‘Sharks and the loss of idyll.’ The PM was reclined imperiously now and staring at the ceiling — or perhaps through the ceiling and into some hallucinatory political Valhalla. ‘But don’t use that word. Strange word. It should be “home”, or “place”. Strong words. Muscular. They’ll get that. The ocean is their home.’
‘Actually, sir—’ the words were out before I could catch them.
‘What?’ Irritated, he lowered his gaze to mine.
‘Just … it’s not their home, is it, sir?’ The words broke like fugitives from my mouth, running across the desk towards freedom — or so the poor bastards thought — but only towards the pitiless guard towers of the PM’s ears. To be honest, I thought some prison breaks were inevitable while I played court sycophant. But this breach had happened too early. Too easily. The stakes were too high — I couldn’t risk his contempt or suspicion. ‘The ocean, Prime Minister. I mean, these people don’t … dwell there. Perhaps we say that it’s part of their home. Perhaps we say the ocean is something like a backyard for Australia. But, sir, it’s not literally their home, they’re not mermaids or mermen or—’
‘If I want David fucking Attenborough, I’ll ring his bell. But right now I need a scribe. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He returned his gaze to the ceiling, as I thought how to better secure my prison’s borders.
‘Sharks, sir.’
‘I think of them less as sharks, Thomas, and more as enemies of the Australian dream. “Sharks” is too clinical; it lacks moral judgement. It almost excuses them. What they are is …’ and he closed his eyes to better hunt for the word. I waited patiently. He opened his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you what they are, mate.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Terrorists.’
‘Terrorists, sir,’ and I wrote the word down. My prison held.
‘That’s right.’
‘And what might we do about these terrorists, sir?’
‘What might we do?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We will denounce them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We will repel them.’
‘How?’
‘How?’
‘Well—’
‘You’re a fucking shark expert now?’
‘Sir, I’m just thinking about how we might prosecute your argument — your vision.’
‘These are terrorists …’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘… with gills.’
‘Of course.’
‘And we will fight them on the beach — wait. What am I saying?’
‘We probably won’t need to fight them that far in, sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is not to say that there isn’t a moral imperative to fight these terrorists, it’s just—’
‘No, I understand.’
‘—they’re not land-bearing killers.’
‘No. But they are killers.’
‘Undeniably, sir. Cold, God-defying beasts. But for this evolutionary moment at least, they’re not amphibious ones. Of course, we can’t rule out their ambition.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘I think, sir, we might need some specificity.’
‘I don’t like specificity, Clarence.’
‘We don’t need much, sir. Just a sprinkle. Like salt. Or sugar. We’re just dusting your boldness.’
‘I like that — dusting my boldness.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, what’s our sugar?’
‘Our sugar, sir?’
‘Our specificity.’
‘With the sharks, sir?’
‘With the terrorists.’
‘You’re asking me, sir?’
‘Who else am I fucking asking?’
‘Nets, sir.’
‘Nets?’
‘We pledge nets, sir. Vast nets.’
‘And that’ll stop these cunts, will it?’
‘Well, it might quell the fear, sir.’
‘The fear?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a different thing, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we stopping the terrorists here, Bilbo?’
‘Sir, are you asking me to stop them — or are you asking me to write about stopping them?’
Another prison break. These rebellions were instinctive. I had no control over them. At least I’d tried. Surely, even while he was dosed with acid, I’d provoked the angry titan and he would now seek a new, less challenging courtier. I watched him tighten his pink jaw, close his eyes, and recline in fitful reverie. Then I waited for my dismissal.
And waited.
The election declared, the Prime Minister had resolved to share his new, expanded consciousness with the people. The first stop was a televised ‘People’s Forum’ at the Rooty Hill RSL club. Conversation would be driven by audience questions, moderated by one of the conspicuously sane Sky presenters, and an hour before it began, I drizzled some more rainbow juice into the PM’s coffee.
It bothered me that I couldn’t keep the Prime Minister permanently stoned. It seemed likely that each time he returned to Earth, he’d frantically wonder why, in earlier moments, he had seemingly lost his mind. But his self-belief was so total that anything he said was quickly integrated into it. And once the polls shifted, he just assumed he was being guided by some deep, inscrutable, but brilliant instinct that didn’t bear examining because, well, he had produced it.
‘Thanks for the question, Bob,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Let me tell you: we’re going to stop the sharks. We’re going to — this is an RSL club, right? You folks talk plain here. So I’m gonna level with you: we’re going to repel the bastards. We’re going to send a message: leave our women, children, and bodysurfers alone.’
‘Prime Minister, if I could,’ the moderator interrupted. ‘Isn’t the ocean the sharks’ home? We just share it with them.’
‘Well, okay, Sophie, but you neglect to mention that it’s a really big home — one that encompasses 70 per cent of the Earth’s surface. Do they really need all of it? Are you telling me that we can’t protect our tiny, beloved fraction of it? That we can’t protect our loved ones from their murderous appetites, while still permitting these killers free rein within 99 per cent of their cherished water? Come on.
‘Let me ask you: don’t nightclubs appoint their doors with bouncers? And does the law not permit these guards to refuse entry to the underage, or the obscenely drunk? Do the proprietors not reserve the right for additional, constructive discrimination? And in turn, do we, as a society, resent this practice? Do we think it illiberal, or ineffective? Of course not. The underaged, the pissed, the gang-affiliated, and those with inappropriate footwear — they can still roam freely. Just not on this particular dance floor. See, the beach is our dance floor, Sophie — and I’m head of security. And I won’t tolerate these finned pricks in our premise. I won’t. And I make no apologies for that.’
‘Prime Minister, if I could bring you back to the original question. Bob asked if you thought the aged pension was sufficient, given the rising costs of living.’
‘It’s a great question. But let me tell you something: the aged pension is academic if you’ve been eaten by a shark before retirement. Right? It’s a moot point. There’s no inflation in heaven. You’ll want for nothing. Finest welfare state you’ll ever know is in Christ’s kingdom. Leaves the Swedes in the dirt.’
‘Prime Minister—’
‘Bob, I’ll tell you something else you won’t find in heaven: terrorists. Wet ones, or the human kind. In fact, there’s heaps of things you won’t find in heaven: asthma, self-doubt, data entry. Great place. What you will find is an infinite smorgasbord, offering the warmest contentment. Sounds delightful, doesn’t it?’ But then the Prime Minist
er’s face was twisted slightly by profound contemplation.
‘But can you have children in heaven?’ the PM asked himself aloud. ‘I’m not sure … Actually, it seems unlikely, now that I think about it. Offers a shortcut. The babies would be queue jumpers. Our Lord and Saviour would have noticed this loophole. So I guess procreation’s out. That might be a downside for some.’
Suddenly, arms flung skyward.
‘Prime Minister, do water-polo players go to heaven?’
‘That’s an excellent question. What’s your name?’
‘Margaret.’
‘Margaret. Thank you. You know, this is what I like about these things, Maggie. Can I call you Maggie? When I escape Canberra, I find incision. I hear questions that cut to the bone. I love it. Now, I’m not a theologian, Maggie. I’m not a man of the cloth. I make no special claims to spiritual insight. But I will say this: water polo demands the best of you. It’s a test. Of fortitude, talent, camaraderie. You’re treading water, for the love of Christ. I have no doubt that these blessed men and women will rise to the kingdom of heaven. Consider their grace above water — and their grim, violent determination beneath it. Seems to me like their souls have already been tested.’
You could feel it. The temperature rising. Before he strode onstage, the psychic warmth of the audience was tepid — they were pre-emptively bored, frustrated. Now something was happening. Something beguiling. Something unprecedented.
‘Prime Minister, you said earlier that people can’t have babies in heaven. Can you expand on this? My wife and I have thought for a long time about having children, but, for a few reasons I won’t get into, we haven’t, and now we feel like maybe we’re too old.’
‘What’s your name, mate?’
‘Frank.’
‘Frank, I love the candour. Cuts right through me. In the best way. I’m starting to feel like we’re gathered ’round a bonfire tonight. Sharing yarns. Roasting marshmallows. Thank you. And remind me to get out of Canberra more often, okay? Nothing there but frost and knives.
‘Now, babies in heaven. Big question. And, Frank? It makes no sense to me. For the reasons I gave. They’d be queue jumpers. I’m Catholic, and I grew up knowing that some demanding vetting goes on before you pass those gates. And they’ve got bigger bouncers than me. So to be born into heaven? Doesn’t seem right, Frank. Have ’em now.’
‘But my wife is 42, Prime Minister, and I’m 45.’
‘Well, that’s a pickle. Gets complicated after a time. But are you denying us another prime minister? Perhaps. An exquisitely skilled painter of monkeys? Maybe. And Frank, let me remind you of the contentment available up there. It’s all-you-can-eat, mate. Ribs, lobster, blissful surrender. Whatever you like. I reckon that answers to your Earthly discontent.’
‘Do you mean that we won’t bring our regrets to heaven?’
‘Exactly. Next question.’
‘I have one, Prime Minister,’ the moderator said. ‘Your opponent is absent tonight. Why?’
‘I’ve already explained this.’
‘Yes, but perhaps you’d like to explain it again for this audience.’
‘I’ll debate him if we can agree to terms. So tonight isn’t an alternative to a debate, Sophie. It’s in addition to one. And, frankly, I think the worth of tonight’s forum is now self-evident. Tonight is an opportunity to listen attentively, and to respond candidly — to have a conversation unspoilt by political aggression and point scoring. See, a debate is a great way of suggesting scrutiny while actually deflecting it. That hasn’t happened tonight. Tonight, the good people have had communion with their government’s leader. Warm. Unvarnished. Respectful. I can’t speak for them, but I can tell you that I’m better for it. I know Aussies a little more, and I hope they can say the same of me.’
I thought the last bit was undeniably true.
‘In the final minutes we have tonight, Prime Minister, is there any appeal you’d like to make to the Australian people?’
‘There is something on my mind, Sophie. A certain confusion. Is confusion “on” your mind, or “in” it?’
‘What’s your confusion, Prime Minister?’
‘I’d like to ask a question of the Australian people. It’s not one they can, or should, answer now. I guess it’s more of an intellectual exercise. But it stems from a few sleepless nights I’ve had. Some troubled rumination.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t square all the sentiments. See, I follow the polls. We’re not supposed to tell you that. We’re meant to affect some noble indifference. And not just to the polls, but to all of it — the columns, the endless TV chatter. I’ll cop to it: I read and hear this stuff. We all do. We’re not above it.
‘But I don’t understand the public’s hatred. It’s very hard to parse. Do Australians hate me, specifically? Or is it my government? Or is it the idea of government generally? Because you can find data that supports each. I hear plenty of criticism of government, plenty of disgust, yet I hear constant appeals to it. Which one is it? Do voters want democracy or not? Do they want a government or not? Because hatred of it doesn’t seem to me to have developed, in Australians, any special independence from it. Any special resilience or ingenuity. It seems to me, Sophie, that Australians are constipated. They can’t process their thoughts. And that’s because their need and their hatred are equal — and they’re unwilling, or unable, to take a laxative.’
‘It’s a country of almost 23 million people, Prime Minister. Asking for uniformity of opinion seems strange.’
‘It’s not uniformity I desire, Sophie. We all have our different ideas. It’s the fucking whining that’s the problem.’
‘The whining?’
‘We’re all whiners, Sophie. I’m a whiner. I’m whining about whining right now. And, look, some have good reason to whine. I get that. But most don’t. Most are expressing private regrets by proxy. We’re not in heaven yet. We have to live with our regrets. And we have to process them like adults. I will be the public’s punching bag for my government’s mistakes — but I refuse to be a punching bag for their own.’
‘What are your regrets, Prime Minister?’
‘I guess everything I’ve just said. That won’t play well. But I’m feeling looser these days. Less afraid. So let’s saddle this feeling and ride it. Other regrets? Buying a Lada as my first car. More reliable than the jokes suggest, but it didn’t help me lose my virginity.’
‘Any others?’
‘Ladas?’
‘Regrets.’
‘Bingeing Lost when I had shingles. That show never resolved itself. It was credit card scriptwriting. Buy a cryptic plot development now, pay later. But they never paid, Sophie.’
‘But in your job, Prime Minister.’
‘Oh — not tackling sharks sooner.’
‘So this is a signature policy for you?’
‘You can call it that.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘A late awakening.’
‘But it’s not really a federal issue, Prime Minister.’
‘I hear this a lot, Sophie.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t think the critics get it.’
‘Get what?’
‘That this is about home. Sharks are almost beside the point — they’re just the current threat to the heart of the thing. And that heart is our home. Our playground. Our dance floor. And perhaps Australians will forgive my foolish criticism of them because, fundamentally, they know I want the same thing as them.’
‘Which is?’
‘A safe home.’
I watched, astonished, as the audience stood and offered five minutes of rapturous applause.
As the Prime Minister remained on stage, smiling and glassy-eyed, I slipped away to the pokies room, from which a special Sky News panel was about to broadcast. I joined
a crowd of about fifty, and wondered how the panel’s mics would contend with the cacophony of pokies.
‘Welcome to Shaz Live with me, your host, Shannon Roll. We’re broadcasting tonight from the Rooty Hill RSL club with a special guest — this raffle meat tray. Couple T-bones, few chops, and a helluva lot of sausage. No foreign beef here, folks. No grain-fed professor cows. None of these chops have been to university. Doubt they finished high school. And the snags are fair dinkum. No fennel or basil, mates. Just pure Australian arsehole. If these snags had fingers, they’d be hashtagging Weary Dunlop.
‘Me and the meat-tray are joined tonight by former Labor leader Beefy Tickle, former Labor powerbroker and bankrupt Norman Hates, and everyone’s favourite moon enthusiast, ex-Liberal MP Calamity Pete. Blokes, welcome.’
‘Cheers, Shaz,’ Beefy said. ‘And lemme tell you something: if more kids grew up with Aussie meat trays for parents, I seriously doubt we’d be in deficit today.’
‘That’s why we love Beefy,’ Shannon said. ‘Unafraid to make the big calls. Norm, welcome.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘And Calamity — how’s our favourite celestial body tonight?’
‘Seductive as always.’
‘Of course she is. Gentlemen, we’ve just watched the Prime Minister in his People’s Forum. How did you rate it?’
‘For a start, he’s a Yankee lover,’ Beefy said. ‘Aussies don’t roast marshmallows ’round the campfire. They sink piss and bake damper. They tell racist jokes. When I was young, sometimes we’d roast the faces of kids who were good at maths. But never marshmallows. Never heard of it. Embarrassing.’
‘Norman, how’d you see it?’
‘Very strong on sharks. That gets the coastal property developers onside. Some smart money there. Very shrewd. We forget this about him, but he’s not just a philosopher — he’s great with the political calculus. Look how he won over water-polo players tonight.’
‘Calamity Pete?’
‘Well, I can’t celebrate the performance like Norm can. Tonight, the Prime Minister had the temerity to reference the ocean without once mentioning the body that determines its tides. Completely out of touch. Is she, or is she not, a voluptuous sorceress?’
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