‘What about the tunnel thing?’ I ask. ‘Is he going to that?’
‘Yes, but only as wallpaper as far as I understood it,’ Leo says. ‘He’s not expected to speak or take questions. Just there for the usual government solidarity bullshit and to at least give the impression Ray is happy with spending $2 billion on a hole in the ground.’
‘Great, as long as I’m not the one having to knock on his door to tell him he has to go,’ I say.
‘Oh no,’ says Leo. ‘That’s why we have PAs. Irene can do that.’ None of us ever said we were brave.
As predicted, the sheer scale of our big tunnel announcement knocks everything else out of the way. The poll, which had seemed so catastrophic at 7 am has become an irrelevance by 6 pm when the TV news rolls out. Everyone is focused on the $2 billion we are spending—views for and against, cries of ‘well done’, and the usual shrieking criticism from the left (we’re environmental vandals) and the right (we’re economic vandals).
By 7 pm we are actually in a better position than we had been twelve hours earlier. We have won the day, people are talking about our policies and vision for the future and not the Opposition’s. Even if they don’t agree with it, the underlying narrative remains; we are the party with a plan.
49
The phone call comes at 2 pm on the Wednesday before the election. I am sitting at my desk, an unexpected autumn shower drumming away at the window behind me, and the city lost in the grey gloom. Annabelle Howard’s name appears on my phone.
‘Afternoon, Annabelle,’ I begin, with a tone that tries to avoid hostility but probably comes across as poorly hidden disgust.
‘Jack, let me get straight to the point. I have come across some highly compromising pictures of Ray Sloan.’
‘Yes, Ian Cavendish sent them to you.’
‘I’m certainly not revealing my sources to you, Jack. Anyway, it’s irrelevant where they came from, what is important is what they show,’ she continues.
‘Oh yes, and what is that exactly?’
‘It shows your boss on the boat of the property developer Bruce Fox acting inappropriately with a much younger woman who is not wearing a lot of clothes,’ she says.
So there it was. The moment I had been dreading for months. The point at which the election, Ray’s career, and my job could just slide away. I am still clinging to the hope that the picture Cavendish had sent Howard was not significantly worse than the one he had sent me. That while it would make Ray look like a bit of an old lech, nothing illegal or even immoral was going on.
‘Ok,’ I say to her. ‘What does it show?’
‘Well, there’s Ray. It’s a nice profile shot of him as well. Looking very happy kissing a girl—who I would estimate to be twenty-four or twenty-five—wearing a lovely yellow bikini top and not a lot else,’ she says in a smug tone.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘I don’t know. Anything illegal going on? Ray smoking a giant reefer? Hoovering up a line of blow? Needles hanging out of his arm? Is the woman in question under sedation? Under age? Is she being held captive against her will?’
‘No, but that’s not the point. Sloan is being a sleazeball. Being a sleazeball on a yacht owned by Bruce Fox, a property developer who has given your party significant funds and who currently has a massive land deal before Cabinet. I think any fair-minded observer would say he is being influenced, perhaps even being bought off by Fox to get his deal through,’ she erupts.
‘Fair-minded? I hope you are not including yourself in that representation, Annabelle. A step into fantasy land, even by your standards.’
Winding her up is probably not the best approach in the current situation. But she has her story written. What I have to say isn’t going to change that.
‘So what do you want from us?’ I finally ask.
‘I want to speak to Sloan. I think this will be the end of him, probably this government as well. This will run on page one tomorrow.’
‘I’ve heard that from you before, Annabelle. Didn’t work out last time as I seem to recall.’
‘This time I have you, you fucker. I have spoken to the editor, he has seen the picture, we’re going big on this. You’re fucked, your boss is fucked, your election is fucked.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re keeping an open mind about it in the best spirit of impartial journalism. You going to send me that pic?’
She hangs up. Twenty seconds later my phone pings and the picture arrives.
50
Sloan is in his office and the door is open. I walk in without knocking. Close the door behind me. The boss looks up and knows immediately why I’m there. We meet in the middle of the room and I hand him my phone.
‘Shit,’ he erupts. ‘That’s me. I’m done.’ Ray is much more visible in this photo than in the others Cavendish had sent. At a forty-five-degree angle to the camera and with his right hand touching the woman on her upper arm, he is leaning toward her, apparently preparing to kiss her on the cheek. His lips are millimetres from her face.
‘Tell me, Ray. Tell me what is happening in the picture.’
‘I know it looks bad but, really, I had been speaking to her for about fifteen minutes but was trying to get away. I was late for a dinner. By this point I think I really was going. I just gave her a small kiss—on the cheek—goodbye and that was it.’
‘Really? No promises of catch-ups later? No asking for her phone number?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. I never saw her again.’
There’s light in this tunnel after all. I come up with a plan on the run and tell Ray he’ll be fine. He’s dubious but we both know he’s out of options. It’s time to make a phone call.
51
One of my best friends in journalism is a fellow called David Stanton. We worked together in our early days in the game, spent many a raucous night in any number of pubs, playing pool and cranking up the jukebox. We had driven from one end of the country to the other in clapped-out hire cars looking for new places to drink in and play epic games of pool. It was a lot of fun but it was never going to last. He was far too good at this journalism lark to be contained in a small city such as ours. He was far better at it than I could ever hope to be.
And I was fine with that. It was clear to everyone that David was going places. Anyway, I reckoned if the worst ever came to the worst I could always tap him for a job one day. Or perhaps even a favour, which had the capacity to stretch the friendship beyond breaking point. David has risen far within the national daily, within touching distance of the top job. We have kept in sporadic touch, the odd email, a belated birthday greeting, the occasional beer when he’s back in town. I think we still consider ourselves good friends.
And now I need to talk to him. It occurs to me that what I am about to ask may fatally rupture our friendship. Back in my office I close the door, take a deep breath, and scroll through my contacts list until I came to S.
I hadn’t spoken to David much in recent times. I knew he was still pretty pissed off with my behaviour in the US when we hadn’t offered up Sloan to his paper. I think he saw it as a betrayal. I may not have helped when, during a particularly heated exchange, I offered my frank and fearless opinion that most of the reporters at the paper were not nearly as good as they thought they were. I found his name and pressed the button.
‘Well, well. Jack. How funny, a few of us were just talking about you,’ he begins.
‘That’s nice. I’m sure it was highly complimentary.’
‘No, not really. More along the lines that it’s good to see Jack at last getting what’s coming to him.’ It’s said in a lighthearted manner but the words are unsettling. There are scores to be settled today and it looks like my name is near the top of the list.
‘So to what do I owe this honour?’ he continues. ‘Let me guess. You are either about to beg me to spare your boss’s job, or beg me to give you a job, given how yours is about to disappear. Neither is a good look, Jack. And, to spare you
prostituting whatever is left of your dignity, let me tell you now. Neither is about to happen.’
His coldness takes me by surprise. I didn’t think it was going to be easy but now it feels terminal.
‘Hold on, Dave, calm down a second. Hear me out at least. I know you are excited because you think you are about to play the executioner’s song on Ray Sloan’s career …’
‘Yes,’ he interrupts. ‘I am. Looking at that picture of him right now. Not a good look I’m afraid.’
‘I agree. It’s not a good look. But if you detach yourself from the typical newsroom bloodlust for a second, what have you got?’
‘What do you mean, what have I got? I have your boss on the front page of tomorrow’s paper, looking like a complete sleazebag at best, and a bloke who’s deep in the pocket of Bruce Fox at worst. You can choose the option you base his resignation speech on, but the man is gone.’
‘Stop. Think. There’s an even better story here if you can take the blinkers off long enough to see it …’
‘Enough with the bullshit, Jack. Don’t try and spin me on this. We both know your man is fucked and nothing is going to change that.’
‘Who gave that picture to Howard?’ I ask.
‘Don’t know. Don’t care. You are not going to try to convince me it’s a fake are you, because it’s not.’
‘Ian Cavendish gave it to her.’
‘Cavendish gave it to her. So what? You’re confirming it’s genuine then?’
‘Who does Cavendish work for?’
‘I don’t know. Didn’t he go into PR?’
‘Bruce Fox.’
A silence. I hope he’s now starting to join the dots.
‘Annabelle Howard tell you that?’ I demand. More silence. ‘Any thoughts on why Cavendish would give that to Annabelle? If Sloan is in the pocket of Bruce Fox why would he do that?’
A quieter voice comes down the line. ‘What are you saying? Precisely.’
‘Cavendish came to me a few months back. Said he had compromising pictures of Sloan. Said he would be using them unless Sloan pushed his new development through Cabinet.’
‘He tried to blackmail him?’ His tone has changed. Now he’s interested in what I have to say.
‘Yes. That’s about the size of it.’
‘And Sloan said no.’
‘Yes. I thought Cavendish was bluffing. Turned out I was wrong.’
‘But, mate, it doesn’t take away from the fact that this is a cracking picture and could bring down the government’s second most senior minister two days out from an election.’
‘Yes, you still have that. And yes it could end Sloan. Maybe the government. On the other hand, it may not. I agree it’s not a good look, but I’m not convinced it’s a hanging offence, especially if you take away the insinuation that he’s Bruce Fox’s special mate in Cabinet. As I see it you can either—maybe—bring down Sloan or you can go after Bruce Fox and, possibly, put the country’s biggest property developer in jail. You tell me. What’s the bigger story?’
A long silence this time as Stanton considers his options.
‘Will Sloan go on the record with this?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Monday.’
‘After the election?
‘Indeed.’
‘Fuck, mate.’
‘Look at it this way. This way it doesn’t fuck up our election. And you get a cracker yarn that will run for months, maybe years. You only have to wait a couple of days.’
‘Ok. I need to talk to the boss. I’ll get back to you.’
52
I stay locked in my office. Door closed. Head down. Sloan remains similarly secluded. He does however send me a text from about fifteen metres away: ‘How did it go? Did they buy it?’
I reply: ‘Thinking about it. Fingers crossed.’
An hour passes. Another. The stress is unbearable. It’s not pleasant having your fate in the hands of others. Finally, the phone rings. It’s David Stanton.
‘Ok, we’re in. But I want something in writing from you today confirming everything you told me. All the details. I also want Sloan to make an official complaint to the police about Fox. It’ll help cover us in a defamation sense.’
‘Fine. Fine. We can do all that. No problem,’ I say, as the knot of nausea I have been carrying in my stomach for the last few days starts to loosen. I can’t resist asking.
‘How did Annabelle take it?’
Stanton sighs. ‘Stay away from her. No gloating. And, Jack, if you fuck me over on this we will come after you with everything we’ve got. We will bury Sloan and you will never get a job in this industry again. Got that?’
‘Clear as a bell, Dave. No problem.’
I hang up. It’s not joy I feel but relief. I extricate myself from my chair and take the walk to Sloan’s office. This time I don’t even bother to knock. I just walk in. He looks at me expectantly, terrified.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ I say. ‘They bought it. You are going to hand Fox up on Monday. To the cops as well. But you’re clear.’
The tension leaves his body as if someone just removed his bones and he collapses back into his chair.
‘Thanks, mate,’ he says and closes his eyes.
53
I sit down and compose an email to Stanton covering the whole sordid tale. It disappears into the ether. I don’t hear back from him until the next morning. He’s excited about the Bruce Fox story.
‘Morning, mate. Thanks for that. Looks good. This is going to be a huge yarn. By the way, the poll in tomorrow’s paper is looking good for you guys. You are up fifty-six to forty-four, but I’d appreciate if you keep that to yourself for the moment. Dave.’
I have to read that last line a second time before I understand its significance. The poll Stanton’s paper traditionally publishes on election day is the most eagerly awaited of the campaign. It’s been spot on over many years. I read it a third time, lean back in my chair, face towards the ceiling and let out a ‘thank fuck for that’ so loudly it brings Leo into my office.
‘What?’ he asks. I hesitate for microseconds before deciding David’s request to keep it under my hat is worth less than the power I have just acquired to put Leo and everyone else out of their misery.
‘I have the fucking numbers,’ I say as calmly as possible.
‘What numbers?’ he inquires.
‘You know. The ones in the paper tomorrow. The fucking ones that will tell us whether we live or die. Those ones.’
‘Oh,’ is his response. There is silence for about three seconds before he explodes.
‘Well, are you going to fucking tell me or just sit there like a smug bastard?’ This is not a secret I can keep. It’s too big and like all big secrets it needs to be shared. ‘Fifty-six to forty-four.’
‘To who?’
‘Us, obviously.’ Leo slumps down in the chair opposite my desk. There’s no joy there. Perhaps this was how Atlas felt when some kind soul took that fucking globe off his shoulders.
Then a quiet: ‘Thank fuck for that. Are you going to tell Ray?’
‘I suppose so. You’re the first I’ve told. But is there any chance you could kind of keep it to yourself? The bloke who told me asked me not to go blabbing it about everywhere.’
‘You’re kidding, right? You tell Ray and it will be everywhere soon enough. He’s not going to keep that to himself.’
‘Yep, you’re right. But it’s going to make our lives a whole lot easier for the next thirty-six hours if I tell him and he can worry less.’
‘Well, it’s worked for me. I feel a fucking lot better. Cheers.’
‘Is he in?’ I ask, realising I haven’t seen him today. After yesterday’s stresses and strains this is not too worrying, although Leo still hasn’t been told how close we came to disaster.
‘Supposed to be, but not as yet.’
‘I’ll give him a buzz then. He might be happy to hear from me for once.’ He picks up surprisingly quickly.<
br />
‘Yes, mate,’ comes the gruff but not unfriendly voice.
‘Ray, yeah, hi, look I just wanted to tell you I’ve got tomorrow’s poll numbers.’ There’s a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone. Ray understands exactly what I’m telling him.
‘Well, look, it’s good. Good for us. It’s fifty-six to forty-four good. That’s what they’re publishing tomorrow.’
‘Thank god for that, thank god. We’re going to be all right. Jack, thanks, mate. I know I can be a difficult prick at times but I really appreciate everything you do for me, especially in the last couple of weeks. That goes for the rest of the team as well. You guys are the best operators in government.’
I am a little stunned by this sudden outpouring of emotion and appreciation. There is a moment of awkward silence before I manage a quick ‘no problem’ and he hangs up. I realise in the excitement I haven’t had the chance to ask him to keep the info tight, but then I rationalise it probably wouldn’t have done any good anyway.
Leo, still sitting in my office, says, ‘If I were you I’d also tell the Premier. You know Ray’s probably on the phone to him now telling him the good news, but not telling him where he got it. You can bet he will be claiming the credit.’
‘Fair point,’ I say and reach again for the phone. I text him. ‘Hi Premier, just to let you know, I got the numbers for tomorrow’s poll from a source at the paper. 56–44 to us.’
Two minutes later the phone pings. ‘Great news, mate, just had Ray on the phone telling me. Good work.’ I show the message to Leo who responds with an ‘I told you so’ kind of snort.
There’s no point in denying it. It’s a euphoric feeling telling Leo and Ray and Frank their jobs are safe. Maybe part of it is my own relief that we would win the election, but the more tawdry reality is that for just a moment I feel like the most important bloke in government. The bloke, indeed, who delivers what no one else can. Another term in charge.
54
That night we had a party. It had been long planned that no matter how the election was panning out Frank would host a party at a local pub to say thanks for the work we had all put in. Most of Cabinet was there, all of the press secs and associated advisers and party hacks. By now everyone knew what the poll numbers were. It was a happy, happy place and I was lining up for my share of the glory.
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