He’s right though, isn’t he? said Marshall. We do live in the best country on earth. No-one answered that. But the trouble is, he said, pushing on, it’s hard convincing people, isn’t it? Everyone’s so bloody negative. They can’t see what they’ve got ’cause they think they’re entitled to more. It’s an entitlement problem, do you see? We’ve got this, so why can’t we have that? And this and this and this?
Wait, said Adam. I was just saying, said Marshall. You brought your phone? Evan shrugged, flipped, flopped. You checked the footy scores? I don’t believe this, said Megan. How? said Hannah. When I got the wine from Marshall’s car, said Evan. You’ve got a lovely girl there, Marsh.
What? said Marshall. You broke the pact, said Megan. Oh Jesus, said Evan. No, you lied. A white lie, he said, completely white. You agreed with the rules, said Megan. I don’t follow, said Marshall. He checked the scores, said Hannah, on Tilly’s phone. Evan held his head in his hands. Oh man, he said.
Does it matter? said Lauren. What? said Megan. I just mean, said Lauren, there are lies and lies. I agree we should lighten up, said Marshall. There are big lies and little lies, she continued, good lies and bad lies, real lies and white lies, I don’t think we should belt Evan up for using Tilly’s phone. Megan was about to speak—a weekend away, rediscover the real, drop down into some substance—but she stopped herself, and sat back. You’re right, she said. Evan looked at her. A light blinked on the horizon. Something crackled in the air.
Truth or Dare, said Marshall. What? said Evan. Come on, or just Truth. He was on the edge of the couch. That’s stupid, said Lauren. We each tell a truth, said Marshall, the way we told a story. Could be good, said Megan. I’m into it, said Hannah. Adam? said Marshall. Adam shrugged. Lee? Leon nodded. I’m in, said Evan. Lauren looked at her fingers, fiddled with her rings.
All right, said Marshall, rearranging his politician’s demeanour: we’ve told our stories, now we tell our truths.
Do we need a stick? said Evan. Marsh? Do you reckon we need a stick?
I made that whole story up, said Megan, about Abbie, and the road trip. She waved one hand over her eye, as if at a mosquito, then fixed on the painting like there was something in it yet to find. I worked it all out beforehand, so I could make it sound true. What? said Evan. His head was wobbling on his shoulders. When I was young, said Hannah, I guess about fifteen or sixteen, I used a shampoo bottle to, you know, and the top came off. My mother had to take me to the hospital. We were, like, half an hour waiting, at least, and then another hour on the trolley. I felt so embarrassed. All I could think of was what I would say when the doctor came and asked me what had happened.
Lauren? said Adam. I probably shouldn’t have said that, said Hannah. Or didn’t you even go to the Territory? said Evan, relentlessly, to Megan. I can tell you honestly, said Marshall, with my hand on my heart, that I always believed that what I was doing was for the best. Lee? said Lauren.
Leon hesitated.
Just before I retired, he said—his voice rang clear, he was the only one sober—I worked on this story about corruption in government. An open and shut case. A syndicate of brothel owners had been backhanding cash to this politician for years to get smooth passage on their permits. Then someone from inside started leaking. I met this woman, secretly, and she handed over a disk. We ran the story, named names. You might have read about it. The government got their attack dogs onto me, said it was a beat-up, denied everything and demanded I reveal my sources. I refused, but they wouldn’t let up. They threatened me with proceedings. So one day my editor drags me into his office and tells me how things are getting difficult for him and that I might need to hang this public servant source of mine out to dry. It’s just a few brothel permits, he says, it’s not like it’s a case of national security or anything. But I held out, held out longer than I should have. In the end my editor got on my back. Forget about the old code of ethics, Leon, he said, times have changed. If you don’t name this woman, someone on a blog somewhere will. You’re holding out for something but, mate, I’m sorry, it’s already gone. He was very convincing, so I folded. I named my source.
A seabird squawked somewhere high above the house.
They found her two days later—a lovely woman, a husband, three kids—curled up in an old tree stump in the bush near Belgrave, an empty pill bottle in her lap. My boss felt bad, naturally. He offered me paid leave, a generous package. I mean, the paper had gone to shit anyway, everything was online, lead articles about paedophiles and gangsters and features on the history of the bra. The world had become nothing more than a tits-and-arse dance of tabloid revelation. What did I and my little secret matter?
He looked down. Hannah put a hand on his thigh.
You remember Dane? The director? In Aiden’s story? He ended up doing that Dostoevsky thing. The title comes from that bit in the Bible where Jesus gets the demons out of a madman and puts them into a herd of swine. The swine all run over a cliff. It’s like throwing away all the troubling stuff, you know, the stuff that sends you mad. But the trouble is, these days, we’ve got too many swine. It’s all swine, you know? Everything’s on the outside, there’s nothing in the middle. Leon looked into the bottom of his glass. We will rush, insane and raging, he said, from the cliff down into the sea. I did good giving up drinking, it’s been three years now. He put his hand on Hannah’s thigh the way she’d put hers on his. Well, he said, that’s me. Next?
Lauren shifted in her chair.
I fucked Leon, she said.
Adam was still catching up. So were the others, one by one. Leon and I fucked, said Lauren, after I had the operation, before he went out with Hannah. It wasn’t planned, it just happened, and I thought it would be best not to tell.
You’re fucking kidding me? said Adam. He looked at Leon. Leon looked at Lauren and hung his head.
Guys, said Marshall, I just want you to know, I have done everything I can. I have tried so hard, but everything, everything’s gone wrong, I don’t know how Jackie and I can stay together any more, I just don’t, she wants my balls for breakfast, every morning, and I don’t mean that in a good way. I shouldn’t be saying all this, dumping all this stuff on you on this lovely weekend away. I’ve had a great time, really I have. You’ve been my friends, through good times and bad. Tilly hates me, I know that, she’s off on her own trip now and there’s nothing I can do. And now there’s all this stuff going on at work. I mean I might have made a few mistakes—I’m not saying I haven’t made mistakes—and maybe I’ve not always consulted properly, you know, but you’ve got no idea what it’s like, every day, someone wants this, someone wants that, running around putting out spot fires and then when you turn your back for two seconds it’s like a fucking conflagration. Rylan was white-anting me. It must have been him. Who else could it be? The slogans on the window, the rumours all over the net. Death threats. You’ve got no idea.
He uncorked the Cointreau and drank.
You mean to tell me, said Adam, ignoring everything Marshall said, that you’ve kept this from me all this time, even when I’ve gone on about him being a nice guy and how he’s made mistakes but he’s a good person at heart and one day he’ll make a good woman happy? Forget it, Adam, said Lauren, it’s not important now. What do you mean it’s not important? he said, standing up. Let it go, she said. I’m sorry folks, said Ma
rshall, that was insensitive of me. Leon? said Adam.
I’m sorry, said Leon, really, I am. But it wasn’t about the sex.
Everyone looked at him or away. She was sad. I held her. It happened. Fuck me, said Adam, rolling his eyes as if he was trying to see the back of his head. Leave it, said Lauren.
Or did you go, said Evan, and all this Abbie-nurse-story-crap was just a cover-up for five thousand miles of lesbian fucking? Evan, please, said Marshall. No, he said, you can’t do that, you can’t make up some big elaborate story then tell us it was all a lie!
Did you know? asked Adam. Megan nodded. Fuck me, he said. Who else?
You told that story, didn’t you, said Hannah, who’d been silent all this time, because you wanted to get it off your chest? The woman having an affair, the man jumping out of the building. She was talking to Lauren. Let it go, honey, said Leon. For fuck’s sake, it just happened, said Lauren. I had the operation, I was feeling low, things weren’t good between me and Adam. It just happened.
Marshall, are you okay? asked Megan. He was looking at the stairs.
Now Adam was up, out of his chair, pushing up his sleeves. You fuckhead, he said. Leon didn’t respond. You fucked my wife, right after she had her breast removed. How fucked up is that? Sit down, Adam, please, said Lauren. Adam, please, said Megan. Come on mate, said Evan. Hit me, come on, said Leon. He stood up too. Don’t be stupid! said Megan. Oh, don’t guys, please, said Marshall. Adam lowered his fists. You’re children, said Lauren. They both sat down. There was a lull.
I mean, said Evan, picking up his thread again, there you all were giving it to me about the footy scores and Megan’s just told us her whole fuckin’ story was a lie! Shut up Evan, said Megan. Yeah shut up Evan, said Adam.
Adam stood up again. No, he said, I’m sorry, this is completely off the scale. You can’t just fuckin’ say that, Lauren, in front of everybody, then sit there all smug and go like oh it just happened. Forget it, said Leon. No, fuck you Lee, he said; up, up, up you get, get up, get up, now! Marshall tried to hold Adam’s arm but Adam threw him off. Up! he said. Leon stood. No! said Hannah. She was up too, clutching Leon to her. Adam threw his fist; it was too late to stop it. Hannah went down and Adam came down after. Fuck! screamed Megan. Leon started thumping his own fists into the back of Adam’s head. Spit was flying out of his mouth. His bald head was all blotchy and red. Evan had to drag him off and fell back onto the couch with him. Please! said Lauren.
Adam got to his feet, staggered, threw the sliding door back and walked out. The clouds had cleared, the moon was out. A herd of pigs ran down the hill to the edge of the cliff and threw themselves into the sea.
Evan held Leon in a bear hug while Leon shook and cried. Hannah was still on the floor. Leon pushed himself free, went to her and held her close. Her skirt had ridden up, there was a sliver of black satin showing. Leon was crouched right over now, as if afraid she would escape. He looked like a sad man praying.
Evan looked around. Adam was at the rail, gazing out. Lauren was on the couch: upright, jaw locked, lips tight.
Tilly was at the top of the stairs.
The commotion had brought her up. She was on the third step down, all but her head and shoulders hidden by the timber balustrade. For a moment she caught Evan’s eye. She looked around: the bottles, the glasses, the tipped-over table, the tilted painting, the fire-alarm flap like a broken limb. She recorded the scene for memory and went back down again.
Evan turned to Marshall who was staring into the fire. Marshall looked at him, brought the bottle to his lips, and drank. The world’s got problems, he said, it’s true. But if we really put our minds to it, Evan, I reckon we can solve them.
SUNDAY
Adam was last to wake. His head was sore, his hand throbbed. A truck or tractor or something was revving somewhere on the hill. He put on some clothes and went to the kitchen where Lauren was making the coffee: she touched him on the arm.
Evan came in with an empty bowl and put it in the sink. They’ve been clearing the road since seven, he said, and he went out again.
Adam poured a coffee and took it out to the living room. The curtains were open, the sky had cleared, it was a cold sunny day. Megan and Marshall were at the dining table, talking, their faces close, almost touching. Marshall was holding his head. Megan was whispering, it’s all right, it’s all right. For some reason he was dressed in a suit. The fire door was open; Adam threw a log in and gave it a poke, then he slid the balcony door back.
The air was rich with the smell of rain. The rosellas were chattering in the trees. Leon was standing at the balcony rail, the stick in his hand, his jacket turned up to his ears. The bulldozer was loud out here, working the road below, chugging, revving. Adam stood at the rail. There was about a metre between them. Evan was below, hosing the mud off Marshall’s car. It was parked across the end of the driveway now, pointing downhill, ready to go.
I’m sorry, said Leon.
Me too, said Adam.
They went quiet again.
Look at us, Ad, said Leon, without looking at him: a bunch of well-off, well-educated fucks, the generation in charge, and yet we don’t know shit. We went to uni, and it didn’t cost us a cent. We found jobs, made careers. Marshall’s a member of parliament. We’ve lived off the fat. We saw the world, conquered every corner of it, but what did we ever do but stare at ourselves? We accuse that generation down there, Tilly, of being narcissistic. Yeah, well. Ours was the golden age, Ad, money to burn. We could have done something, left a legacy. But what did we do? Talked crap, argued, bickered, ate, drank—we’re always eating and drinking, stuffing our faces, telling everyone what we had for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It’s obscene. We’ve let the world go to the dogs, Adam. We’ve got no rigour. What did we do? I’ll tell you what: we lapped at the plate they left for us until we lapped it clean.
Leon turned to look at him but Adam wasn’t listening. He was looking back through the glass doors to the living room where Megan was helping Marshall out of his chair. Marshall straightened up and shook himself and gently pushed Megan away. He started walking towards the stairs. He looked terrible.
Leon looked in briefly, then turned back to the view. Okay, he said, so this is what’s going on. Tilly wasn’t on her phone talking to her friends. She’s been at it since Friday night, right here under our noses, taking her father down. She’s a troll, a good troll, mind you, working away in the dark. Facebook, Twitter, a trail of comments on every blog of every politician and journalist and commentator in the country. Marshall did this, Marshall did that, he took bribes, made false statements, rorted his travel account, embezzled party funds, bought women, went with men, took photos of himself. It’s all over the net. He’s a dead man walking.
But are they true? asked Adam. What? said Leon. The rumours: are they true? Leon laughed. True? Jesus, Adam, you of all people.
A wisp of white cloud was hurrying away out over the water, the sky was the deepest blue. Adam slid the door back and went inside. Leon watched him go. Down below, Evan turned off the hose, wound it back on its reel and shook his hands dry.
Tilly appeared, carrying her bag. Hannah followed, a bruise over one eye. They walked to the car. Tilly threw her bag in the back seat and got in after. Hannah closed the door. From
where Leon was standing he could just see the back of Tilly’s head. She was sitting up straight, her neck oddly elongated, like a princess waiting in the carriage before it sets off for the castle.
A van with a satellite dish came into view. Leon watched as it moved around the bend from behind the trees up the slope. You could see the marks the tyres made, dragging the mud up from below. A guy in a suit got out and crossed to Marshall’s car. He was lifting his feet high, careful not to soil his shoes, while the driver and another guy started unloading the gear.
Now Marshall appeared, and walked down the driveway to meet them. He looked calm. He straightened his tie and extended a hand to the reporter who, confused at first, shook it. They both stood talking in the driveway, the reporter occasionally pointing to his van, then at the sky. Marshall pointed to his car, then back behind him to the house. The two guys with the gear stood at a respectful distance. The reporter gave the signal. The cameraman and boom operator set up. The light went on and Marshall blinked. The cameraman pointed with a flat hand, adjusting Marshall’s position. The reporter waited, straightening the lapels of his suit.
Leon watched.
He’d been up since early morning, the only one without a hangover, to go for a run down the beach. The air had oxygen and electricity in it. He felt solid, clear, alive. The weekend faded behind. The cooking, the drinking, the talking, telling stories, the confessions, the flare-up, the look on Lauren’s face, all that faded until the only thing left was the picture of Marshall in the driveway, lit by that harsh TV light, and the reporter plying him with questions.
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