by Paul Daley
Mum somehow found the money for a speech therapist who taught me how to breathe when talking, how to swallow and how to avoid the bad words and how to speak to, not around, other people.
When I first got the leadership a magazine profile writer who I still suspect may have talked to Tom off the record, put to me that I was a recovered stutterer. I was happy to spin my log-cabin story of self-redemption—of the scholarship, of dragging myself up and away from the village, of footy, and, through the party, of remaking myself into a very promising Opposition leader. But of the speech impediment I said, Not true—don’t know where you got that from. End of story.
Maggot, meanwhile, disappeared for a couple of years soon after Tom gave him his hiding. The talk around the village was that he’d done time for raping a fifteen-year-old girl.
Then, you wouldn’t read about it, decades later during my first campaign, Maggot popped up in one of my community forums, out in the village, which was still—unfortunately for me because my skin crawls every time I set foot in the fucking place—in my electorate. The community forums were my idea. They were crazy, unpredictable events where I, as the would-be MP, stood on the stage in the packed local hall, banged on about the Window of Optimism for a bit and then threw the floor open to the punters—you know, said: Ask me whatever you like and I’ll give you a straight answer, not a politician’s one.
And so I’d field questions about the local shops (still boarded up—state government’s fault); the weeds growing through the cracks in the footpaths (symptomatic of the rise of super-councils); junkies shooting up in front gardens (curtains drawn on the Window of Optimism); and asylum seekers stealing jobs and social security (we were all boat people originally—you folks ought to get yourselves fit for work, stop blaming others and expecting the state to support you!).
Yes, I recognised Maggot straight up. How could I ever forget him? He looked like he’d never had a job in his life besides speed dealing, and had wasted away on a forty-year diet of saturated fats, Coke and smack. The poor bastard shook with what looked like the cold-turkey tremors, had rotten teeth, skin flaking off his hands and the arse hanging out of his trackie dacks. Close to death really, I thought.
And so Maggot came up to me afterwards, said, Danny, hiya, like he hadn’t been a cunt to me all those years ago or anything. Danny, I never had no interest in politics before but seen in the local rag it was you gonna speak and because I know your mum, Bev (such a nice lady she is, very proud of you, you know, and me, I like her coz I never had much of a life wiv me own mum) from round the old village. His ears pricked when he read all that stuff I’d said about local communities taking control of themselves and opening the Window of Optimism to them.
The Window of Optimism! Maggot got that one, really liked it, wanted a bit of that, Maggot did. And then he said, You know what, Danny—we remember you from the footy, we’re all bloody fans of the club out here, mate. We’ll never forget that premiership win.
I just smiled. Not out of any warmth for Maggot. But with satisfaction. The Window of fucking Optimism!
Anyway, Maggot reintroduced himself as Trev Dunkley. I never knew him as anybody but Maggot, never figured he might have an actual name. And he went on to tell me how his granddad got shot in the arse at Gallipoli and then proceeded to beat the hell out of his dad who did the same to poor little Trev, as if all that was somehow relevant or if I really gave two fat hoots.
Then Maggot said, Danny, I never had much of a chance in the village. Dad was put away when I was just a little boy, and Mum, you know, she was on the game and that, never made me go to school and stuff, never taught me right from wrong, and the social work, you know—they never did nothin’ about me. I wished they’d taken me away like they did the little Abo kids—remember?—but they never did. But, Danny, I just want you to know somethin’—I really want you to know, I’ve never laid a hand on anyone else after you. I was always sorry for what I done to you—you know? I’ve tried—still trying—to be a better person. That’s all we can do, right—try to be better people—try to be the best person we can, right, Danny?
Yeah, Trev, I said to him, that’s all we can do. All we can do, mate. It’s a long time ago, mate. No hard feelings.
I shook his dry, spidery hand, couldn’t wait to get away from him. But I wanted his vote, figured it was the only recompense I could take from the prick now.
If I had my way I’d put a bulldozer through the village—except that Mum still lives there, and now that her health’s going, she has good neighbours who she trusts and who she’s given my number to, to call in an emergency, not that I’ve ever actually met them.
But I’m reassured that they can call the doctor if Bev’s crook and I’m in Canberra, run a few messages down the shops and get her meds from the chemist if it’s too cold out. Yeah. Fair enough. But really, the only way to fix some places is to knock them down and start again, move the fuckwits and irredeemable losers on and build proper communities from the ground up.
Even then, some people will never take responsibility for their own actions. They’re always blaming someone else—their missing dads, their hopeless mums on the game, the politicians, the social workers, their Grade-One teachers and the state. And that’s the thing about shitheads like Maggot. They never learn and they’ll always live off the rest of us. There’s no good at all—no value—in them. Part of me wants to help them. But honestly, mostly, I just really want places like the old suburb to disappear.
I struggle to be even vaguely nostalgic about the village, even though it’s where I grew the third eye in the back of my head. I’ve spent a lifetime running from that hole. Why should I look back on it fondly? It might swallow losers like Maggot. And it will get Mum eventually. But it was never going to get me.
I remember ringing Tom later that day, having one of those isn’t-it-a-funny-old-world conversations off the back of running into Maggot after all those years, saying something like thirty years ago the cunt tried to kill me every afternoon when I got off the bus and today he wants to vote for me.
Mate, Tom says, are you intending to spend your whole life hating people from your past you’ve already settled the score with? Get over Maggot, please. I taught him a lesson that day so you could move on … it’s the trouble with you, Danny, you’re such a hater.
Tom reckoned his old man started teaching him to box when he was three. They’d both glove up in the yard and Paddy would challenge the boy to hit him as hard as he could. Of course Tom would never connect and Paddy would knock him over repeatedly. By the time he was eight or nine, though, the boy and his dad were properly sparring and Tom was connecting.
When he was twelve Tom took the wind out of Paddy, sat him down involuntarily on the lawn. As a father Paddy came from the cruel-to-be-kind school. He always kept himself distant from his eldest boy, said Tom would forever be challenged by envious others—if he didn’t look after himself then nobody else ever would.
Tom, as he grew bigger, went the offensive knuckle often—too often with too little reason. It was an elaborate form of self-justification—a means of proving that despite who his father was, despite the posh school and all his privilege, he, Tom McQuoid, would always make it on his own in the real world. If there was a war Tom would have been the first to enlist. Had Australia still been in Vietnam when we left school I’m sure Tom would have gone.
Fighting was something I did out of necessity. And after some tutelage from Tom in the art of summoning up courage, over time I became pretty handy with the fists. Yes, it’s true, over the years I’ve sometimes been too quick to shape up. But I’ve never—never—done it unprovoked. Having been a victim, I’ve hated bullies my whole life. In my younger years I was happy to fight fire with fire—but unlike Tom, I didn’t often go looking for it.
On the ground was different—part of the game. You know—there’re pricks you’ll just take out because they pick on the smaller teammates and you’ve got to even the score and teach them a lesson. B
ut then after the final siren you mostly just shake hands and it’s over, forgotten, save for the elastoplast, the odd stitch or finger splint. I got the crazy-brave rep, but Tom’s the one who really deserved it.
That’s not the only thing I owed him. It was Tom who actually introduced me to Ana.
It was a couple of years after Domenica killed herself. And you know, I was pathologically commitment-averse with women by then. Completely phobic.
She was another lawyer, but not a hardcore lefty like me and Tom. She worked on commercial stuff for one of the big Yank firms, she even admitted that because of her dad she’d actually voted Tory once or twice and was, therefore, ripe—as Tom liked to say—for the conversion.
After Domenica Tom helped carry me through, made sure I got out and managed to keep it together at work. Just as importantly, he made sure I kept fronting branch meetings, pushing myself through the party hierarchy. Tom introduced me to more women than I can remember. But Ana was the standout.
I always wondered if she and Tom had ever done the business together. Something Ana said when we first met has always teased my paranoia, aroused the old green monster. She told me that a woman could never really have Tom.
She could have him easily enough, Ana said. But she couldn’t have him as hers. Not just because of the priesthood, but because she could never really know who he was. He lacked something, she said. Maybe empathy. Which was odd for a priest. But then there was a lot about Tom that wasn’t exactly priestly. On the other hand, she said, I was a much more open book.
The big difference, Ana told me, is that you came from the bottom and are aiming for the top. He comes from the top, but wants to prove he’s as tough as anyone from the bottom. Tom can charm anything he wants from almost anyone. But, Danny—this is a compliment—you have authenticity. I think you’re the real thing. Tom isn’t sure who he is.
I think it’s fair to say that years of marriage to me have tarnished Ana’s enthusiasm somewhat.
I can’t begrudge her weariness at the weight of it all—on the kids, on her. On us. Or what’s left of us. Which has seemed like precious little to me for some time now.
But Ana knew what she was signing up for. No doubt about that.
32
Ana says to me that whatever it was that I did, I should share it so she can tell the kids before they find out in the schoolyard—get them used to the idea that this is who I really am and that this is the thing that is going to stop me from becoming prime minister.
Tell me what happened on 25 May 1974, she says. What does it mean—the Demons hitting the deck?
Darl, it was Hawthorn versus Melbourne, the Demons, at the G. The Dees got done—hit the deck. That’s all.
Where were you that day?
I was playing for the school.
And that night? That’s what everybody is asking about, Danny. What happened that night? Where were you?
Concert down at the Myer Music Bowl. Massive punch-up. Sharpie gangs everywhere beating the crap out of everyone and each other. So … I got into the action, too—couldn’t help it. It was very heavy. A few guys got hurt really badly. I always thought some had been killed, maybe. One guy in a coma, hung on for months—maybe longer. It was all in the papers. I’d always assumed he’d died eventually after a year or two. Never bothered to find out, exactly …
So why does it matter then?
Because he’s alive. Thinks I did it, wants to settle a score.
Who are we talking about here, Danny?
When I say his name, she responds with a sharp intake of breath. A long silence follows.
Eventually Ana says, But, Danny, what does it matter if you had nothing to do with it? And he can’t harm you—he can’t actually get to you, right? Or will he come for me and the kids?
No, honey. Relax. He wants to hurt me.
What makes him think it was you, Danny?
Well, I was around, in the vicinity, as the wallopers might say. It’s not hard to put me there. Witnesses. Photographs. But no proof that I’m the one—what I mean is, it’s all circumstantial and it would be wrong to conclude from that. But he’s drip, dripping it out there—so it all goes to the character thing.
Oh, Danny, Danny … what a way for all of this to end. But, Danny, sometimes you’ve got to retreat for the good of everyone around you. For me and the kids.
Ana. It’s not over. I can get through this. And this is the thing—I’m telling the truth.
Oh, for God’s sake, Danny, I’m so tired of all this. I don’t know what to believe. Your speech to the party today—it’s been all over radio about how you spoke about the children and me, about how duty’s always calling you away. A brilliant speech, they all say. But you’re gone to us, Danny, the kids and me—we never see you. It’s like you’ve left the house, left our lives. But then again I just can’t believe anything you say about most things these days.
She knows about Indy. Maybe Indy’s called her. Ask? Bring it up? No.
Ana —
She interrupts—screams, Don’t you dare fucking say you’re sorry!
I wasn’t going to. I was going to say it’s all true.
She’s crying now.
Fuck you, Danny. Fuck you. Find someone else to lie to. And what am I supposed to tell the kids?
Tell them I’m fighting on. Tell them their father is one tough bastard. Tell them that I’m telling the truth and not to believe the stuff they’re hearing on the news about me.
Ana delivers what she says next with perfect composure. It shocks me so deeply that I’m gripped by a wave of nausea that makes my knees buckle. I hold the desk with my free hand to support myself.
Danny, love, I think it’s time to quit. Stop now, Danny, and come home to me and the babies.
Ana, I say, I will never quit. You hear me? Never.
She hangs up.
I’m still looking at the phone in my hand when the next text from Indy—?????—arrives. It could mean either any more secrets? or tonight? I choose tonight because the thing that is really going to make me feel better is not talking but just being under the doona with her.
So I text back: Dinner with Deth, come if u like or c u back at flat l8r?
Her: l8r—we need to talk.
She might. I don’t.
Then I go back and sit behind my desk, watch the monitor as Drysdale’s terror Bill sinks in the Senate. We’ve killed it, thanks to Greens support, with two votes spare. The party, despite all the undermining and bitching and backbiting, all of the doubts about me, and the one or two limp-dicks of mine in the upper house who I’d feared Drysdale’s whips might’ve persuaded to cross the floor, has stuck by me. I smack the desk. Eddie jumps, startled.
I text Drysdale: PM—there’s your trigger. Make my day.
Quick as a flash the silly old cunt returns fire: BANG! Gotcha.
If I actually last until Drysdale calls the election I’ll probably leak that little gem of text exchange to a journo I owe—or from whom I want a favour. Grimes maybe. I mean, what a priceless anecdote with which to start one of those pro forma colour/analysis pieces they all write.
And that’s when Eddie throws onto the desk in front of me an opened A4 yellow envelope and two newly printed, grainy black-and-white photographs.
Today’s mail just keeps getting better.
The first photograph shows a kid—obviously me—seventeen, eighteen years old, long dark hair, jeans ripped at the knees and a wet white t-shirt clinging to his torso. The mouth is twisted and he is—I am—shaping up, weight perfectly distributed between the legs, and a thumping right punch wound up to let go. The flash has pulled the dome of Flinders Street into the frame, along with dozens of young faces wearing expressions across the spectrum from mild entertainment to terror. In neat capitals on the lower white border of the print, someone has written DANNY SLATTERY 25 MAY ’74 in indelible marker.
The second photograph, taken from a slightly lower angle, depicts a huge man—six-three, six-four, bench-pres
sed biceps and expansive chest—horizontal on the wet road, propped on one arm like a beached elephant seal, head dangling towards the ground. His head is buzz-cut, the peroxide rat’s tails dangling a good six inches and shredding the light when the shutter opened behind him from just above street level. The other figure wears a second-skin white t-shirt. His face is now covered with a piece of clothing—a shirt or jumper, a jacket maybe? Only his eyes, wide and brightly refracting the flash, are visible. His body’s weight is perfectly balanced on the slightly bowed right leg, the arms gracefully extended outwards like an albatross about to take flight. The other leg is frozen as it scissors backwards, parallel above the intended victim, poised to deliver a perfect punt into his head.
This photo is captioned: DANNY SLATTERY & VAUGHAN CHARLES, 25 May 1974.
Eddie is leaning over the front of my desk and demanding, loudly, how the hell I could be so goddamned stupid, a question for which I have no ready answer given that stupidity, which amounts to the same thing really as lack of personal discipline, has been a fellow traveller through so much of my adult life now.
I asked you to tell me everything, Eddie says. At this point, Danny, I should be saying it’s over between you and me. I’m just not sure I can help you anymore. This is a complete betrayal and I just don’t think I can work for someone who’s capable of this.
Then she says, Say something, Danny. Anything. You jerk.
I respond, Well, Eddie, you wouldn’t talk to me like that if I was the prime minister, would you?
And she says, Yes, I would, but don’t worry—it will never come to that.
Eddie, I say, you just don’t understand—you can’t walk away now. I need a few more days. I’m so close now to breaking through. And here you are abandoning me too, Eddie. I should’ve expected that.
* * *
I feel lighter when I walk out of the house. I suck in the freezing air, go straight to my car waiting under the portico and head to Tom’s.
The car radio is on. Turn it up, I tell my driver, Stan. Turn the fucking thing up.