by Paul Daley
There’s a hush as they lean in attentively.
I say: I wish I actually knew what you’re talking about but I don’t. I like to cook when I’m at home with the people I love. But I don’t get to do that very often these days. And I haven’t had time to watch television, let alone a cooking show, because, you’ll appreciate, I’ve been too busy working out how to uphold the nation’s integrity on the discriminatory and draconian anti-terror legislation the prime minister is trying to ram through the parliament as part of his cynical ploy to get re-elected on the back of a confected terrorist threat. It’s very difficult for me, as you’ll appreciate, because a large section of my party is terrified that popular opinion will swing against us if I do the principled thing and oppose the legislation. So, honestly, I’m under pressure to neutralise the fears of many in my party by capitulating to the rednecks and giving the prime minister what he wants. But I really don’t feel that I can do that.
I’m quite warming to this whole truth thing, so I go on. This is something over which I really am willing to risk my leadership. No disrespect at all to—what’s-her-name? Peng?—but I have no idea what’s going on with the cooking show and I don’t really care.
They swap glances that say he’s finally flipped. But they’re disarmed, leaving me to wander off, open one of the heavy brass-and-glass doors and slip inside before they can ask me anything else like if I’ve ever fucked around on my wives.
The attendants avoid eye contact while I’m ushered through the scanner. It beeps because of my belt, the phone in my pocket and the change jangling in my trousers. But I don’t get sent back through. MPs don’t have to pass the metal detector test to get into the building. It’s a rule based on a laughable, utterly fallacious value judgement that we politicians are more honest and less likely to usher harm into the House of Parliament than Joe Punter.
I’ve never pondered the absurdity of this before today, and doing so now incites me to flirt deliciously with a fantasy that I’m girdled with an explosive belt and have a couple of Mills’ Bombs in each coat pocket and the scanner goes off as I go on through but the attendants just say, Morning, Mr Slattery, carry on, and then I walk down the parquetry corridors into the big room where all the comrades are waiting and all the photographs of the leaders through history, including mine, are on the wall, and they’re all watching me so I declare the leadership open and ask for nominations and then reach for the detonator in my pocket and then …
The attendants, with their lint-balled uniforms and unironed cotton poly shirts and non-regulation footwear and man earrings and sleeve tatts that peep from under frayed cuffs, are the eyes and ears in the walls of this place. They see and hear more than anyone else. Probably even know what’s going down in the party better than me.
One of them flicks me a boy, you’re in the shit today you should hear what they’re saying about you on the way in sideways glance. Then smirks. I’m sure. At least I thought he did.
What? I demand, staring him a dagger.
He returns me a surprised look—Who me?—and says, Sir, Mr Slattery?
I blink, say, Never mind, never mind, mate. I mean to smile at him but it comes out as a grimace, all clenched teeth and peeled-back lips.
He nods, straight-faced, and avoids further eye contact.
Eddie’s waiting. I take off my jacket, give it to her and reveal cantaloupe-sized sweat stains at my armpits.
She steers me by the arm and says, Extra truth serum today or what? That nonsense about Peng will be leading the news by ten o’clock. Second lead story is Slattery says My Party’s Gutless for Appealing to Rednecks. That’s a good way to endear yourself to the comrades and to the western suburbs of Sydney, Danny. Or maybe third story after Snake Boy Still Critical from Sick Bastard Geocache Gag. Hmm. Please, don’t diss Peng again. If Australians could make her the next prime minister they would.
By Snake Boy Eddie means a young bloke, teenager like my Sam, who was bitten by a snake that some sick prick planted in a plastic box in anticipation that a kid would open it. I get that everyone would be captivated by the drama and the potential tragedy of that. But not reality cook-offs.
I say to Eddie, We should definitely pre-select Peng then, find her a safe seat, knock off one of the time-serving oxygen thieves. And, Eddie, I hear she makes a fantastic basil-infused tuna dish and some sort of thing with rabbit.
Thought you didn’t watch it.
I don’t. You told me. And Jack Dethridge is absolutely obsessed. Tries to cook every dish.
Danny, she says, I just read popular culture stuff so I know what’s going on—so I can tell you. You do sport, I know, but it wouldn’t hurt you to try starlets, pop stars and TV.
She gestures to my sweat stains. I told you—no blue shirts. Where’s your damn tie?
I shrug.
Bad look—like you just got outta bed or you’ve been in a punch-up. Again. No way this country’s ready for a PM without a tie. A piss head. A philanderer. For sure. But not a fat man or one without a tie.
Then she asks, What’s Tom say?
You tell me, darl—mean you haven’t spoken to him lately?
No answer forthcoming. Of course she has. They all speak to him all of the time. I know they’re close. I’ve sometimes suspected intimately so. This hurts because there’re parts of my life I’d like to quarantine from Tom. If he’s wavering on me I need Eddie to tell me so, just in case he doesn’t. And besides that, I just don’t like the idea of my best mate rooting my chief of staff.
She says, He’s right, you know—take them with you.
Just then two of the shadows—Don Freebody, shadow justice, and Kirsty Usher, immigration, both supporters, or so they reckoned— ambush me from behind as we turn into the corridor beside the leader’s office.
Freebody, puffy, high-blood-pressure snoz, short of breath, whines in my direction, Just a quick word if you would please, Slatts …
Before I can say fuck off, Freebs, not now, Eddie intervenes, says, Jesus Christ, Don, can’t you see he’s just got through the scrum? Ring me. Make a bloody appointment like everyone else who wants a piece of him.
Freebody, taken aback, blushing, wheezes out, Well, Eddie that’s the point—you haven’t …
Then she actually pushes him aside with a hip-and-shoulder that could rival one of mine from the footy field from twenty-five years back, runs hardcore physical interference by walking between us and shepherds me away from him.
Eddie goes, Later, Don—you gotta stop thinking it’s all about you. You guys have got to quit creeping up on him like that.
He trails off. Usher falls away, too, shaking her head, incredulous.
I hear Kirsty say, Danny, we really need to talk. It’s critical.
So much for bringing them with us, I say, and Eddie replies, When I said that I meant you, not me. You’re the leader. I just help out around your office.
So that’s how it works.
Never forget it, she says.
They detest Eddie for her efficiency as a gatekeeper. She is probably the most important person in my life right now. More important than Ana and the kids. Even more important than Indy. I can’t separate my personal and public lives anymore. The reason is simple: neither seems worth living without the other. So Eddie is here to make sure I survive.
The receptionist, Gina—coiffure, perfume, full bust, legs and smart, I’m assured—looks up and smiles just as if everything’s absolutely normal, which makes me wonder if she’s just arrived from Murgatroyd or if she’s playing at something weird. I saw her flirting with Dave Sweetman, half of ‘the Sweeties’ (the other fifty per cent being his bovine brother, Garry) a few weeks back. Must figure out where she stacks up on the range of trustworthy. Or maybe just fire her.
Good morning, Mr Slattery.
I want to ask, Is it?, but bite my tongue.
Cappuccino?
Espresso—double. I told you, I’ve quit dairy.
I shoot Eddie a split-second look. She raise
s, barely discernibly, an immaculately penciled left eyebrow, nods, which means she’s okay. Engendering staff loyalty through civility has much to recommend itself. And calm is good, too.
Eddie ushers me through the double doors into the office and says, Danny, you’ll get through this. Slow down. Take ten. New shirt on the sofa. Tie. Wear the tie. Clips on the desk. Read everything that they’re saying about you before you speak to anyone. Don’t answer your phone for anyone.
I sit behind my desk and pick up the thick pile of A4 copies of the day’s political news stories—the clips. I’m in them all. They smell of ink, are still printer-warm.
Eddie, I love the smell of warm clips in the morning, I say.
Really? Just wait till you read them then.
She goes into the far corner behind me, does stuff with her phone and iPad. I hear her phone constantly vibrating. She doesn’t answer. It’s quiet, the only noise being her phone and mine buzzing, and my heart racing.
The clips make it plain that shadow cabinet’s leaking like a reffo boat. Every second story is about my authority, or what they reckon is lack of it, and ‘growing party disquiet’ about leadership style—speculation that if I don’t capitulate to the prime minister on the amended terror Bill I’ll be challenged soon. No clear challenger. Maybe Dave Sweetman, a few say. They mention little Timmy Proudfoot of course—Proudfoot’s always got to have himself in the frame.
And Lindsay Duncan. Effete. Tasmanian. My Senate leader. Confirmed bachelor (say no more). Wrong house. A more vicious little arsewipe than Duncan I could not find. Except maybe Proudfoot or either Sweetie. Sell his mum and his puppy for a shot at the job. Then again, wouldn’t they all?
Has this game totally lost the plot, or what, when the main leadership phantoms, the ones who are briefing on background that they want your job, are running on a platform of supporting the prime minister? I’m fucked if I know which way’s up anymore.
The clips. The clips. Death by a thousand little clips.
My phone vibrates again. Thirty-three missed calls. Four more from Mum. Seven since last night from Deth—Jack, son of Vincent Dethridge, and in his own right, a tortured existence that currently makes even mine look pretty regular. Though we do have a fair bit in common. Not least PTSD. His being post-traumatic and mine, Political Trauma Stress Disorder.
I tell Eddie, Call Deth. Tell him shit’s hitting the fan. I’ll catch him for a drink. Go ’round tonight—dinner maybe—or something. He’s in a bad way.
We all know what happened to him, Danny, she says. But he’s still a journo—knows shit and fans better than you. Be careful.
Eddie, he’s family.
Yeah, right. So’s Tom. You’ve got to be careful of everyone, like I keep saying. But please get started here. It’s already ten past nine—all the newses say you’re in the bunker waiting for the Exocets to lob in. You’ve got to meet the leadership group, then the full party, then say something else to the gallery by eleven—be on the front foot by Question Time.
So does what I just said at the doors not count or what? And by the way, the reptiles would be right—I am in the bunker but I’ve just signalled to the colleagues I’m ready to go hand to hand, to unsheath the fucking bayonet and get stuck in, you know?
So you going to answer me about the truth serum? Or just be a smart-arse? Please talk.
Eddie, I’ve decided I’m going to be upfront with the punters and the journos. People are sick of the way we play it here day in and out—no straight answers, covering up cracks, always backtracking and contradicting. If I’m asked, then I’m just going to be absolutely honest. What’s the worst that can happen?
Oh you could maybe lose your life’s work, the leadership and your family.
Yeah, but on the other hand the punters might give me a tick. A promotion, I say.
Danny, you telling me you’re going to be honest about everything?
She’s standing at the front of my desk, leaning over it, looking into my eyes. I can smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her breath. Here’s a bit of honesty for you—I’ve naturally always wanted to sleep with Eddie. Most men do. But we made it clear to each other when she came on board that that would never happen. Not that anyone reckons it hasn’t. Everyone, even Ana and Indy, probably suspect I’m shagging her.
Everything, Eddie. Absolutely everything.
Even the really personal stuff?
Yep. I’m going to tell the whole truth about my life.
Have you really thought this through? she asks. Have you warned Ana and the kids? What about Indy? For God’s sake, have you told Tom? What’s he say?
Of course I haven’t mentioned it to Ana or Indy. So I don’t answer.
She persists, asking, again, What’s Tom say?
Well, you already know, I’m sure, I reply. He says I shouldn’t talk about personal stuff at all. Or the past. He advised me to just keep on lying.
Of course he did. And I’m here to advise you, Danny, that it’s probably a pretty good idea to follow the advice of your priest when he tells you to lie.
Eddie observes me like she would a puppy about to soil the carpet, as I uncap a green highlight pen and turn back to the clips.
On top is a new printout from one of the newspaper websites. A picture of me leaving the church half an hour earlier and a non-story about me confessing—what? Because they don’t know they made it up in that cutesy colour-story way, saying I’ve sought counsel from buddy Father Tom on how to play the sticky politics. Fuck it! Surprisingly accurate. How do they know?
I say to Eddie, Sweetheart, it might take a little while to go through the clips to see which poisonous, anonymous, off-the-record comment I can attribute to precisely which comrade. She goes, Well, you know that this never does any good. But if you insist.
Yeah, I do insist. It might not fix anything, but it always makes me feel a whole lot better.
7
I’m not nearly ready for it all to end. I’ve invested too much in myself to let it all go just yet. The scholarship. Uni. The club—two-hundred-and-forty senior games, premiership captaincy. The law. High Court Judge’s associate, preselection, backbench, shadow ministry. And now, the leadership experiment the party just had to try.
It’s all part of The Project. And The Project won’t be complete till I’m sleeping in The Lodge with Ana and the kids. Or Indy. Or, at this rate, by myself.
All politicians insist they ignore what’s written and said about them. Truth is they all pedantically clip their press, even the embarrassing stuff. Then they alternatively brood and toss off—mostly metaphorically—over it. But cross my heart, I’ve honestly never cared too much. Until a few weeks ago.
If I’ve ever had a criticism of a colleague or an opponent I put my name to it—none of this creepy anonymous shit for me. Showbiz for ugly people. That’s what they call politics. But that’s unfair really because there are some beautiful people—externally at least—in politics. Most just happen to belong to the other side. Or in the Greens, who I keep reminding the colleagues are not some fluffy, furry support network for highway-injured and orphaned marsupials but the other other side.
Anyway, it’s why my press sec, Laurie Flynn—Errol—reckons the Mandingo Principle—vote to the Left/fuck to the Right—should be doctrine vis-à-vis ye olde bedfellows of politics and copulation. But let’s not over-intellectualise the whole showbiz-for-ugly-peeps thing. It’s really just an allusion to the addiction to public attention that comes from offering your soul, your body and your entire public and private persona to the political paparazzi and to the mindless white noise of the TV talk shows featuring journos interviewing other journos and think-tank schmucks and former politicians and nobody one-time staffers who all desperately want one thing: to be taken as seriously as you.
In my early days as a pollie I took the same approach as I’d done with the footy writers when I was captain: a phone call here and there or an occasional visit to say, Mate, get your hand off ya cock—what you
wrote is bullshit and here’s why. The sports writers all reckoned they were friggin’ Shakespeare or Mailer.
The press gallery? I soon realised that they were a trickier bunch to get your head around. Run through your -holics: worker-; alco-; choco-; narco-; sexa-; shopa-; shoea-; porna- and then your -phobics: acoustico-; agora-; agrizoo-; alektoro-; anupta-; atychi-; automatono- (and that’s just the As), and then chuck in your choice of maniacs: nympho-; dacno-; flagello-; empleo- and entheo-; and, of course, hagio-, idolo- and megalo-; metro-; mono-; mytho-; pyro-; rhinotillexo-, and you’ve got a good picture of the worst of the pricks.
Aspiring politicians should understand this: the press gallery think that they—not us politicians—run the place, and by place I mean the nation. But I’ll give most of them this—they are not easily intimidated.
When I first got in and started talking policy from the backbench—you know, getting rid of poverty traps in places like where I come from by motivating communities with what I call the Window of Optimism, Eric Ellingsen, fuckhead political editor or something for Newsnight, goes to air and says the colleagues believe I’m an overly ambitious, inflated fantasist egomaniac and the only window in town is the one that’s needed to let out all my hot air.
So I get on the blower and call Ellingsen and yell at the cunt down the phone that I’m gonna smack him in the head next time I see him.
He asks, predictably, like we’re in Blue Heelers or Law and Order or something, Is that a threat?
What I should have said is, Mate, no comment, because he’s a big enough tool to accept that. But instead I say, No, you dickhead, it’s a rolled gold fucking promise.
Then I ask, Eric, mate, mate, why is it they call you the Electric Eel? because that’s what everyone really does call him.
It’s my yellow shirts and loud ties, Danny—what else? he answers.
No, mate. No. It’s because you’d suck the blockage from a dunny pipe through a garden hose to get a story, I say then hang up.