Sky’s affirmative-action policy on personality disorders was brave, I thought, and the network’s producers were to be commended for offering these men sanctuary. Thoughts that would have otherwise been scrawled in faeces upon white walls were now beamed to airport lounges across the nation.
‘Healthy range of opinions there,’ Shannon said. ‘We like diversity here, unlike Their ABC. And in the spirit of tonight’s People’s Forum, we’re inviting an audience member up here to join the panel. Who’s our producer picked out for us tonight? Beth? Ok, come on up, Beth.’
Beth took the empty seat beside the meat tray. ‘Welcome, Beth.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nervous?’
‘A little.’
‘Don’t be. Beefy, I think you’ve got a question for Beth.’
‘Sure do. Beth, you’re a voter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Real shit-show you’ve caused.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The pack of socialist sissy boys running the joint — it’s a real shit-show.’
‘And this is my fault?’
‘You just said that you’re a voter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, last time I checked, princess, it was voters who anoint governments. So congratulations. Nice work on the sissy boys.’
‘You led the opposition in a federal election.’
‘You’re a fucking maggot, Beth. A parasite. A—’ and Beefy launched across the table. If you were watching on television — slumped impatiently in an airport lounge somewhere, and distractedly gazing at a plasma screen on mute — this was where the broadcast cut to a lengthy commercial break.
In the Prime Minister’s car on the way to the airport, there was no doubt my drugging regime was working. The acid was liberating the Prime Minister from his technocratic pieties. The Mandarin Priest was dead, or dying, which was good, because the polls were suggesting that the people preferred crazy. Still, I thought my experiment — if that’s what it was — would end in a hospital bed for both of us. The Prime Minster admitted for drug-induced psychosis; me for the metastasising fear of discovery.
‘How’d that go?’ he asked me.
‘Good.’
‘Good?’
‘It was great.’
‘There was a standing ovation, Lawrence.’
‘They connected with you, sir.’
‘I felt something different tonight.’
‘Like what?’
‘Electricity.’
‘That’s exciting, sir.’
‘I’m thinking, Richard.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I’m thinking I won’t debate the opposition leader.’
‘But, sir, you’ve promised that you will.’
‘Yes, but I’ve now decided that it’s beneath me.’
‘Beneath you? You’ll be condemned, sir. You’ll be painted as a liar and a coward.’
‘But I don’t want to hide. It’s just the opposite. I want to channel this electricity. I have something else in mind.’
‘Okay?’
‘Andrew Denton’s people have asked for an hour interview. Live, intimate, no holds barred.’
‘Okay.’
‘And I’m going to give it to them. I’m going to give them all of my electricity. They just have to plug into my socket.’
‘Sir, have you discussed this with anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Patrick won’t like it.’
‘Fuck him.’
‘Okay, sir.’
Perfect.
Denton’s people couldn’t believe their luck. Nor could they believe it when I told them that he wanted to give Andrew his electricity.
‘His what?’
‘His electricity.’
‘He used that word?’
‘He did.’
‘And where does he want to do this?’
‘The Lodge.’
It was official: the campaign was berserk. It was also a one-man show — the PM’s staff, party, and cabinet were all excluded. Everyone but me. They all knew something was up. How could they not? The Prime Minister’s walk was almost languid now, and he was playing heaps of Pink Floyd — but no-one could understand it. I wasn’t suspected as the agent for all this, probably because the staffers couldn’t comprehend that a young, obscure, and seemingly servile scribe could ever possess the power to change the Prime Minister’s behaviour — much less run a criminally rococo experiment.
But they were panicking. I later learnt that the PM’s staff were holding secret emergency meetings with his concerned wife and astonished ministers. But it was all too little, too late. They could run their parallel campaign — no-one was watching.
The Lodge it was. Initially, he had only wanted me and his wife there, but she insisted that he invite Patrick. As I watched technicians arrange lights and cables, and a make-up artist powder the Prime Minister’s face, Patrick whispered in my ear: ‘You’re helping him destroy his own party.’
‘My pay grade asks that I support the Prime Minister, Patrick — not challenge him.’
‘I don’t know what’s happening with him, but he’s not well.’
‘That’s not for me to say.’
‘We won’t govern for a generation.’
‘Don’t be dramatic.’
The floor manager counted us down to the live broadcast.
‘Prime Minister, I’d like to begin with the sharks,’ Denton opened. ‘The policy has surprised many people.’
‘Sure.’
‘And I’m wondering: is it possible that the shark has some other, symbolic meaning?’
‘You mean, like evil?’
‘I was thinking for you. Personally.’
‘What are you driving at, Andrew?’
‘It’s been said before, but sharks aren’t a federal issue, Prime Minister.’
‘No.’
‘And two deaths in three years doesn’t scream “crisis”.’
‘That depends upon who you talk to.’
‘Well, is it possible that you’ve projected upon the shark your own sense of dread and vulnerability?’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘In conversations we’ve had before tonight, you’ve mentioned the polls to me.’
‘Yes.’
‘You said you were hated.’
‘Yes.’
‘And misunderstood.’
‘Correct.’
‘And that factions plot against you.’
‘They do.’
‘Well, what I’m wondering, Prime Minister, is if you feel stalked — hunted — by forces too large and shifting to be properly defended against, and if you have sought to correct this helplessness by targeting an easily definable predator: the shark.’
‘Andrew, that question is hauntingly penetrating.’
‘Do you feel stalked?’
‘A little.’
‘Only a little?’
‘More than a little.’
‘Are sharks coming for you?’
The Prime Minister paused. ‘Thousands.’
‘That sounds scary.’
‘They want to eat me,’ the Prime Minister said in a childish voice.
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re sharks.’
‘They’re acting on instinct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just like sharks.’
‘Which ones?’
‘The actual sharks.’
‘The wet ones?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have I—’
‘You’ve conflated them, Prime Minister.’
‘Conflated what?’
‘You’ve conflated actual sharks with the forces that threaten
you.’
‘You don’t like my shark policy?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘You despise it.’
‘Prime Minister, you don’t have a policy. It’s just denunciation and metaphor.’
‘Nets.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’d spread nets.’
‘Nets?’
‘And sonar pulses.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’s my policy.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’m head of security.’
‘Yes.’
‘And if you’re a wet, knife-jawed goon, then one of two things will happen if you approach our dance floor.’
‘Go on.’
‘Either you’re captured, or your tiny shark brain is melted by weaponised frequencies. What do you think about that, Andrew?’
‘Prime Minister, I think what’s most interesting here is not the details of your policy, but your need for my approval.’
‘But I don’t need it.’
‘You don’t need my approval?’
‘I’m just riffing here.’
‘Okay. Why did you want to be Prime Minister?’
‘I think I’ve made that perfectly clear.’
‘But I’ve only just asked you.’
‘My answer is on the public record, Andrew. I thought you followed the news?’
‘I’d like to hear it from you.’
‘Growth, truth, and sharks.’
‘That’s just a campaign slogan.’
‘It’s my raison d’être.’
‘I was hoping for something more … reflective.’
‘You want my electricity, don’t you?’
‘I’m just curious to hear your reasons for assuming the country’s hardest job.’
‘It’s a fair question. I often wonder myself. I mean, I think I know what happened to Harold Holt.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah. He had a fucking gutful, Andrew. He’d had it up to here.’
‘I see.’
‘And he walked out there himself, and prayed for Neptune to take him.’
‘Okay.’
‘He said, “Mighty Lord of the Oceans, may your crabs take my eyes and your eels find refuge through my cold sphincter. May your—”’
‘Can I just—’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s a real water theme emerging here.’
‘Is there?’
‘There is.’
‘I don’t see it.’
‘Neptune and Harold Holt. Sharks and water polo.’
‘Is this significant?’
‘You tell me.’
The Prime Minister paused. ‘Mum died when I was six.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Buggers you for a while. I didn’t have words for it then. For the loss. Actually, I still don’t have them. There’s just an image.’
‘Of what?’
‘It’s not an image, actually. It’s nothing that definite. When I think of that time, I just see spilt ink. Smudged greys and blues. No picture, just a smear. A stain. And it’s evocative, that stain. And those inks are probably still in my system. Influential in ways I never gave myself time to consider. I never saw a therapist about it. Never saw the need.’ And the Prime Minister took an anguished look at his glass of water. ‘How was that?’
‘Oblique, but extremely touching.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I ask: how did your mother die?’
‘She …’ And suddenly the Prime Minister became ashen. ‘Jesus.’
‘What?’
‘She drowned.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Is this my Rosebud?’
‘Have you never considered this link before?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve never wondered how your mother’s death may have created certain fears?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Perhaps the better question, Prime Minister, is: why wouldn’t you do that?’
‘Because I’m fucking busy, Andrew.’
‘Are you afraid of water?’
‘I resent having to drink it.’
‘What else?’
‘Hoses scare me. I think droughts are good.’
‘What’s your favourite season?’
‘El Niño.’
‘Hmm.’
‘When NASA said they’d found no evidence of water on Mars, I thought: Great. Take me there.’
‘Can I ask you a difficult question?’
‘Sure.’
‘How’s the personal hygiene?’
‘Another good question.’
‘What’s the answer?’
‘I have a shower routine.’
‘And baths?’
‘God, no.’
‘Okay.’
‘My routine’s been perfected over many years.’
‘Do you mind sharing it?’
‘Nose peg, swimming cap, and six Valium.’
‘Right.’
‘Once I’m in there, I start the waterproof timer. Five minutes. Used to be just two.’
‘Well, that’s hopeful. Then what?’
‘Then I sing the national anthem.’
‘While you shower?’
‘That’s right. There’s enough time to sing all four verses.’
‘There’s four?’
‘Originally. We shaved two, and rewrote one.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘There was some crazy stuff about scurvy and cannibalism.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe, I don’t really understand them.’
‘“Girt by sea” must be hard to sing.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s hard, Andrew: singing that melody. It’s dead on arrival. Flatlined. I’ll tell you, that song is so soporific that it should never be mixed with Valium.’ The Prime Minister paused. ‘Can you drown in the shower?’
‘I wouldn’t think so.’
‘I need a new song. Our anthem’s a death trap.’
‘Respectfully, that doesn’t sound like what you need.’
‘Well, then, tell me what I do need.’
‘Less Valium. And almost certainly a therapist.’
‘Possibly.’
‘It seems you have extreme aquaphobia, Prime Minister. And perhaps it’s damaging the quality of your life and decision making.’
‘Aquaphobia?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a thing?’
‘Evidently.’
‘Water killed my mother.’
‘Tragically. And yet it remains the basis of all life on Earth.’
‘It’s very smug about that.’
‘My producer is waving something at me, Prime Minister,’ and Denton peered through the glare of stage-lights. It was a giant Super Soaker.
‘Jesus Christ,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘That could bring down a Dreamliner.’
The producer handed it to Denton.
‘Prime Minister, would you consent to some exposure therapy?’
‘Oh, God.’
‘There’s no obligation, Prime Minister.’
‘I did promise you my electricity, didn’t I?’
I left before Denton soaked the Prime Minister, causing him to hyperventilate and briefly lose consciousness. Experiencing what I think was guilt, I’d suddenly felt dizzy and overwhelmed myself. I turned my phone off, left The Lodge, and walked the few kilometres to the well-tended rose garden of Old Parliament House. I found a bench.
I always felt good there. And not only in the gardens. I loved the building. You couldn’t mistake Old Parliament House for a spaceship.
I’d spent many hours inside, admiring its modest classicism, its leafy courtyards, its verandahs and timber. I loved the fact that a provisional building designed for just fifty years had outlived its shelf life by a decade and become desperately overcrowded. Long decommissioned, it had retained its fixtures and furniture, and I’d stare at brown filing cabinets in rooms the size of telephone booths — rooms that were adjacent to major corridors — and wonder how secrets and cordiality functioned within this sultry compression. In the end, 3,000 people had occupied a space originally designed for a tenth of that number. I finished my cigarette and turned my phone back on. There were a dozen missed calls, and almost 50 new text messages. Most were variations on Patrick’s: ‘You’ve really fucked us.’
It was election night, and the pollsters had it even. Commentators were humbled, astonished, and in the last week of the campaign, reflecting upon the alleged parity of the two contestants, incredulous opinion pieces fell like snow upon a remote mountaintop. Then melted, unseen.
But something inscrutable was happening out there — out in the endlessly imagined, divined, scolded, coddled, praised, condescended, and appropriated chimera of Voter Land. But what the fuck was it?
Meanwhile, I’d rewired the Prime Minister. LSD had largely overwritten his PolSpeak, and only occasionally would the old program haunt his speech. The PM’s lunacy gave the opposition leader his strategy: do nothing. Stand back, admire the flames, and be grateful. But a week passed, then another, and the polls were still … unusual. Surely the methodology was unsound, and not the people? Then another week passed, and it seemed less likely that the polling was dodgy. So — what was it? Were the voters engaged in some strange but ephemeral flirtation? When they whispered their preference for the mad man to the pollster, it was done without consequence — but surely their flirtation could not survive the reality of their ballot paper?
Then another week passed. Something was definitely going on. Something more than flirtation. Maybe the people saw PolSpeak as a virus, and insanity looked like its cure. Whatever it was, the opposition leader panicked. His invisibility was tactical, not a measure of grace, and having forfeited so much time to assert himself — as he knew he now must — he became desperate. Suddenly, he desired ubiquity, and he achieved this with a string of wild and improvised announcements: shark bounties, a national coal museum, regression to the pound sterling, and raising the age of consent to 35. He was playing catch up.
So on election night, we were competitive — but this extraordinary fact had still not endeared me to the PM’s staff because their exclusion from what now appeared to be a famously successful campaign had revealed their impotence. Also, and perhaps more centrally, Stanley had mentioned to Patrick how I’d blackmailed my way into the office. Patrick’s suspicion was finally piqued, and I would later learn that he had found the acid dropper I’d carelessly left in my desk drawer and asked the Federal Police to examine it.
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