Sucked In

by Shane Maloney

  ‘Love that Motown sound,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Standing in the shadows of love?’ I warbled as I hung up.

  Darkness was falling fast and the strident beep of a reversing fork-lift was coming from the direction of Vinnie Amato’s Fresh Fruit and Veg, crates of produce being shunted inside for the night. The rain had dried up while I was in Canberra and long pink-grey mares’ tails streaked the skyline above the Green Fingers garden centre like a flock of attenuated galahs.

  I dialled Margot’s number.

  ‘Murray,’ she said. Her voice was an equal mix of fatigue and anxiety.

  ‘How’re you doing, sweetheart?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t chat,’ I said. ‘I’m at the office. But I’ll drop round to the house tomorrow night and we can talk face-to-face. Things aren’t as bad as you thought, Margot. It wasn’t your fault. None of it. Not here, not there. You’ve got no cause to beat yourself up.’

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘Gotta go,’ I said. ‘You know what it’s like, a politician’s lot and all of that. See you soon, eh?’

  I hung up, trusting she’d understand my briskness. Then I rang Red and told him to go ahead and eat without me, but leave me some of the spag sauce.

  Ayisha rapped on the glass wall. Mike Kyriakis and Helen Wright had arrived. I joined them at the conference table, where they’d pulled up seats and started comparing their lists with ours.

  ‘Evening all,’ I said, assuming the chair position at the head of the table. ‘As you know, Ayisha’s been complaining for some time that her job doesn’t give her enough opportunities for travel.’

  My electorate officer gave a derisory, mocking hoot. ‘My fault is it?’

  ‘Politics is all about self-sacrifice,’ I said.

  Ayisha made a jerk-off gesture. The other two were looking mystified, Helen in a round, dimply way, Mike in a solemn, arms-crossed way.

  ‘He means that he’s decided to take a leaf out of your book, Mike,’ said Ayisha.

  Comprehension began to dawn. Mike looked at Helen, Helen looked at Mike, they both looked at me.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ayisha. ‘This fool is putting his hand up for Coolaroo, too.’

  Mike and Helen were looking at me like I’d mislaid my marbles.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Helen. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘No, he’s fair dinkum,’ said Ayisha. ‘And before you ask, it’s not a mid-life crisis. It’s a mid-life epiphany.’

  The time had come to put my cards on the table. ‘It’s true,’ I said.

  Mike’s disbelief was turning dark. He began gathering up his lists. ‘You’ll split the vote,’ he said. ‘By myself I had a pretty good chance of drawing blood. With two of us, it’ll be a joke. Why are you doing this Murray? You’re already sitting pretty. Why cruel my pitch?’

  His sense of betrayal was palpable. Helen and Ayisha watched us in breathless silence.

  ‘Hear me out, Mike,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve found a way to make this a win-win situation, or rather a win-lose-win-draw-lose-win-win situation. And I haven’t come to the table empty-handed. I’ve got some cards up my sleeve.’

  Mike looked dubious, but he put down his lists and leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, since I’m here.’

  ‘You remember on Sunday at Charlie’s wake,’ I started. ‘That hypothetical scenario that Sivan cooked up, the one where a split opened up in the central panel?’

  They leaned forward, all three of them, and I reached for a blank sheet of paper.

  ‘Just hand me that abacus,’ I said.

  The President’s gavel descended with a brisk, resounding clap and we lowered ourselves onto our red velvet cushions. It was ten-thirty on Wednesday morning and the Legislative Council of the Parliament of Victoria was now officially in session.

  Beside and below me on the opposition benches sat my ten fellow Labor members. Facing us from the government benches were twice as many Liberal and National members. Between us was the Clerk’s table where Kelly Cusack and I had conferred the previous Friday.

  In six hours I was due to meet Sid Gilpin to relieve him of the bankbooks. In the meantime, however, there was work to be done.

  Of a sort. In this particular instance, it consisted of listening to my colleague, Judy Mathering, the Manager of Opposition Business in the upper house and strong proponent of well-fitted foundation garments and sensible footwear, move and speak to a motion.

  I settled my backside on the upholstery, and watched as Judy turned her stocky frame towards the President’s podium, cleared her throat and begged leave to introduce a Condolence Motion on behalf of the people of Victoria to the family of the recently deceased Mr Charles Talbot, MHR.

  My gaze moved up to the well-stocked public gallery where Charlie’s three daughters were seated with various of his grandchildren, sons-in-law, nieces and nephews. They sat sombrely, as though in chapel. After almost two weeks of formal farewells, this was the last of the official elegies and I sensed that they would be relieved when it was all over.

  Margot was there, too, at the other end of the pew, flanked by Charlie’s older sister Jeanette and his younger brother Ray. This gesture of solidarity, I hoped, signalled an eventual thaw in overall familial relations.

  The President granted leave and Judy began to read her speech. Her theme was Charlie’s service as a parliamentarian and his contribution as a minister in the various portfolios he held during Labor’s tenure in Canberra. Judy was no spellbinder and her reedy voice carried an unintentionally hectoring undertone, but this was not an occasion for politicking.

  For once, members on the government benches made an effort to uphold the dignity of their office. Most refrained from their usual crotch scratching, nose picking and gum chewing. Several lowered their multiple chins reverently.

  I, too, bowed my head and consulted my thoughts. They concerned my plan to deal with Gilpin. There was nothing sophisticated about it. Cunning would be wasted on the mercurial Sid. A blunt instrument was called for. Success depended on wielding it effectively.

  Judy Mathering’s voice was a steady, hypnotic cadence, rising and falling in the echoing space of the chamber.

  …the loss of a man whose contribution to public life in the country, and to the welfare of so many people, sprang from a deep-seated commitment to the principles of social justice and…

  I lifted my eyes and studied Margot. It was hard to tell at that distance, but she seemed a lot more tranquil this morning. As tranquil as is proper, at least, for a grieving widow on public display.

  She’d met me at the door when I arrived at the Diggers Rest house just after nine the previous night. Katie was tucked up in bed and Sarah the Carer was off duty for the evening, living it up at some student soiree. Margot had a glass in her hand and several under her belt, making me glad I’d come in person. She could sound misleadingly sober on the phone when she tried.

  ‘I’m missing him hard,’ she slurred, falling into my reassuring embrace. ‘Charlie, oh Charlie, come back.’

  For an hour I sat with her on the couch, recounting most of what I’d learned since our talk in the Fliteplan office.

  …which demonstrated his capacity for creative solutions to the problems of the day…

  Not all of it, of course. But enough of the essentials to convince her that she’d been mistaken in assuming that she’d left Merv Cutlett dead on the floor of his Trades Hall office. Both Quinlan and Bishop had credibly attested to Merv’s grouchiness when they arrived at the Shack, painting him more like a bear with a sore head than a man on his last legs.

  Neither of them knew about her involvement, I assured her. By the time I left, she was prepared to accept that he had indeed accidentally drowned and Charlie had truly done his best to save the old prick’s life.

  …before going on to play an important role as one of the architects of Labor’s return to power in 1983 and its subsequent lo
ng and eventful period in government…

  I lowered my eyes and nodded along with Judy’s words. I’d helped her polish them that morning after I clocked on at the Henhouse, so I knew them almost by heart.

  Apart from lending Judy a hand, I’d spent the morning sequestered in my cubicle, catching up on neglected paperwork and performing acts of administrative contrition for the Whip, whose calls I’d failed to answer in the five days since Inky Donnelly ambushed me with his copy of the Herald Sun and his questions about the Municipals.

  In between pushing my pen, I’d spent a fair bit of time on the phone, conferring with Mike Kyriakis and Helen Wright.

  Their reaction when I hit them with the news that I intended to enter the Coolaroo Derby was understandable. It had taken some heavy paddling, but eventually Mike had copped my proposition. Our interests, I’d argued, were congruent and with luck and good management we might both get what we wanted. He wanted to make a name for himself as a player. I wanted a reason to stay in politics.

  …where his talents could be best used to safeguard and advance the interests of those who had elected him…

  Like working to defend universal health insurance, say. Reconciliation, and a regulated labour market and multiculturalism and a fair suck of the sausage. All the good stuff the Labor Party was supposed to stand for. And like Mike Kyriakis, I really didn’t have anything to lose by giving it a shot.

  The plan I’d pitched in the electorate office was a leapfrogging preference-swap that called upon every iota of the knowledge I’d accumulated in my thirty-year membership of the ALP. It involved a hitherto-untested combination of the five basic moves in Labor decision making—the stack and whack, the roll and fold, the shift and shaft, the Brereton variation and the whoops-a-daisy.

  A volatile brew indeed. But ultimately, it came down to Mike Kyriakis’ spadework plus delivery on the pledges I’d exacted from Peter Thorsen and Senator Quinlan. And they were far from certainties. Particularly Quinlan’s.

  …a minister in a wide range of senior portfolios, all of them demanding an ability to reconcile widely divergent pressures…

  By the time I got home from Margot’s place, Red had hit the hay. I checked the answering machine in the vain hope that Lanie had called, shovelled down some spoonfuls of cold spaghetti sauce, threw myself on the sofa, and thought about my next move.

  The police were obviously not slacking off on the identification of the remains. Nor, presumably, had any suspicions aroused by the bullet-shaped hole in the skull been allayed. I’d promised both Margot and Quinlan, each for different reasons, that I’d make sure that Gilpin did not succeed in fanning those suspicions. The mad bastard had given me until Wednesday afternoon to respond to his threats. Problem was, I didn’t have the foggiest inkling of what to do.

  I lay there for a long time, my feet on the armrest, staring between my socks, before I came up with an idea.

  It was a feeble idea, but it was the only one I had.

  I took down the archive box and found the issue of the FUME News with the picnic photo. Then I went into the loo and collected the pile of newspaper supplements off the floor. I worked my way through the fashion pages until I found what I wanted. I tore out the page, put it in a large manila envelope with the newspaper and drove to the service station in Heidelberg Road. I spent half an hour and five dollars using the photocopier in the convenience store section, then went home to bed.

  …in the hope that this gesture will offer some consolation to his family and those many others who share the loss of his passing…

  Judy was nearing the end of her speech. I again tilted my head upwards, this time looking directly at Charlie’s daughters.

  Having a politician for a parent can be hard on a child. For most of their early lives, Charlie was an absentee father. Shirley raised the kids while Dad, like a shearer, followed the work. And now that he was gone, all that remained was his reputation. If I could, I’d see they weren’t robbed of that too.

  Abruptly, Judy stopped speaking. The President called for a seconder and I raised my hand. The motion was put, a unanimous chorus of ayes rose to the gilded ceiling and Charlie Talbot’s name was officially consigned to the history books.

  My job was to make sure it stayed on the right page.

  What I needed now was a short length of chain and a padlock.

  The city skyline was a palisade of glistening steel as the mirrored walls of the office towers caught the last rays of the afternoon sun. Down on the ground, darkness was expanding to fill the space available. The commuters converging on Spencer Street station were already hunched against the imminent chill.

  I drove around to approach the Tin Shed from the west, skirting the worst of the traffic, dipping beneath the railway bridge at Festival Hall and turning into what used to be Footscray Road. It had a new name now, but nobody knew what. It was a government secret, commercial and confidential. In the torn-up space between the docks and the future, the only points of reference were the words on the cranes. Transurban. Balderstone-Hornibrook. Nudge-Nudge. Wink-Wink.

  I cruised past the shed’s corrugated hump and spotted Gilpin feeding a fire in a 44-gallon drum at the back door.

  Doubling back, I parked among the doorless refrigerators and wheel-less wheelbarrows and went around the back.

  The drum was the one I’d taken for a kennel. Oily flames were flickering from the top, fuelled by Sid from a heap of broken furniture, old garden stakes, ink cartridges and stuffed toys. I wondered if he was cremating the dog. Turds aside, there was still no sign of it.

  He watched my approach through a veil of dancing fumes, his puffed-up face giving him the look of a pestilential toad risen from some witch’s cauldron.

  ‘Evening, Sid,’ I said. ‘Glowing with health, as usual.’

  ‘Knew you’d be back,’ he sneered malevolently. ‘Quinlan’s shitting himself, is he? Mr High and Mighty in Canberra. Or did he pass the parcel to that Marjory, whatever her name is? Called himself a bloody unionist, wouldn’t know one end of a shovel from the other.’

  I gave him the wind-up. ‘You want to deal or flap your gums?’

  He sniffed and tossed a tattered Readers’ Digest into the flaming drum. ‘Whad’ve you got?’

  I took an envelope from my pocket, lifted the flap and fanned the contents. The top bill was a real fifty. The rest were colour photocopies, cut to size. It looked like a lot of money. ‘Where are the bankbooks?’ I said.

  He licked his lips avariciously and jerked his chin at the open door. I took a step towards it.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he snapped. ‘Go round.’

  I shrugged and started back the way I’d come. Gilpin scuttled though the door, swung it shut behind him and shot the bolt. I scooted over and closed the outside bolt. The door was now locked from both sides. I pocketed the real fifty and tossed the envelope of fakes into the fire. Then I walked around the rusting hulk of the building and sidled through the gap between the front doors.

  The interior was even gloomier than before, lit now by low-wattage globes in the dangling row of Chinaman’s hats. Gilpin was in his wire-mesh enclosure, twisting a coat hanger through the gate latch. The bench with the electric grinder had been cleared of its rusty blades. They were inside the cage, freshly sharpened and stacked on the floor.

  ‘Ready to do business?’ I said, walking down the aisle between the rows of merchandise. Tip-top stuff.

  Tip-ready, more like it.

  Sid fished in his gabardine and pulled out the bankbooks, fastened together with a rubber band. ‘Depends,’ he sniffed, giving them a waggle. ‘How much you offering?’

  So far, so good. The books were out in the open.

  I reached into my side pocket and pulled out a cable lock I’d bought at a bike shop in Bourke Street near Parliament House. Looping it through the gate latch in the cyclone fence, I snapped the locking mechanism shut and thumbed the combination tumbler closed.

  Gilpin jumped backwards and stuffed the bankb
ooks back into his folds.

  ‘Fair trade requires a level playing field,’ I said. ‘The back door’s locked, too. I can’t get in, you can’t get out. What could be fairer than that?’

  Gilpin grunted, dragged a can of beer from his raincoat pocket and picked off the scab. Foam spurted out and dribbled over his hand. He licked it off and took a chug.

  ‘You want to know what those bankbooks are worth to Quinlan and Mrs Talbot?’ I took an envelope, identical to the other, out of my inside pocket. ‘Same as what this is worth to you.’

  The envelope contained a photocopy of the picnic page of the union news. The original image had been slightly modified. Gilpin was now sporting a watch. A chunky sports chronometer clipped from the wrist of a rather fetching male model. Some doctoring with a fine-point pen and White-out had been required, but the overall result was passably convincing.

  I unfolded it and held it to the wire mesh. ‘Recognise this, Sid? It’s from the Municipals’ rag. See it clearly, can you?’

  Sid moved close and squinted through the wire.

  ‘You were a real picture that day, Sid. The vibrant patterned shirt, the wide collar, the medallion. A very snappy combination. And the watch set it off a treat. A Seiko Sports Chronometer, if I’m not mistaken. Just like the one found with Merv Cutlett at the bottom of Lake Nillahcootie.’

  Gilpin’s eyes were narrow slits in puddings of flesh. His nose was touching the wire. He was obviously having trouble seeing.

  ‘Take a closer look.’ I rolled the sheet into a tube and slid it through the mesh. Gilpin unfurled it, grunting and snuffling, and tilted it to the light.

  ‘This is bullshit. I never owned a watch like that.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘That’s not the way Senator Quinlan remembers it. Me neither. Now that we’ve had a chance to think about it, we distinctly remember you flashing it around. Powerful man like the senator, I’m sure he won’t have any trouble finding lots of other people who remember it, too.’

  Gilpin crumpled the paper, dropped it to the floor and sneered at me contemptuously.