by Paul Daley
When? he asked.
When I’m good and ready, I said.
By the time Eddie and I had walked around the corner to my office, Drysdale’s office had issued the press release. It said the PM’d invited me into the intelligence confidence loop and asked for my bipartisan support to pass terror laws that would save Australian lives. He eagerly awaits my response, it said. The release used the term ‘national interest’ four or five times. I’d been waiting for Drysdale to argue national interest.
Subtle of him not to mention it in my presence but then to spell it out, instead, in a release for the clunkheads in the gallery. The national interest—that nebulous notion evoked by desperate diplomats, spooks and dictators, to bring down the shutters on transparency. A chancre on democracy.
After that, Eddie and I sat in my office for hours with the blinds open on what had become a beautiful, crystal-clear-blue day after the mist had burned off.
But I wanted to be walking along the Red Hill ridgeline with Indy and her labrador, to stop up at Davidson Trig with a thermos of tea, cuddle, look down on Griffin’s geometry. Or maybe better still, watching Sam’s match, shaking hands with some of the parents, have the old boys come up to talk politics and that Grand Final. Instead, I was stuck all day inside a dilemma of how to save myself and stop the country doing something I hate.
So I watched the magpies bouncing around the lawn outside the windows, pulling grubs, snacking on stray moths. There is still a thick frost on the lawn this time of year. Maybe we were through the worst of winter. Or not. As September nears in Canberra you always get a string of hoax brighter days that coax you outside in shirtsleeves. The magnolias and daffodils start budding. And then it turns nasty again; the winds belt down from the Snowies, sleet cuts in sideways, and when the blow finishes, an icy Birnam Woods mist envelops the place for forty-eight hours. The planes can’t get in or out. Everyone in the House goes stir-crazy for want of blue sky and sun-warmth on skin, and vitamin D depletion.
You think it’s behind you. But the worst of winter, the dark and sullen minus-six mornings and the days where the chill never really leaves your bones, is all too often still ahead.
I asked Eddie if my instinct was right. We talked it through from every angle, inside out, upside down. She agreed that the politics was toxic for me either way. But she said that ultimately my brand was linked with principle more than political pragmatism. It’d be best, she advised me, to be on the side of the angels on such a hard call.
There’s something I really want you to consider though, Danny, she said. So, say you get the party to oppose Drysdale. The Bill gets knocked off in the Senate for a second time. What happens if there is actually a terrorist attack on Australian soil?
Her proposition made me feel ill. I just had to hope—even pray—that it didn’t happen.
I said, If there’s a reasonable suspicion of potential terror attack now there’s nothing to stop the AG sending the Sons of God in with ASIO—all you need is a search-and-arrest warrant. Any judge will give you that with ten minutes’ notice, twenty-four-seven, if you really think there’s going to be a terrorist attack. That’s the point, Eddie, you can do it already.
Danny, I’m talking about the way they’ll spin it. The shock jocks, the tabs, the government, will all blame you. You know that. You really up for that?
I’ll take the risk.
You know, Danny, that you’re going to have to explain this very carefully to the colleagues—going to have to keep a really level, calm head. You’re going to have to take them with you on this—not bully them. Then you’ve got to do the same with the gallery—explain, explain, don’t get angry when they talk over you or interrupt. And then you’ll have to stare down the shock jocks. And when you turn Drysdale down, you do statesman—not angry.
I nodded in acknowledgement, if not quite agreement.
Then I said, Tell Drysdale to go fuck himself. I’m going to tell the party we’re opposing this.
14
So, late on Monday morning, after a lost weekend during which Eddie drummed into me the imperative of being respectful to the comrades in order to survive this, I say to them, I’m listening. I really am listening.
Dave, I say, prompting Sweetman, although I know precisely what he’s going to say and the mealy-mouthed gutless way in which he’ll say it, whaddaya reckon?
I want to get him to put his position on the table pronto so someone else—Usher, Crawley perhaps—can quickly run a counter.
Danny I, I, I … I just think Drysdale’s got us over a barrel here, he begins, then bangs on for ten minutes, advising me that I’ve got to neutralise it politically by supporting the government in the House and the Senate. The party’s qual polling in the marginals on Normalians is slaughtering us already, he says, like I’m the only moron who doesn’t know that.
Typical. I want to say thanks for your steely resolve and your principled advocacy for a persecuted minority, in line with our party’s once proud ideology, dickhead. But I breathe deeply, fight myself to keep from interrupting. Eddie nods—meaning well done—now ask the question we talked about.
Dave, I need to defer to you a little here because it’s your portfolio. But I know something about the High Court, too, you know, from my days over there as associate. Anyway, is it just possible that this will end up in the High Court—you know, unconstitutional because it’s essentially racist? Know what I mean, don’t you? You know, the Citizens for Normalian Rights—or some other bunch of lefties with funding from a dotcom billionaire, all loose change and social conscience—mounts a High Court challenge?
Sweetman says that it’s unlikely anyone will run the case—but yeah it could, hypothetically, contravene the race power because a good advocate might argue Drysdale’s terrorism law was aimed at a single people.
Not to mention the Racial Discrimination Act, I say.
Vagnoli coughs, interrupts, says, Danny, caucus is fuckin’ feral, mate—we’re all absolutely shit-scared of this. Then he has a direct whack at me, says, Danny, Danny, they reckon you’re not listening to them, not just on this but … they’re going to lose their seats and you don’t seem to care a bit and the really big fear is what happens if there actually is a terrorist attack. Everyone will blame us—you. Then what?
I swallow, want to say to him well then we’re all fucked, you dumb wog—you all lose your seats and I don’t become prime minister, game over!—so, of course I’m trying to work out just how the hell to salvage this rather unfortunate situation while also doing the right thing.
I say, Demi, mate, that’s why you’re here—caucus chairman, remember?—to give me a heads-up. You tell me their views, I listen. Then everyone has their say. I’m happy to answer all their questions in the meeting, meet every single one of them afterwards. But right now we need a political strategy and a tactic or two to get us through the day if not quite to the election.
He brushes me off, says, Well, I’m with Dave all the way. So’s most of the party. Give Drysdale what he wants. Get rid of it.
Then he blanks me.
Usher says she’s absolutely behind me. Good girl. She says if I support Drysdale this time he’ll just keep playing us off a break, make me look like Julian Dawes—just another neutered lapdog, sold out of principle. Don’t roll over, she says. But then comes the admonishment: Dan, take us with you, though—get the party on board. We’ve got to feel right about this.
Ouch! I really should’ve agreed to a roll in the hay with her that time she put the hard word on and it makes me wonder if Tom actually is, given that she’s echoing so closely exactly what he said to me at church earlier in the day.
Jamieson supports me, too—nothing to do with principle, though. I’ve got his backing simply because I’ve bought his soul.
Crawley I don’t even have to ask. He’s rock-solid behind me as always.
Duncan, sound, principled left-winger that he is, sells out so quickly I’m genuinely embarrassed for him.
He says, Danny, the Bill’s full of holes. The High Court will shoot it to smithereens. I say we support it in the Senate and let the court do its work.
It may just be the most fuckwitted thing I’ve ever heard in politics. Where, oh where, does my party find these people?
Eddie brings me over a sticky note. It reads, in her neat cursive, ‘Deth called, wants dinner, his place—Investigator St’.
I put the note in my pocket, wonder if I’ve really got the energy for Deth tonight, especially if he’s juiced-up and still talking about the war. But like Tom, he’s like a brother. He was a kid growing up when I was articled in his old man’s firm. A student then a young journo when I was his dad’s associate at the High Court. I’ve always looked out for him and he’s always looked up to me. But he’s bonkers at the moment, too high maintenance to be around for any length of time.
But more immediately pressing is whether I even bother asking Tim Proudfoot what he thinks. Because I know what he’s going to say. I know he wants my job and he’ll do anything to get it. That is the guiding principle for his every action, thought and utterance.
Out front as my business manager in the house he’s a real spear-thrower, sticks it to the Tories every day—point-of-order after point-of-order, infuriates Drysdale to tears, looks like he’s really watching my back. But the sad reality is that I need to wear the Kevlar when I’m around him because I know he’d prefer to skewer me with one of those spears than give it to Drysdale. Because I’ve got what he thinks is rightfully his. You see, it’s always all just been about Timmy. The little jerk’s been talking about himself as a potential prime minister since first-year uni.
Then suddenly, when he was head of the Australian Labourers’ Federation, everyone else started talking about him as the future PM. He was still at the ALF when he and the rest of the Right took over the Victorian branch, stacked sixty per cent of the seats and got on national executive. An enigma. Knee high to a grasshopper and can’t look you in the eye. Cagey as a hooker in a nunnery.
I like to stand straight when I’m talking to him just to force him up onto the tiptoes of his RMs. He’s always spoken like a revolutionary—anti the industrialists with their Mercs and big houses. But he’s a full-fee-paying private-school boy from Canterbury, married into more money still—an empty shirt and a rolled fuckin’ gold Third Way con artist.
I support Danny’s position on this, Proudfoot announces. You know I always support the leader in whatever he says and does. And if Danny Slattery decides that we should call the government on this, then I’ll be there behind him every inch of the way.
I look at Eddie. She shrugs, glances out the window, semaphore which signals she’ll tell me later.
I know that little Timmy is lying through his short arse about his actual position. His old union is breathing hot down his neck over Normalians stealing Aussie jobs, eroding community certainty and standards, whatever that means. He is an unconvincing liar.
Thanks, everyone, I say. I’ll take it all on board. See you in the big room in ten.
Kirst, I say to Usher, but addressing them all, I really do hear what you say about taking the party with me. I get caught up in the fight, you know, and forget the niceties sometimes. I’m sorry.
There. I’ve said it. Never before has it left my lips, on the field or among the comrades. Sorry.
And now, before I can stop myself saying it, the words slip from my mouth: But love means never having to say you’re sorry.
Even Eddie, as familiar as she is with my stranger emotional extremities, looks at me quizzically. She mouths something (what the fuck?) and I try to correct it with a little reversal: just kidding, um, I do know the importance of inclusiveness you know, Kirst—Eddie?
Kirsty goes, You okay, Slatts?
Yeah, I’m good. It’s just an old, inside-my-head gag. Had to be there.
Right, Kirsty says, laughing a little.
Everyone is quiet, shifting pensive glances from me to the uneaten doughnuts and back.
Again, unable to prevent myself, I say to them, You know I believe in the intrinsic value of human existence. I believe that the world is here for us to make into a better place.
And I know one other thing for sure: that line will turn up in one of tomorrow’s comment pieces. If Usher or Crawley don’t leak it, Eddie will.
Usher doesn’t blink. Vagnoli and Jamieson tilt their heads, as if synchronised, and look at me sideways.
Proudfoot and Sweetman both open their mouths like guppies. Sweetman’s eye twitches. He’s thinking, right, here comes the truly crazy bit.
Eddie frowns, scrunches her eyes closed, meaning enough now.
But I’ve decided these pricks will hear me out—I didn’t become leader so as not to say what I want to say, which is, Guys I am actually an optimist. I believe in the capacity of politics to solve human problems and to build better societies. If you’re saying you want me to become a better listener then I hear you.
So here’s their chance. Nothing, as usual, nothing, just for once surprise me—please. Say something.
Thanks, comrades, I say.
They leave, except for Crawley who I ask to wait. Then it’s just the three of us.
Steve says, Well done, Dan. Something similar for the big room, eh? Timmy looked like you’d kicked him in the goolies. What’s going on?
I say, Dunno, let’s ask Eddie. I turn to her. What’s with little Timmy? He’s usually such an aggressive little cunt. What’d you do to him to get him on my side?
Just the obvious, she says, that we know he’s briefing the gallery against you, talking what-ifs about himself and leadership, spreading that the party is over you, dead at the election unless you support Drysdale, dead anyway. Then I might’ve asked if he’d updated his pecuniary interests to include the hooker his old union sent his hotel room’s way, courtesy of membership money, after National Conference last month. Advised him there was absolutely no need for anyone else to know about that if he backed you in publicly.
Ed, that’s dirty, I say.
Fire with fire, she says. Nothing they wouldn’t do to you given half a chance.
But how do you know all this stuff?
Danny—you’ve got friends everywhere who think you’re the real deal. They want to tell me things and leak me things that might help you, might screw your enemies. Because you’ve got enemies, mate, that you don’t even know about. I know this stuff because it’s my job to know it.
So, people like who, Eddie?
Well, Vaughan Charles might want to be friends.
Seriously, Eddie, Charles is joined at the hip with Proudfoot. He’ll do whatever Timmy says. Fuck me over quick as look at me. He’s a nasty mother.
Danny, he runs the biggest union in the country, he’s on national executive and he wants to talk. At least listen to him—he’s asked to see you later today.
After all the shit he’s said about me in public? Tell him no way, Eddie.
Well, that’s the way to build bridges with the movement, Danny. How’s this for a plan? I’ll make friends for you and then you can just tell them all to fuck off.
I move it on from Charles, say, Speaking of friends, Steve, what’s with the numbers? Does Timmy actually have any support?
Supporters’d fit in the sauna down the gym, Danny, Crawley says. Ten, twelve, fourteen tops. Depends how nice you’re being on any given day.
Well, I’m being nice today. You heard me—I just said sorry.
But fourteen tops is too many out of ninety-four. I know from the experience of burying Dawes just how quickly fourteen can turn into forty-eight. The papers always talk about the factional boys twisting arms and kneecapping to extract leadership votes. But it’s more complicated than that. In the end it often comes down to self-interest.
My experience is that about a quarter will always be rusted on to you. In my case, they’re the likes of Usher and Crawley, who actually believe in what the leader’s doing and detest the emerging challenger. They’
ll go down fighting with me. Then there’s the middle fifty per cent who say they’re with you but who can be bought for the right price if there’s enough largesse to go around—promises of frontbench spots, committee chairmanships and overseas junkets will always buy votes. The problem is, you run out of promises and you sometimes forget who you’ve promised what to. Then there’s the final quarter. They walk both sides of the street, they’re shit-scared of losing their seats, but in the end they want to be on the winning team. They’ll go with the momentum.
Right now I need the momentum. I’ve got to play an absolute pearler when I address them in the big room.
15
Eddie was persistent, as I always knew she would be when she came on board. But initially, I wasn’t too keen on disturbing the skeletons. Back then I was mostly happy to leave them rattling in the closet and just keep hoping that none of the scumbags searching for the filth in my past hit the real pay dirt.
But of course Eddie needled me and needled me, saying repeatedly that the past was not some distant country but rather a treacherous ally who will fickly fire its laser-guided Exocets over the border, from past to present, and erase the future.
So, a few days after our initial conversation about my past she locked the inner door to my office, sat me down on the opposite sofa, and started again.
She began by telling me that I should think of the conversation as inoculation. And that I would not be leaving the room until I had told her everything. Everything. She needed the lot, she reckoned, so she could be prepared if the skeletons ever emerged in the press.
I might have said okay at this point. But that didn’t mean I would— tell her everything, right then, that is.
But we did start with footy trips—a kind of catch-all category for every other form of possible deviance and illegality in which I may have participated over the previous three decades.