Challenge

by Paul Daley

I tap End and sit down across from Eddie. Look at her. She stands, walks around the coffee table, invades my space. She reaches for both of my hands, holds them, and pulls them gently, urging me to stand.

  The front of her jacket brushes my shirt. I can feel her breath, smell her perfume. She clutches my upper arms then stands on tiptoes and says, Shh. Shh. Enough, Danny. It’s ending now.

  40

  Ever since that Friday afternoon almost forty years ago when Tom sorted out Maggot at the Olympic Village shops, I’ve never ceased to wonder at the capacity of single events in small moments of time to irrevocably change the course of a life.

  Tom showed me the way that afternoon. I took his lead. And I have never really looked back.

  Today everyone is edgy. Sleepless, emotionally drained. Everybody in my party is totally paranoid about security, terrified that some nutcase from the wrong mosque will try something on with a gun or bomb.

  So it startles us all when the wind blows up from nowhere and sends a rubbish bin crashing into the outside of my office window. It’s followed by a massive wave of giant hailstones that sound like bullets striking the glass, the second such storm in two days.

  The goldfish, I say to Eddie. You told me the goldfish in the pond out there survived yesterday’s storm. But will they be okay today?

  It’s not the goldfish I’m so worried about, she says, raising her voice above the din.

  The Sweeties, Proudfoot, Moncke, Usher and Crawley are all anxiously standing just inside the doorway now. I’ve agreed to see them. Just so I can tell them to fuck off.

  Tempest, I say, echoing Vaughan Charles—a sign.

  Nobody responds.

  It’s okay, I say. It’s just a storm. Nothing else. Just a storm. But I know what you were all thinking—you’re all so edgy. Can’t think why.

  Moncke looks disappointed, like he’d have preferred a bomb.

  The freak wind passed as quickly as it arrived. Sky TV is on in the corner of the room, volume down. The soundy from this morning is being interviewed. Spelt out in words that roll across the bottom of the screen: Soundman witness denies Oppn Ldr Slattery pushed or punched Ch12 reporter, says Slattery trying to stop journo falling over …

  Moncke is a tall man, fat, with no neck, remarkably physically shot for a bloke in his early to mid-forties. He has the greasy grimace of a car salesman and smoker’s teeth. Everyone says he’s a genius. I’ve never been able to see it myself, given he’s presided over the last two election losses.

  He opens with, Well, Danny we’ve come here today to deliver you a message, old son …

  Old son? Phil, I’m not the waiter at the Melbourne Club. I’m your leader.

  Whatever, Danny. Let’s not beat around the bush here. Garry, Dave, Tim, Kirsty, Steve. We came to say it’s time to chuck it in, mate. Steve here and Kirsty have got something to say. Moncke gestures to Crawley and Usher.

  I desperately want to do Moncke some—any—sort of physical harm. But I breathe deeply, say, Thanks for that ringing endorsement, Phil. But just so you know, I’m not going to walk. I will not be calling a spill. I gave the comrades that chance yesterday and nobody put their hand up. If you want a spill then force it—go and get a petition with the names of a third of our MPs on it.

  If that’s the way you want it, Danny, says Usher, taking a step forward.

  I ignore Usher and Crawley, who still can’t find the courage to look at me.

  It is precisely the way I want it, thanks, Kirsty, I say. And Phil—I will kill you if you ever call me old son again. I will. So go get your signatures. Then come see me.

  They leave quickly.

  Eddie says, You know what’s going to destroy you here, don’t you, Danny? It won’t be Domenica. It won’t be Ellingsen.

  Yeah?

  It’ll be the Kick.

  You seem very sure of that.

  I am.

  C’est la vie.

  Save yourself, Danny. You can save yourself. Recover this. I want you to. I look at you, Danny, and I think that you actually might be the real deal. For all your faults, and there’s an awful lot of them, you believe in things and hold fast. You just might be the guy. I know what happened, Danny. I’ve been piecing it together like everyone else—what with Vaughan Charles telling anyone who’d listen it’s you, and then looking at the photographs, clearly of two different people—you and somebody else with his face covered. And Deth—Jesus Christ! I’ve had him on the phone half the night. And so you know what you’ve got to do. Save yourself. Please.

  I won’t do it.

  Why not?

  I gave my word.

  I go and sit on the sofa next to her, put my head on her shoulder. She strokes my face.

  Thanks, Eddie, I say.

  My phone pings: a text from an international number I don’t recognise.

  Did you check Ngambri?

  Eddie says, I still think that you’re a good man, Danny. But you’re never going to become prime minister. Unless …

  I know, I say.

  I get up, go get my running gear and head for the bathroom to change.

  Eddie, tell Errol to tell the reptiles—no presser, no statements on anything until after Question Time.

  Okay. You’re ignoring my advice. But you know what you’re doing, right?

  I do. I’m going to get Stan to drop me at the base of Red Hill. And I’m going to finish the run I started this morning. But first I’m going to go and drop in on Vince in the nursing home.

  You’re going running?

  Yeah.

  Danny, why now?

  Because, I dunno—maybe just YOLO. Yeah. YOLO.

  41

  It is called The Cedars. But every time I’ve visited Vince I’ve wondered why there aren’t any. There’s just asphalt and a few woody old grevillea that overshadow a low red-brick fence.

  I press the buzzer. A nurse opens the door. As always, the smell hits me straight away. It is that of old age: urine and soap powder, air freshener, burnt lamb fat and lanoline. All is underscored with an antiseptic aroma that says hospital—or maybe morgue. I wonder how Deth can stand seeing his old man in here. And that smell—surely it must transport him straight back to Kabul.

  The nurse says, I know you.

  No, you don’t, I say.

  I don’t mean to wrong-foot her, but it has that effect. I’ve been here many times. The staff know me and don’t make a fuss. But she’s new, can’t help voicing her surprise.

  Okay, sure, she says, checking herself. Can I help?

  Vincent Dethridge, I say.

  She says that next time I come I should just let myself in using the keypad lock.

  I know that’s what I should do, I say. But I can never remember the combination. I’m bad with numbers.

  The oldies—they wander, you know? she says, handing me a card with the combination—2412—printed on it.

  Then she explains, Christmas Eve. It’s always Christmas Eve round here.

  Yes. It really feels like it, I say.

  Her pager sounds and she leaves. I step into the vast communal lounge room. God’s Waiting Room. I stop. I don’t know why. But I do. And then I survey it all.

  Dozens of elderly people, trapped in various stages of immobility, are slouched on armchairs and sofas, and propped at tables. Four televisions as wide as cars belt out competing shows—the news, a hospital soap, Breakfast at Tiffany’s on TCM, Sesame Street on Kids’ Channel, and the repeat of Sunday’s Captain Cook.

  Drysdale’s bespectacled head is on one of them, talking about some minor storm damage around Parliament House and condemning the latest attack on a Normalian family in outer Melbourne while Audrey Hepburn tells George Peppard she’d marry him for his money in a moment, James Taylor sings ‘Jelly Man Kelly’ and Peng explains why it is so important to slow-cook the rabbit with a little bit of bacon fat (Deth must’ve forgotten the bacon fat) because otherwise it becomes stringy and dry.

  All around, staff and family members are feeding
the old people. I look down to my right. An elderly woman sits in an armchair, her legs covered with a crocheted rug. She holds the hand of a younger woman, a granddaughter perhaps, who sits impassively on the carpet in front of her. With her free hand the old woman strokes the young woman’s hair. Both are crying.

  My phone rings—a Sydney number I don’t recognise. I want distraction and so I do what Eddie has always advised me not to do, and answer.

  Hello, Danny, this is Faith Morestock from the Macawber-Violet Literary Agency—I won’t take a minute, I know you’re terribly busy. But I’m just ringing to inquire, Danny, if you had considered keeping a diary and writing a memoir about your time …

  As a matter of fact, I say—and then she goes on for a bit. I hear her say the words lucrative and high six figures, and tell her I’ll get back to her.

  The nurse returns, tells me to follow.

  Dad’s upstairs in his room, she says. He’s stuck in bed until that hip heals, unfortunately.

  He’s not exactly my dad, I reply. More like an uncle.

  She says, Oh, it’s just that I thought the priest who’s with him was your brother—you look so much alike. Same cool eyes.

  She’s flirting. Only human.

  I tell her I’ll make my own way up. And so I get into a small lift that smells of egg custard and ascend two floors. I walk slowly along a hallway lined with more old people who sit staring out the windows.

  God, take me earlier, please—but don’t ever do this to me.

  I stop just outside the doorway, look in. The blind is drawn, the room dusky. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. Tom is sitting in a chair facing the bed, holding Vince’s hand.

  Tom is blowing his nose, sobbing.

  I hear him say, Vince, tell me what to do about Danny. Tell me what to do.

  Vince is breathing deeply and slowly, emitting soft snores and whistles as he inhales and exhales through his cadaverous, denture-less mouth. When I last saw Vince a fortnight ago he’d just broken his hip. But they had him dressed, propped up in the chair. He was staring blankly at the TV and his hands were shaking. He muttered to me that it was time we went out for a fish dinner and cracked a few bottles. Then he said something that sounded like, Don’t give up—don’t let them tear you down.

  Since then the disease has wasted him. There is just a slim rise where the canopy of sheet covers his wizened frame. Except for the mottles, blotches and patchy hair, his arm, leading to the hand held by Tom, is as slight as that of a four-year-old.

  Tom is saying, Vince—it’s all starting to come out. It’s all about to catch up … with Danny. Danny’s going to take the fall.

  Tom doesn’t see me. So I turn and leave.

  * * *

  I stretch on the gatepost and jog full steam up the saddle towards the cloud that is still hanging low, obscuring the ridgeline. The red earth under my feet is soft and sticky, forming great heavy clods on my runners.

  The storm has left its mark everywhere; little rivulets run down the craggy crevices of the old man’s face that is the hill, and fallen tree branches are strewn across the path. It smells fresh, earthy, fecund and luscious after the oppressive death-scent of The Cedars.

  Within four or five hundred metres my thighs are burning, but I push through the pain and stomp on forward, upwards.

  At the top of the saddle I stop, catch my breath, pull out my mobile. I’m standing in the cloud looking at the face of my phone. I tap the geocache app. It tells me to go south-east up the ridge. It’s steep and the crushed rock and gravel underfoot become too uncertain for me to run. I’m startled when a bloke wearing trackies, a fleece and a cap in my old club colours, and leading a black dog, emerges in front of me, so short is the line of visibility through the thick cloud.

  Morning, he says and smiles, recognising me but not making a big deal about seeing the leader of the Opposition and an old player he knows too well, walking up the hill when so much shit is falling down around him.

  Easier going this way, he says.

  I laugh and reply, Well, mate, we all go down eventually. In a manner of speaking.

  The app guides me to the trig and I stop for a breather. Then it directs me down the face of the hill about ten metres to a boulder. The app says: There are two hollowed logs to your right. Crouch down and look inside the second one. There is a Tupperware bread container. This friendly geocache is here for local kids and dog walkers. If you take anything out, be sure to leave a gift of your own.

  I open the lid. There is a large yellow envelope. An amber-coloured jelly snake is curled on top.

  I take the envelope and the snake, and search my pockets for something to leave in their place. The only thing I can swap is a silk handkerchief, monogrammed with DS, the last remaining from a set of five that Mum gave me for my fiftieth. I put it in the Tupperware box, secure the lid and stow it back inside the log.

  I run hard back down to the car park where Stan is waiting. During the short drive back to the house, I tear open the envelope. I take out a photograph—identical to one of the two that were anonymously sent to me yesterday. The grainy bare left foot of the kicker has been circled in black texta. There’s a small asterisk in ballpoint pen next to it. I flip the photograph. There’s a corresponding asterisk on the back and next to it, in a neat hand I don’t recognise, the words, Danny, you were useless on the left. Don’t you think it’s time to tell all about the night the Demons hit the deck? This is not you. Best from your friend, Demonspawn.

  I almost miss the other document in the yellow envelope. It comprises three stapled foolscap pages.

  The covering page reads:

  TOP SECRET

  NOFORN

  21/07/2010—01045

  FROM: EMBASSYCanbr TO: State Dept Wash cntrterror; CIA Langley; FBI; SecState Asia-Pac.

  Australian counter-terrorism legislation and potential attack Aust. homeland.

  This cable contains foreign government information to be treated as top secret—no unauthorised handling.

  *This cable must be protected from unauthorised handling. It may only be transmitted by secure sources and must only be discussed on secure telephone lines. If printed it must be stored in a secure, restricted cabinet.

  My hands are shaking so fiercely that I struggle to turn the page. I start to read.

  The phone rings. It’s Eddie.

  Danny—you want the good or the bad first?

  Oh fuck, Eddie, could there really be more bad? Tell me please.

  Vaughan Charles has called a presser for 1.30. Heads up—Errol’s spoken to him. He says he’s going to tell his life story, say what a rotten young prick he was and how he deserved a hiding from you—a kick or two in the head. He’s going to say he was a scumbag, cruel and nasty, preyed on the weak, hurt women—all that stuff, but that the Kick was the best thing that ever happened to him. Gave him a chance at redemption, to get his life back on track, made him see the light, yadda yadda yadda. He’s going to say there’re no hard feelings against you. That you did him a favour by putting him in the chair. He knows this will finish you, Danny.

  Ed—don’t suppose you can dissuade him?

  Won’t be dissuaded. Says God is urging him to tell the truth about it all—to make his forgiveness plain. There’s a lot of honesty round in politics today, Danny.

  It’s the new black, I say. Keep trying to shut him up.

  Errol’s on it.

  Okay, I say. You said there was good—so tell me, what’s good about this day?

  Just got the Ozpoll results, Danny, off the back of the truck. Online tonight.

  Live by the poll, die by the poll. Tell me, Eddie.

  Primary vote—47 per cent, Tories 30 per cent. Two-party-preferred— wait for it, 60–40 our way. Here’s the big one—preferred PM. Drysdale down fifteen to thirty-five. Slattery up fifteen to sixty-five. Sixty-five, Danny. The only leader who ever got sixty-five as preferred PM was Les Holden just before the 1980 election.

  And they want to get
rid of me.

  Yes, they do.

  Well, how about I get rid of them and just run for president instead?

  It’s too late for that, Danny. They’re going to do you after Question Time. The petition is circulating. They’re signing it. They’ll have the numbers.

  42

  Winter 1974

  I run along Flinders Street under the shadows of the old station’s deep eaves, towards Spencer Street. The kids all around me, some staggering drunk, others agitated and electrified by the combination of so much violence and dope and booze and speed, buzz together in blood-spattered swarms.

  I can’t find Tom anywhere. He bolted as soon as Chisel hit the deck.

  I’m shaking and scared, trying to blend in. But if anything my bloody t-shirt and my twitchy vigilance—as I flick my head from group to group looking for any of Chisel’s boys who would be searching to settle the score—makes me self-conscious and probably conspicuous.

  Some recognise me as the one in the white t-shirt who they’d seen recover from Chisel’s punch to rise up somehow and take out the great, frightening, ugly motherfucker.

  I get sharp points for that. And now as I rub my bloody forehead where Chisel split it with his fist, another one of the Heidelberg kids comes up, says, Big Dan, I’m amazed you didn’t bust your foot, you kicked him so fuckin’ hard. You think you killed him? He fuckin’ deserved it.

  I shrug, keep walking along the wet footpath down towards Spencer Street and a few others say stuff like, You’re a fuckin’ legend, Danny. No one’ll ever forget tonight. Never.

  Never.

  I walk all the way to Kensington, avoid the small groups of pissed and angry dickheads making their way home to the Flemington flats. Then I get the last train back into town, change onto the Hurstbridge line to Heidelberg.

  The village is crawling with kids who’ve come back from the Bowl, still drunk and excited at the blood on the street, at Chisel being taken away by the ambos, probably dead, at the music and the smell of spilt beer, dope and sex. I sneak in through the back door, trying to avoid, at any cost, waking Mum.

  But as I enter the kitchen the light snaps on and it’s all erupting with, Where the hell have you been and what have you been doing? Look at you, you’re a disgrace covered in blood, your shirt all torn, have you been fighting again? It’s that bloody Tom McQuoid, isn’t it? A bad influence, I’ve always said—fights before he stops to think, always getting you in trouble. Tom McQuoid with his bloody la-di-da family, thinking they own the friggin’ school and the city, get away with whatever they like, they think they can. And by the way, mister, where is Tom? He was supposed to be staying here tonight, you said, and look at you—you’re going to need stitches in that head, mister.