
The prick to my balloon has been delivered by a poll of 500 of our finest citizens in the seat of McIntosh. In the words of the paper the 50–50 result of the poll has delivered ‘a hammer blow to the government’s re-election prospects’ and laid the claim that ‘Jeremy Montague is back in the race to become premier’.
I read the story and ponder what to do next. It’s still dark outside; my phone tells me it’s not yet six, so it seems pointless to send Sloan a message. Instead, I get showered and dressed in a hurry and head into the office. Most mornings when I arrive the mood is bright and breezy, of staff determined to work hard and work well. This morning it’s funereal. This is a worry. As far as I can tell we are still favourites to win. I start to worry we’re a glass-jaw outfit. Oh, we like to dish it out, but when we get a little back we crumble.
A bigger worry is how Sloan will react. He possesses the biggest glass jaw in government. I text him, hoping it informs him about what is going on without triggering a catastrophic reaction. ‘Interesting poll in paper today. 50–50 in McIntosh. Still think we are looking good but will be a big last week.’ Twenty-two seconds later the summons arrives: ‘Call me now.’ Why he couldn’t have called me I haven’t a clue.
‘Ray, it’s Jack,’ I begin.
‘Yes, mate, what the fuck is going on? How long have you known about this fucking disaster?’
‘Well, only since I picked up the paper this morning. I texted you because I didn’t know if you were up yet.’
‘Your fucking text woke me up. Tell me exactly what it says in the paper.’ So I fill him in.
‘That’s it?’ he says. ‘No statewide numbers? No other seats?’
‘Nope. Just McIntosh. That’s why I don’t think we need to panic. It’s just one seat. It’s probably a rogue poll. You know the paper’s not the most reliable when it comes to these kind of numbers.’
‘Mate,’ he says with deliberate viciousness, ‘if we don’t start panicking we will lose this fucking election.’
I refrain from arguing with him on this clearly ludicrous point, wary of making him that bit more enraged.
‘I’m coming in,’ he announces.
‘What? No. We have it under control. Kurt is here, he can handle it …’ I begin before realising my strategic error.
‘Fuck him and fuck you. There was more political brains in the shit I had before I went to bed last night than in either of you two. I’m coming in, because if I don’t the election will be lost before nine o’clock.’
I give up arguing. Despite myself I’m a little impressed, if not happy, by his scatological metaphor. I must remember to share it with the others.
‘Where’s Gus?’ he demands. Gus is his long-suffering driver.
‘I don’t know. Probably still in bed. He’s supposed to pick you up at eight.’
‘Get him here now,’ he says, before he hangs up.
47
Most of the office has been watching me conduct this conversation. They can tell from my cringing posture and inability to get more than a few words out that I have Ray on the phone. Thompson is standing right in front of me, his mouth moving as he asks questions with no sound. If he thinks I can lip-read and h
andle Ray at the same time he has a higher regard for my abilities than I do.
When I hang up or, to be more accurate, when I am hung up on, Thompson displays even less regard for personal space than he did before moving so close I can see remnants of muesli on his back molars. For a horrible moment I think he is going to kiss me but instead just demands: ‘Was that Ray? What did he say?’
‘He’s coming in,’ I say. That brings the place to a stop.
‘Oh, he’s not is he?’ groans Thompson. Is this due to the general fear Sloan’s presence inspires, or because he’s disappointed he won’t get to pontificate on radio all morning as campaign spokesman? No doubt Ray will elbow him out of the way in his self-appointed role of party saviour and then claim the credit later.
It is time to call in the big guns. I phone Jennifer. ‘Hi, it’s Jack.’
‘Yes,’ she says in that familiar nasal tone with its elongated vowels that make you think she is taking the piss for some reason you haven’t quite got your head around.
‘The poll. I take it you’ve seen it.’
‘Of course.’
‘Look, I’ve just had Ray on the phone—’
‘It’s a bit early for him surely,’ she interrupts.
‘I texted him the numbers and the bloody phone woke him up. Anyway, he’s gone off the deep end. He’s charging about like a charmless goose and is on his way in here to do God knows what. I suspect he’ll be on the phone to every journo and radio show in town trying to spin these numbers somehow.’
‘And you don’t want this because …’
‘He said to me, and I quote: “If we don’t start to panic we will lose this fucking election.” Does that sound like someone you want on morning radio trying to spread the message that the government has everything under control?’
‘You may have a point. What do you want me to do?’
‘I think it would be a better look if we continued as normal. Kurt has been the campaign spokesman so far and done well. If we suddenly send Ray on, it’ll look like we’re panicking. It could be a disaster. Ray won’t listen to me, but he will listen to you. Call him off.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘But for fuck’s sake don’t let on we had this conversation. If he thinks I have gone behind his back my life will be over.’
Three minutes later a text arrives from Ray: ‘Changed my mind. Not coming in.’
I am only delaying the inevitable. At some stage he will arrive, all piss and vinegar, looking for someone to blame for what he will no doubt characterise in suitably apocalyptic terms as the ‘end of days’. Thompson, as I expected, is competent on morning radio. The poll has pushed the media into a state of fevered excitement. You can’t blame them for that. For three weeks it’s been a predictable affair, but now, suddenly, it looks a real contest. Thompson does his best to put a blanket on some of the more excitable elements. His calm demeanour and soft voice is a pleasant contrast to what would have been Sloan’s strident emotional response when Caldicott asks: ‘Does this poll indicate you have got this campaign badly wrong?’
Thompson replies: ‘We have said from the beginning, and if I may say so no one seemed to take us seriously, that this election campaign would go down to the last day, to the last handful of votes and that we were taking nothing for granted. So for us nothing changes with this poll today. We will continue to fight, to lay out our policies and explain them right up until the moment the polls close on Saturday.’
At the 8.30 campaign meeting everyone is feeling better. The original shock had worn off and we are back to concentrating on what we are doing today to sell the message and how we’re going to attack the rest of the week. Frank Boyle wanders in, dark suit, no tie, chatting amiably to Jennifer, pausing to tap Thompson on the shoulder and deliver a quick ‘good job this morning’ before heading to the end of the table to take his seat and kick things off. In front of everyone is the morning summary I have prepared, everyone that is, except Ray.
We have weathered the first storm but there’s more coming down the pipe. The paper will want to follow up their story. Nothing makes a paper, or any media outfit, happier than when they are leading the pack and everyone else is playing catch up. TV will want their crack as well. It’s possible they’re outside at this moment waiting to catch Frank or Ray or someone on their way in, preferably looking harried, worried and angry. I should have checked this before but send a discreet text message to Harry asking him to pop downstairs and see if there are any journos or cameras hanging around. My recommendation to the meeting is that it’s essentially business as usual, an echo of my earlier chat with Jennifer. The way I see it is this story only becomes an issue if we decide to make it one.
About six weeks ago we decided this was to be the day Frank would announce one of the centrepieces of the campaign, a two-kilometre tunnel under the city to ease traffic congestion. This terrifically expensive plan costing around $2 billion would, we hoped, help answer questions about whether we had any vision; whether we are a bold or timid government.
We have told no one our plan, but the press conference is set, the location being roped out as we speak, text messages about to be sent to all the hacks telling them we have a biggie and to be in the city at eleven.
Frank looks at me and says: ‘So, you reckon we should just press on?’
‘I think so. Obviously you’ll be asked about the poll. But fuck it, you’re the Premier who’s going to solve one of this city’s biggest problems. What do you care about a poll in one marginal seat? You have bigger fish to fry. That, essentially, is the message of the day.’
Frank starts to reply, just as Ray bursts into the room. He strides over to Frank and announces: ‘Right, what are we doing? We have to change everything now. You can’t go out there today, they will tear you apart. Bring forward tomorrow’s thing, I’ll do it. I’ll take on those fuckers. You can do the tunnel later in the week.’
In the silence that follows this people may be thinking, Hmm, maybe Ray is right on this one, or Jesus Christ, what a fuckwit. All eyes turn to Frank. He is the only one who can decide what is going to happen next.
‘Ray,’ Frank begins, ‘I reckon we are going to stick with the plan. Let’s not go into panic mode over one poll. Every other bloody poll in this campaign has us well in front. This is probably a rogue number. Our biggest danger is over-reacting to it and suddenly looking like we are under pressure.’
‘But, mate, what if it’s not? What if we have been wrong all along? If we fuck up today, the election could go with it.’ By now Ray’s looking a touch wild-eyed, a little desperate, and standing no more than a metre from Frank who is still in his chair, trying his best to look calm.
‘I know what you are saying, mate,’ Frank continues. ‘But I’ve made up my mind. This is what we’re doing today, sticking with the plan. Anyway, we need to get it out today so we can sell it for the rest of the week.’
Ray is listening to this, clenching and unclenching his fists, rocking ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. Then he mutters, ‘Fine,’ and stalks out of the room, pausing to demand that I leave with him.
I pick up my papers, pens and accumulated rubbish and follow him. As I walk past Frank, he grabs hold of my arm.
‘Jack,’ he says softly, just to me. ‘Don’t let Ray do any media today. Ok?’
‘I’ll try,’ I reply, thinking that if Ray really wants to do something there is no way I can stop him.
48
It’s one of those trips back down in the lift to our floor. Silence, a terrible silence. I don’t know if Ray blames me for what just happened but history would suggest that’s a better than even chance. As the lift door opens, he turns to me and says, with his usual vehemence, ‘Thanks for backing me up in there. They are going to blow this election, you know that don’t you? And when it happens, and you’re unemployed next Monday don’t fucking come anywhere near me looking for sympathy, or worse, a fucking job. You are on your own.’ He storms off.
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br /> A million words crash through my mind. All of them profane. I want to shout that he’s a fucking idiot. That the plan Frank is following is the one I gave him, and it’s the right one. That the best way for this government to commit suicide today is to let him in front of a microphone or a tape recorder. But I don’t.
I slouch into Leo’s office. Harry is there as well. They give me that look of ‘What the fuck just happened?’ I assume that’s because Ray has just stormed past and disappeared into his man cave.
‘Nothing to report,’ I begin. ‘Well, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. In fact it was all quite ordinary. Ray storms into a meeting demanding it’s his way or the highway. The Premier, quite gently I think, slaps him down. Ray takes the huff, storms out, demands I follow him, blames me for the debacle and slams his office door.’
‘Just another day in paradise then?’ Leo says, while Harry rubs his eyes and tilts his head toward the ceiling. I give them the blow-by-blow of what happened upstairs and they agree with my take on it. The poll has unsettled them as well but they agree that letting Ray loose on the airwaves today would be a major strategic error.
‘But what do we do with him now?’ I ask of the dynamic duo. ‘Leave him be for a while,’ says Harry. ‘He’ll probably sulk in there for a few hours. By then we should have a better idea of how this poll will play out and make some sensible decisions from there.’
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