by Paul Daley
I pitch Eddie a glance meaning wheel him into the corridor backwards. She scowls.
I feel like a Bushmills, look at my watch, wonder if it’s really too early, ask Eddie for another coffee instead.
Vaughan asks for chamomile tea.
Seriously!
I hope you’ll appreciate, Vaughan, that I haven’t got a lot of time and I’m in something of a crisis today, I say. Speak, but not with a forked tongue. It’s a day for the truth.
Vaughan replies, Danny, I just want to let you know that I’m going to say publicly that my union is on your side—I know you’re circling the wagons. I’m going to be on your side—you know we’ve still got fifty thousand members and a whole lot of them will vote for you on my say-so. All you’ve got to do is support Drysdale’s terror Bill.
The guile!
Eddie, I yell, get this freak out of here.
Vaughan laughs, his sickeningly neat mouth full of ivories.
Danny, Danny, he says, listen here. My actual wish list is that I want you to support the terror Bill—and I want you gone from the leadership. But life has taught me not to ask for too much all at once. I can’t have it all, so I’ll settle for one. Now you better listen to me, you arrogant bozo.
Eddie stands next to Vaughan while Gina puts hot drinks on the table. Eddie is nodding—listen to him.
Vaughan, you’ve got three minutes and then you’re out on your arse, I tell him. And remember, I deliver the monologues around here.
20
The noise startles us. It sounds like gravel being whizzed in an industrial-sized blender. We all look out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the courtyard.
The crack, crackle, crack continues while the sudden storm blown in from the Snowies pelts its thickening barrage of golf-ball-sized hailstones horizontally at the glass. They deflect off the great panes and quickly gather in thick drifts on the lawns outside. I walk towards the noise, reminding myself the windows are supposedly bulletproof. They should withstand much more than this before breaking.
The ice quickly blankets the courtyard and fills the great rectangular pond in the lawn. Are the goldfish okay? Were there any goldfish in the pond? How come I miss so much of the life that’s unfolding around me? They seem, perhaps, unimportant questions, given everything else that’s going down today. I’ve never in my life thought about goldfish before. Now, suddenly, I want to cry for them, run out there and jump in the pond in my suit and rescue them, if they’re even there at all, because their very existence, or not, is yet another reminder that I am pissing away my precious time. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s a life-and-death struggle going on in the pond fifteen metres from my desk.
A sign from the Maker, Vaughan says.
He’s straight-faced but still, I can’t really help but think, being ironic.
Tempest, he adds.
I’m not a great believer in the Old Testament, Vaughan, I say.
But you believe enough to attend confession—or so I read earlier today. Danny, I’m a great believer in confession—in atoning for the past and seeking guidance from the Lord and his earthly representatives. And there’s no better representative than Tom—he’s a truly good man.
Oh, Jesus Christ, Vaughan, you’re another one, I say, and I quickly recall a detail from the magazine profiles: before each Murderball match Vaughan would bless himself and say a little prayer. This is getting pretty loopy but wholly consistent, it must be said, with the rest of the day.
I ask him—You Catholic, Vaughan?
Anglican, Danny. But High Anglican, Anglo-Catholic, actually—confession and communion by appointment.
Well, Vaughan, now I’ve heard just about everything. The non-parliamentary head of the biggest right-wing grouper union in the country, the bovver boy for the Victorian Right, is actually an Anglican. Back in Belfast, mate, you’d be up top of the Falls Road chucking rocks at Timmy Proudfoot and your Sweeties. You’d be on different fucking sides of the wall, mate. And if you carried on this way you’d get kneecapped—or worse. The Protestant and Catholic paramilitaries would be joining ranks to put a bullet in your head.
As it turns out, the Right and me are always on the same side, Danny—except maybe when it comes to you, Vaughan says. I say we should keep you … for now, but only if you roll over and give Drysdale what he wants, neutralise this whole nasty Normalian business. The others—well, they think you should go now. So you see, Danny, I’m your friend … And in any event, politics is secular in Australia.
The fuck it is, Vaughan. What do you think this whole thing is about? Drysdale demonising the Normalians. I know you’re a smart bloke, Vaughan—I’ve read all about you. I can tell you what you’re actually thinking: you’ve got fifty thousand members of the ALF saying they hate Normalians, taking their jobs, infiltrating their communities, planning to blow up the fuckin’ Harbour Bridge or the MCG at half-time. I know, I know—the little brown terrorists are everywhere. Your members are saying they’ll quit the union, stop pitching in to the election fund, vote Tory unless you can make the party give. And you’re thinking I’m going to lose a heap of seats and my job unless I give in and support Drysdale. But you know my answer to that already, Vaughan—I won’t back down. So I know what you’re up to—you’re actually here to do the reverse ferret—say you’re against me unless I back down, then you and the union will back me in once I support Drysdale, then I’ll lose the election anyway because Drysdale will just get what he wants and then one of your boys—Dave Sweetman or Proudfoot—will take the leadership and then whisk you into a safe seat.
Eddie chimes in, says, Danny, puh-l-ease, reverse ferret? Seriously. Listen to him—hear Vaughan out.
Fuck. Eddie’s turning, too?
I’m looking at my watch again and saying, Tick, tick, tick, Vaughan. Tick, tick, tick.
His voice low and steady, Vaughan says, Danny, I reckon we grew up just a few miles apart. Public housing. My old man disappeared, yours—what?—died in the war, right? Mums brought us up. Not easy, you know. Tough times on the estates, remember? I fell in with the dickheads, there was no other way. Kicked out of tech school. Drugs, you know? Pinching cars. Burgs—all the time.
Vaughan’s left eye tics, apparently involuntarily. I notice a slight discolouration in the pigment next to it. The other side is identical.
But you, Danny, you ran into the angels just in time. They found you, dragged you out of the estate, helped you through school, uni, sponsored you into footy, politics—they found you and rescued you when you were still on the up.
I have to interrupt, say, Don’t underestimate me, Vaughan—I’d have made the team without them.
Sorry, Danny, Vaughan says, yes, of course, you would’ve and, Danny, there’s nothing wrong with having mentors. And you know what? I had some luck along the way, too, ran into my own set of guardian angels—heaven knows where I’d have ended up if they’d not taken me under their wings like that after … the accident. I know you had Dethridge and McQuoid help you with a leg-up. Well, they helped me out, too. Bet you didn’t know that, eh? That’s what I mean—we’re practically the same, you and me.
The fuck we are, Vaughan, I say. I’m nothing like you. Nothing.
Danny, my angels took me on a slightly different route, but I ended up here, he says, tapping a hand on his chair before gesturing to the office, and in here, in with the man who is going to be the next prime minister of Australia, if he listens to me today. And I’ve decided you’re not all bad, Danny. I’ve seen the way you’ve been standing up to it all—the government and the negativity in our party in recent days. It’s tough stuff. I’ve decided we have to beat Drysdale at the next election. We can’t change leaders again, give them another term. I’m with you. All you’ve got to do is give us the terror legislation. That’s all me and the members want.
I roll my eyes, say, Is that all you really want, Vaughan? No—before you answer that, let me tell you what I’m willing to give you. Fuck-all. Fuck-all, Vaughan. That’s it.
You guys, your Sweeties and Proudfoots, your fucking pollsters and your message consultants and your fucking image massagers are only about concentrating power and patronage for yourselves. You pay yourselves a couple of hundred K a year. Sit in the Captain’s Wing Lounge, fly business class, drive Volvos, holiday at Lake Como. You’re all out of touch.
Vaughan pounds the arm of his chair with an open palm and yells, Save me the sanctimonious bullshit about being out of touch, Danny. I’m reminded of my past every single day. What’ve you got, except a few distant memories? You crossed the tracks a long time ago. Where is it you live again these days? Fitzroy. Mean streets. Fifty years ago maybe. Long way from the Olympic Village, Danny. So don’t give me the whole pathetic, predictable postcode, Window of Optimism bollocks again. I know the worst there is to know about you—the thing that brought us together, that connects us to Paddy and Vince and Tom.
Vaughan is fired up now. I’ve struck a nerve. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists. This, I understand. So I twist the knife a little.
Vaughan—I tell you what. You’re a rolled gold bullshit artist. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Time to go.
He says, Danny, we know each other much better than you realise. We’re the same. Almost the same person. You know, Danny, we could almost be family.
With this he extends his long hands straight out before him, as if poised for the next manicure. Through the bleached skin on the knuckles of his right pointer and ring finger I can see the faded visages of blue stars.
Chisel. Chisel?
He might have punched me in the stomach. I prickle with a bitter chill while a wave of nausea volts through me. I can’t breathe and my heart is palpitating.
Chisel was so badly injured he was never going to make it. It was just a matter of time until he’d die. He wouldn’t be the first or the last sharp to get his head kicked in and nobody would even care. That was drummed into me back then. So I never asked. I never dared. Because the truth was too frightening and because I’d been told, and because I always did what I was told. So I’d had no choice but to assume. And so, now, here’s my dead man. Not in my nightmares, like he’d been for years after that Saturday evening in 1974. But right here opposite, the Fear incarnate, come to take me out, politically, personally, every which hellish way, just sitting there smiling his perfect reconstructed face at me and all while invoking the names of my life’s benefactors—maybe even sitting here as their emissary.
Yes, I’m scared witless. And I’m shaking with rage, too, because I’m being had by way too many people I’ve made it my life’s work to trust. And I’m sick, too. Physically sick, because of this life and all of these people in it, pushing me, prodding me, giving and taking. But mostly I’m just really wishing once more that he was dead.
Another barrage of hailstones smashes onto my windows. Startled, we all turn and look again.
I say, Just as well the windows are bulletproof, eh, Chisel?
Vaughan says, Nothing’s truly bulletproof, Danny. Not me, not you. And not Drysdale. That’s why I’m here for you, Danny.
Thanks, Vaughan. But no thanks. I’ll see you later. You know where the door is.
Eddie looks at me with concern. She has no idea of what has passed here, but can interpret my distress and my obvious agitation.
Vaughan turns to address me one more time before he leaves.
Danny, I should hate you. But the truth is that I actually forgive you. I forgive you.
And I say, Vaughan, you don’t understand—you’ve got nothing to forgive me for. Nothing.
21
GoodvEvil @ Devilindrag 1m
Dees v Hawks 25 May 1974. What was Oppn Leader @DannySlattsMP doing that night when the Demons hit the deck? #Auspol
This is posted almost immediately after Vaughan leaves the room.
I’ve always feared that one day someone would ask this question—perhaps not this cryptic crossword version of it—just as I’ve always known that any sudden end to my political career would come as a direct consequence of the answer.
I rarely look at my Twitter feed. I leave that to Errol and Eddie. I don’t have time and they don’t trust me anyway. They know how easy it’d be for me to sip and tweet after a shit day with the colleagues, a bad Newsnight and a bottle of red.
The cyber world is a sewer for me, crammed with nutters, moral amoebas and vicious trolls. They are either obsessive fans or deeply dangerous haters, wishing me either a swift, seamless ride to the prime ministership or dead progeny and arse cancer.
But Eddie ensured this morning that the Devil and I became mutual followers. And now she’s showing me the latest tweet on her iPad. The Devil has tweeted just twice and follows only one person—me—and already he has two thousand three hundred followers and more by the minute.
It’s got to be an insider. A Tory staffer maybe. Or one of the many treacherous bastards on my side who hates me—no end of options there. We’ve got pictures of most of the Tory staffers on the inside of the stationery cupboard in the press office. Eddie had everyone—including me—memorise their faces and who they work for, in case we come across them socially. But nobody stood out in the church this morning just before the Devil’s first tweet.
Tom? Tom knows the answer to the Devil’s question. My best mate Tom. Tom with his iPad in the confessional. Charles—Chisel—whoever he is, has stoked my paranoia about Tom and his old man, as was his intention, but I can’t afford to indulge this sort of battiness because if I can’t trust Tom, then who? Only Eddie. Eddie—gorgeous, lonely but invulnerable, unfalteringly loyal, closed book, steady Eddie, who is hovering over my shoulder while I read the troll’s work. I close Twitter.
So, she demands again, are you going to tell me what on earth Vaughan Charles is talking about or do I have to guess—like I do about everything else?
Jesus, Eddie—calm down. Is it that time of the month already?
I didn’t really think that one through before I said it, as evidenced by the tears that now stream down her face. I walk over and open my arms, ready to comfort her. But Eddie throws her hands up in front of her chest, palms facing me defensively.
Don’t you dare try to touch me, you arsehole, she says. Have you no idea at all just how cruel you can be—how utterly inappropriate—when it comes to the people around you? It’s like you just don’t think anyone else has feelings—as if you think you can just say whatever pops into your head and it doesn’t matter who you hurt along the way. Oh, it’s fine for you with your insecurities and fucking panic attacks and palpitations and stuttering to need propping up and indulging by everyone in your orbit. We all know about that stuff and make allowances and tiptoe around you so you’re okay. You just think the world revolves around you. It’s no wonder you’re in so much trouble and people have such difficulty being loyal to you. You make it so damned hard—so hard, Danny. So just try to shut the fuck up for a while and maybe think about what you’re doing and who you’re hurting. No. God—I’m so angry. I’m going for a walk, Danny. And I may never come back. Try to sort this shit out, why don’t you, while I’m gone.
She walks out, slamming the door behind her.
Naturally I feel guilty now, but I know she’ll be back. She always returns to me. With the wrinkly husband away all the time, the step kids grown up and not too many friends that I know of, I’m really the only thing she’s got in her life.
And the bottom line is that she’s really just like me when it comes to the importance of winning. Yes. She’ll be back.
Errol bursts in as she leaves, his iPad open.
Who’s Devilindrag? he demands.
How should I know? That’s what I pay you for, right?
I’m not the CIA, Slatts.
Well that’s stating the bleeding obvious, Errol. Why don’t you talk to Eddie? She understands Twitter. We’ve just been kicking this around. But I wouldn’t have a clue.
So what’s this guy talking about—25 May 1974? What happened?
It was the first time I’d lied since Saturday.
22
The gallery is addicted to Twitter. But I don’t blame them. The papers and free-to-airs are dying, the internet news sites are littered with soft porn and idiotic links to banal so-called exclusive video reports and stories (you know—Vacation Bay lesbo star’s new tit job; Captain Cook ratings war with I Gotta Sing turns up the heat in reality wars) and endless tedious first-person pieces about so-called journalists’ irritable bowel syndrome, anorexia, penis augmentation, genital herpes, backside reduction, flatulence, exercise regimens, erectile dysfunction, divorce and remarriage, friggin’ genius children, dead parents and menopause.
Everyone’s racing to be the first with anything, nothing, regardless of significance or meaning—or truth. Twitter gives them an excuse to not understand—to find out the most minor factoid or increment in a running story and to put it there pronto and let the other cyber freaks invent the context.
In the very best of hands, such as those of Antony Grimes (I’ve been known to affectionately call him Filth), Twitter is deadly incisive. This thirty-five-year veteran of TV and print is frighteningly slothful and kill-his-mother competitive. He’s also a grumpy and petulant old queen to deal with some days, especially when he suspects you’ve given something to the competition. With the mind of Chomsky and the pen of Gore Vidal, he can beautifully précis a Shakespeare sonnet in a hundred and forty characters or rip you a new arsehole in under a hundred.
There are others in his league, too, who actually walk the yards— sometimes even leave the building—to get real stories based on primary research, and who believe in fairness and objectivity. But they’re swimming upstream against a tide of muck and loafing shitheads who care nothing for policy detail—fuck, they don’t even care if they’re right!—as long as they’re first.
And so, they’re forever flying kites on Twitter, using troll accounts to start rumours so they can then report them, in the papers or on TV—as fact or rubbish, they don’t care.