The Speechwriter

by Martin McKenzie-Murray

  ‘You can fucking have it,’ Hacksaw grunted, and with great effort heaved the bag towards the officer. The media scrum swiftly retreated, their nervous systems still working on the assumption that the bomb was live. Having secured the lead story on the evening’s news, Hacksaw abruptly turned and re-entered. I followed at a safe distance.

  The first time I met the Prime Minister, I was standing a few feet from his door with Patrick, his chief-of-staff, who was attempting, fruitlessly, to divine whether it was an appropriate time to enter his office and introduce me. Patrick had already arranged this meeting, but Joan, the receptionist, raised a deterring eyebrow when we arrived.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked Joan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your eyebrow.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You raised it.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘What do you mean with what? With your face. With your fucking face muscles. It went up.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘I’ve booked fifteen minutes with him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then why did you raise your eyebrow?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Patrick turned to me. ‘Did Joan raise her eyebrow?’

  ‘I think she did.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Are you saying that now isn’t a good time?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘For the tender love of Christ, Joan, you know how I feel about ambiguity.’

  ‘You say it’s worse than incest.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ll still have to assess the situation for yourself,’ Joan said.

  This was the game everyone learned, played in order to escape blame for annoying the PM. So lawlessly volatile was his mood, and so extreme were the consequences for violating it, that the game demanded from its players an elaborate vagueness when suggesting contact with him. Needless to say, it wasn’t a game anyone could win.

  Patrick turned indecisively to the door, just as the Prime Minister burst from it like a scorned demon. I wondered if he was badly sunburnt; or it could have been acute indignation.

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’ the PM asked without stopping. We jogged behind him, like truck tyres lashed to a heaving strongman.

  ‘Your new speechwriter.’

  ‘When the fuck did this happen?’

  We’d already covered a hundred metres of hallway and I was short of breath.

  ‘We discussed it last week. He’ll be helping out Julie.’

  ‘Then give him the fucking Book, and piss off.’ We stopped, and he disappeared. Patrick sucked his asthma pump.

  The Prime Minister had two legs like the rest of us, but you could never describe their deployment as ‘walking’. He paraded or marched. When stationary, he appeared to levitate. He radiated such furious self-conviction that when he moved, everyone around him looked like a rubber dinghy in the wake of a warship.

  ‘The thing about the Prime Minister,’ Patrick said, showing me to my desk while pretending that his authority hadn’t just been cruelly undermined, ‘is that you need to know when to approach him. It’s like reading the weather. We’re all meteorologists here.’

  ‘How will I know?’ I said, hoping my helplessness would endear me.

  ‘It’ll become intuitive.’ I had just seen clear evidence that it wouldn’t or, if it could, that Patrick was yet to develop this intuition, but I allowed him this moment of superiority.

  ‘What’s The Book?’

  Patrick removed a thick blue file from my desk’s shelf and opened it.

  ‘The world as the PM sees it,’ he said, tapping the contents page. ‘His vision and our agenda. All speeches derive from this. Study it.’

  It seemed oddly monolithic, but given my criminal insinuation into this office, I felt restrained from questioning it.

  ‘I just watched Hacksaw smuggle a Nazi bomb in here,’ I said.

  ‘I heard about that.’

  ‘Do we need to comment?’

  ‘That’s beneath us. What I want from you is a cleansing statement about the water-polo business. We need to kill this.’

  ‘Water polo.’

  ‘If the PM hears those two words again, he’ll stab someone. Probably you.’

  ‘Wait, I’m sorry — parliamentary security is beneath the Prime Minister, but the social status of water polo isn’t?’ Fuck. There went my cover of eager servility.

  ‘Mate,’ Patrick said, emphasising the word so that it suggested the opposite of friendship, ‘we don’t decide what is or isn’t below the boss. He decides. And he’s decided that water polo has met the fucking threshold.’

  ‘Mightn’t cabinet help decide?’

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘I’ll assume The Book is silent on the matter of offending water-polo players.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So I should write a new verse for it — something “cleansing”.’

  ‘I knew there was a reason Stanley recommended you.’

  I smiled weakly, angry that I had so quickly failed my deferential guise. At least I had clocked a fundamental dynamic of this place: to work here was to be smart, but never as smart as the PM — or, if you were, your intelligence had to be put in the service of disguising itself, so it didn’t appear mutinous. I returned to my desk and wrote the following ‘cleansing’ statement:

  If there’s anything more Australian than ribbing a bloke, it’s playing sport or getting in the pool. For the thousands of Aussies who play water polo, they’re doing both. My remarks were meant as ribbing, but it seems I went too far and offended some fair-dinkum blokes and sheilas who love this sport. To all of you — to the kids practising in the backyard pool, to those wearing the Green and Gold — I’m bloody sorry.

  As instructed, I emailed this triumph to the senior speechwriter, Julie, with a suitably ingratiating line: ‘Not sure about this: lemme know how you think I’ve done …’

  Half an hour later, she replied: ‘Perfect. Add it to The Book. File under: “Apologies”.’ I was doing just that when she rushed into my office.

  ‘Julie,’ she said, breathlessly. Few here spoke in normal rhythms. ‘Learn The Book now, ’cause we’ll need an election announcement.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An election announcement.’

  ‘He’s got a year on his term.’

  ‘And we’ve got days to write a speech.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Which part don’t you understand?’

  ‘I guess it’s not really an issue of comprehension, but shock.’

  ‘The water-polo statement will clear the decks.’

  ‘Clear the decks?’

  ‘And the air.’

  ‘The air?’

  ‘Is there an echo in here?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The PM’s on The 7.30 Report tonight. I want you to go with him to the studio, get to know him.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘He won’t make the announcement tonight, right? That’s in our pocket, and the interview was already booked. But it might be an opportunity to — I don’t know, get into his headspace. Squat there.’

  Joan instructed me to stand before the Prime Minister’s door precisely half an hour before he was due to leave it for the ABC studio in Parliament House — a five-minute walk away. It hardly seemed like an efficient use of my time.

  ‘Like a plant?’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Joan said.

  ‘You want me to just stand there, like a pot plant?’

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything, Toby.’

  ‘But you just said—’

  ‘Want suggests I care. I’ve suggested that you stand before the Pri
me Minister’s door half an hour before he leaves for the studio.’

  ‘Suggested.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I help him go over some briefing notes before the interview?’

  ‘My suggestion is that you stand right there.’

  ‘Just stand here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Actually, if you really want to help, you can make his coffee. He’ll want it when he comes through that door. Black, one sugar. His mug’s the one that says “Back in Black”.’

  So I did. Then I returned to his door and waited until the Prime Minister exploded from his office, like a Navy SEAL entering Bin Laden’s compound. Honestly, the energy was terrifying. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘We’ve met, sir. I’m Toby, your new speechwriter.’

  ‘Where’s Roxanne?’

  ‘Julie. And she’s still your senior speechwriter.’

  ‘So who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m another speechwriter.’

  ‘And why are you following me?’

  ‘Sir, I was told to sit in on your interview.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir, to absorb you. Immerse my—’

  ‘Walk faster,’ and he grabbed the coffee mug.

  When we reached the tiny studio, the PM sat silently in front of the camera as staff fixed his mic and dusted his cheeks and forehead. Then he told me to fuck off to the corner.

  ‘Prime Minister, thanks for joining us tonight.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘If I can begin quite bluntly, Prime Minister: no one likes you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re reviled.’

  ‘You might have noticed, Stella, that little more than two years ago, the party I lead attracted the highest popular vote in a quarter of a century.’

  ‘But within your own party, Prime Minister, you’re deeply unpopular. I’ve heard — and this is a direct quote from a cabinet colleague of yours — that you’re as popular as a turd in a wetsuit.’

  ‘Frankly, Stella, I think that comment should’ve been prefaced with a trigger warning. I’m a little shocked that it wasn’t. Faecal matter in wetsuits is no laughing matter. It can cause infection, not to mention great discomfort and embarrassment.’

  ‘The issue, Prime Minister, is the apparent dysfunction of your Cabinet.’

  ‘Well, who said this?’

  ‘The comment was given on the condition of anonymity.’

  ‘Well, if this person has a problem, he or she should have the courage of their convictions and put a name to their juvenile provocations.’

  ‘Is your Cabinet dysfunctional?’

  ‘I’ll say this, Stella. I am very popular. I can do karaoke. I’ll fill a room. You should see it. I’m just — I get in the moment, and people respond to that. They can feel the excitement.’

  ‘Do you have a signature tune, Prime Minister?’

  ‘I do them all.’

  ‘You must have a favourite.’

  ‘I won’t get bogged down in specifics, Stella.’

  ‘So your Cabinet is functioning well, is it?’

  ‘It purrs like a kitten.’

  ‘If I could move to North Korea, Prime Minister—’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  ‘That’s funny, Prime Minister. Less funny is the repeated testing of nuclear weapons, in defiance of treaties, and an increasingly hostile rhetoric that has recently defined Australia as an enemy. Are you concerned?’

  ‘The recent nuclear test, Stella, which I agree was in defiance of an international treaty, was also a calamity. Not only do the North Koreans badly languish in technology, but they are a nation of midgets.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘They’re very short, Stella. Generations of starvation. So bereft are they of nutrients that they have become stunted. They are a stunted people.’

  ‘The average height of North Koreans is surely no protection against their government developing nuclear weapons, though, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Defence analysts are saying they could have a nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missile within two years.’

  ‘How would they reach the launch button, Stella? I think we have bigger problems closer to home.’

  ‘Such as?’

  The PM’s eyes were becoming quite red. ‘Sharks.’

  ‘Sharks?’

  ‘Our waters are teeming with the things.’

  ‘You’re saying that the federal government will develop a shark policy?’

  ‘If we have to.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I won’t get bogged down in specifics, Stella.’

  ‘Have you discussed this with Cabinet? I’m at a loss here, Prime Minister. This isn’t a federal issue, is it?’

  ‘Cabinet purrs, Stella. Like a kitten.’

  ‘Prime Minister, if I can turn to another issue. Today, you released an apology to water-polo players. There are some critics who say that since your election, you have abandoned difficult issues of national importance, and are too ready to engage matters that are beneath your office.’

  ‘Who are these critics?’

  ‘The pages of newspapers are filled daily with such criticism, Prime Minister. Often fed by your own party. Surely you aren’t oblivious to it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t preoccupy myself with the opinion pages, Stella. I’m too busy painting monkeys.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’m too busy governing. I’m sorry, I’m not sure why I said that.’

  ‘And what of water polo?’

  ‘Well, I misspoke, and those wet, ball-throwing people deserved an apology. I’m big enough to admit error.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Prime Minister.’

  He removed his earpiece and turned to me: ‘Is that door on fire?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You did well, Prime Minister.’

  ‘I suddenly feel quite strange. Are you sure that door isn’t on fire?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where the fuck did sharks come from? I don’t have a shark policy. Why would I have a shark policy? Cabinet won’t like this.’

  ‘Sir, you did well. It was Disraeli-esque.’

  ‘Disraeli?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Disraeli didn’t do much TV in the nineteenth century, did he, or are you one of these millennial clowns who think YouTube was available in Eden?’

  ‘I just mean that you were eloquent, Prime Minister. It was like music.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘An exotic birdsong.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And aside from the mellifluousness of your tongue, you also struck the hammer of truth.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘To wit: North Koreans are short, sharks do infect our waters, and you are captivating in a karaoke room. Each one is a resonant truth.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘An eloquent leader is a rare one.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And a leader of unbending intellectual courage is rarer still.’

  ‘I’ve always thought so.’

  ‘But an eloquent leader who also possesses an unbending intellectual courage is …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘… divine.’

  ‘Tell that to the illiterate swine of my Cabinet, mate.’

  ‘They’re ungrateful.’

  ‘And ignorant.’

  ‘Sounds hard, Prime Minister.’

  ‘You have no idea. I’m Sisyphus, pushing hardened, spherical excrement up a steep fucking hill.’

  ‘Why
did Sisyphus persist, sir?’

  ‘Fucked if I know.’

  I didn’t expect to find the trust of the Prime Minister so quickly, but the combination of craven flattery and LSD was yielding immediate reward. For, yes, you’ve guessed it, the PM was tripping balls, thanks to yours truly. His coffee was laced with acid.

  ‘I’m going to call an early election this week, Thomas.’

  ‘Toby.’

  ‘I’m going to call an early election this week, Toby.’

  ‘I’ve heard, sir.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a bold move, but one equal to your larger boldness, sir.’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘Have you told Cabinet yet, sir?’

  ‘What the fuck do you think?’

  ‘I think their counsel would be unhelpful, and their approval redundant.’

  ‘That was rhetorical. But, yes. Though I’ll have to let those grasping cunts know before we go live with this. We have to start cranking up the machine. While we do that, I want you to write my announcement speech.’

  ‘What about Patrick?’

  ‘Phillip’s dead to me. You answer to this guy.’

  ‘Yes, sir. What are we fighting this on?’

  ‘Growth. Truth. Sharks.’

  ‘Sharks?’

  ‘I might have painted myself into a corner there. But I’ve been thinking. It makes sense. Our coastal folk are pissed with them, Thomas. Our leather-skinned battlers — they’re infuriated. And I don’t blame them. Their liquid playground has been invaded by toothy goons. Killers. They’re scared, Thomas. Why wouldn’t they be? But listen: it’s not just fear. There’s something else. A loss of face. An embarrassment. They’ve lost control of their defining idyll.’

  The PM was high as a motherfucker, and I wondered if my micro-dosing maybe wasn’t that micro — maybe I’d misplaced a decimal point. We had now walked back to his office, and I was shocked to watch him usher me into it and close the door behind us. Patrick and Julie were waiting outside with wide eyes, but the PM refused to acknowledge them. I was now in the sanctum.

  I placed my notebook on his desk before taking a seat. Then I loosened my face and widened my eyes to suggest docile obedience, and removed a pen from my jacket pocket.

  ‘Sharks, sir.’