CHAPTER THREE: Parliament
The Right Honourable James Connor sat at his desk. A photo of his wife and daughter was the only thing sitting between him and Patrick Clarkson, and right now he was grateful for his family’s distraction. Pam looked particularly elegant in the photo – a nice flowing floral summer dress showing off her figure, still slim in her fifties. And Rachel’s smile looked just like her mother’s, her jeans and floral shirt fitting in early thirties.
As for Patrick? Well, he was the spitting image of a typical politician: tall and thin, with wrinkled lines of worry in his face.
“…and have you even read the report from the Intelligence and Security Committee yet, Jim?”
James gazed at Patrick’s thinning hair.
“Honestly, Pat – tell me I’m not getting as grey as you.”
Patrick shook his head, while James glanced fleetingly at the reflection in his family’s photo frame. He still had a head of hair! Still miraculously some brown, amidst the grey. Worried lines, yes. A bit of extra weight on board.
“Jim, for crying out loud, you’re the PM! Now’s not the time to talk about hair.”
“And you’re the Leader of the Opposition, but I’m not holding that against you.”
“We’re due in the Chamber in fifteen minutes! Come on, Jim, we’ve been at this for years. I’m starting to get worried…”
The air-con was failing again in the Beehive, at the peak of Summer.
“Damned Global Warming,” James muttered under his breath, sweat dripping down his face. He rose to his feet.
“Come, Pat,” he said. “Let’s walk and talk.” And he grabbed a folder of notes from his desk, and left his office.
They entered the lift from the ninth floor, waited for the door to close, and then turned awaiting the opposite side door to open.
“You know what I’m talking about, Jim,” Patrick said. “Things are heating up overseas.”
“Literally or metaphorically?”
The lift opened, and James stepped out into the round hall area. He was hit with more heat from the greenhouse effect of the windows, and glanced briefly outside, to the wide pavement and gardens. The sun was shining, and they were suffering.
“Literally and metaphorically, Jim: you know that!”
He walked with Patrick around the circumference of the round hall to the over-bridge, and through to the checked black and white tiles of the First Floor Foyer of Parliament House.
“The Com’ Security Bureau,” Patrick whispered into his ear, as they moved toward the Debating Chamber. “They’re going too far with their surveillance, but boy, Jim, what are you going to do with their findings?”
James cast him a sideways glance, nodded him to his seat to the right of the Chamber, and then sat himself down, four seats forward, on the left: the traditional place for the leader of the Government – opposite Patrick, the Leader of the Opposition Party.
Other ministers were starting to file in. James glanced alongside and behind his own seat, to his own members of the New Conservative Party. Politics in New Zealand had changed over the last ten years: intensified, and diversified. Patrick, across the way, led a party quite different from the Labour party of old: shifting more and more left, into the new Socialist Party. James watched him for a moment, as he gathered his papers. Patrick, his friend of old, scared him a little now: or rather his strengthening party line scared him.
James Connor glanced to his right, to the Christian Conservative Party, now allies, and across to the corresponding Clean Green Party, allies of his own rival and with increasing power in the current heating realities.
It was time. Connor stood, with everyone else in the Chamber, and the Speaker walked in, following the Serjeant-at-Arms. The Serjeant-at-Arms laid down the golden mace, the staff symbol of authority, on its stand on the table, and the Speaker moved to stand before his Chair. Then he prayed the traditional prayer: [2]
“Almighty God, humbly acknowledging our need for thy guidance in all things…”
At this point Connor’s thoughts drifted away, only to return with the familiar ending words.
“…grant that we may conduct the affairs of this house and of our country to the glory of thy holy name, the maintenance of true religion and justice, the honour of the Queen, and the public welfare, peace and tranquillity of New Zealand, through Jesus Christ our Lord…”
“Amen,” Connor muttered, with the rest, and then the Speaker sat, and all the Members of Parliament followed.
Connor caught a flicker in Clarkson’s expression. He knew what he was thinking, and waited to hold his gaze. The Queen: still reigning, at one hundred and four years of age. What use for such a monarch? But their entire political system acknowledged her authority, though, in practice, her authority remained to protect the integrity of their democratic freedom.
Connor remained a monarchist, in this sense: in the sense of their continuing Constitutional Monarchy.
Sure enough, Clarkson glanced at him: smiled ever so slightly, ever so condescendingly, at the words of the Speaker. We need no Queen, his eyes said. We need no Lord. James held steadfastly his gaze, unshaken, and Patrick looked away.
The Speaker’s voice lifted again.
“I call on the Government Order of the Day Number One.”
The Clerk, sitting in front of the Speaker, spoke: “The International and National Crisis Surveillance Bill, Third Hearing.”
“Mr Speaker,” Connor said, rising to his feet.
“The Right Honourable Prime Minister James Connor.”
“Mr Speaker, I move that The International and National Crisis Surveillance Bill be moved a third time.”
Just one last time, James thought to himself, to get this thing through. The wheels of democracy moved slowly.
“The question,” the Speaker said, “is that the Motion be agreed to.”
“Mr Speaker.”
“The Honourable Martin Hanks.”
James sat, to allow for the Minister of Defence, who was now standing.
“I would like to thank the Foreign Affairs Defence Committee for considering the bill and attending hearings. The Committee recommended the urgent implementation of heightened surveillance, both off shore and on shore, in times of national crisis.”
“Mr Speaker.” It was, predictably, Clarkson.
“The Right Honourable Leader of the Opposition, Patrick Clarkson.”
Hanks dutifully sat down, to allow Clarkson to rise to his feet.
“Mr Speaker, I have challenged this bill at first and second readings, and I challenge it again here today.”
“Mr Speaker,” Connor interrupted.
“Mr Speaker,” Clarkson said.
“I call on the Right Honourable Patrick Clarkson to continue.”
“Mr Speaker,” Clarkson said, glancing across the House to the other Members. “This bill, if passed, makes legal unprecedented invasion of privacy into the personal lives of New Zealanders…”
“Mr Speaker,” Connor quickly said, rising to his feet.
“The Right Honourable Prime Minister James Connor.”
Clarkson was sitting, as Connor continued. “Must I remind the Leader of the Opposition that this bill only applies to times of national crisis?”
“Mr Speaker,” Clarkson promptly replied.
“The Right Honourable Patrick Clarkson.”
“Does the Prime Minister consider New Zealand to be currently at a time of national crisis?”
Connor stared at him. He clenched his jaw, in rapid thought. And then he rose to his feet.
“Not yet,” he said. “But if you gain power, our situation may deteriorate rapidly, and I want New Zealand to be ready.”
Shouts went up in front of him from the Socialist Party, and, alongside Connor, equally loud laughter.
“Order!” The Speaker said. “Order!”
“Mr Speaker!” Clarkson responded, jumping to his feet. “The Prime Minister would have us all vote in a military state! New Zealand! We
are talking about New Zealand!”
“Order!”
Back off, Connor thought, as he countered the attack. We need this.
“A military state!” he said. “What does the Leader of the Opposition call the state of Communist Russia, a walk in the park? Perhaps the Socialist Party should look more closely at their own policy suggestions, before engaging in a lover’s quarrel over ours.”
Again, Connor achieved the reaction he sought: anger, but greater laughter. They had a majority, surely: surely the same majority would carry them through.
“I will have order!” The Speaker said, and Connor sat down, eying Clarkson, as he also sat opposite from him.
“Members,” the Speaker said, “this debate has concluded. I now call for the Party Vote.”
Connor rose to his feet, with Clarkson, and Hanks, and all the other Members of Parliament.
“I’ll ask the Clerk for the Vote,” the Speaker said.
“Those in favour, seventy-seven,” the Clerk said. “Those opposed, forty-three.”
“Members, the Ayes seventy-seven, the No’s forty-three. The motion is agreed to.”
Connor took a deep breath, and let it silently out. It was done! At last! The first step.
The rest of the Chamber proceedings were relatively incidental. Connor participated, but was constantly looking at Clarkson. His old friend looked disgruntled: more so than usual in defeat.
The session came to a close. The MPs rose, the Speaker left, following the mace, and the MPs were free to leave.
Connor sat down, to gather his papers, and found Clarkson standing over him.
“Jim,” Clarkson began, and Connor frowned at him.
“Patrick,” he said, rising to his feet to lean into him, close to his ear. “Why such a fight over this one? You know as well as me what is happening overseas: you know we have to keep a close ear to the ground.”
“I know the danger, Jim,” Patrick said, “but how far will we let that threat drive our own response?”
“I expect purism from the Christian Conservative Party, Clarks, not from you!”
“Jim, I’m serious about this!”
The Chamber was emptying. James relaxed a little, and spoke more directly.
“You know the intel,” he said. “The Communications Security Bureau…”
“Of course I know it, Jim! But does that give us the right…”
“The right?” Connor exploded. “Can’t you see what’s happening over there, Clarks? The United States is losing control. Economic collapse – they can’t get themselves out of this one. China is growing in strength, but imploding at the same time: they can’t feed their own workers. Russia seems to be clawing their way back to communism. Are you trying to be like them, Patrick? And the Middle East – for crying out loud! I knew it from Intel and also heard it confirmed straight from a young retired Army officer’s mouth. He witnessed it himself, Patrick: we all came this close to a nuclear Holocaust! This close!”
He brought his finger and thumb together, only one millimetre apart.
Patrick grimaced at him. “I know that much is true,” he said. “Add religious fervour onto famine, and you have a toxic mix.”
“You would say that,” James said, tongue in cheek. “Fervent atheist that you are.”
“And what are you?” Patrick chided. “Not exactly a faithful follower yourself. When did you last go to church?”
“Last Easter, if you must know.”
“Easter, and Christmas – part of our culture, that’s all. Christ and Santa Claus, as though they might save us.”
James grimaced at him. “You are full of contradiction, Patrick,” he said. “Here I am trying to save us, and you say, no, I have no right!”
“What kind of salvation is intel, Jim, at the end of the day? Look around you.”
He gestured around the House, and then to Connor’s own seat. “Who knows who might be listening to you, right now?”
Now Patrick grimaced, shook his head, and gathered his papers.
“At the end of the day, I’d rather die a free man than a prisoner of a national or international State.”
James watched, as Patrick left the House, and then looked around the Chamber: at the plaques commemorating all the wars New Zealanders had fought in. Might those very plaques have bugs fitted behind? Was anything sacred anymore?
James wandered out of the House. He had a multitude of papers to attend to, yet now, in this moment, he wandered through the First Foyer, down the steps to the courtyard, and glanced to his left, across the street, to an aging St Peter’s Anglican Cathedral.
Was anything sacred anymore? The thought lingered for a moment in his mind. Christ, and Santa Claus; and international destabilization, of economies, and of political systems. And weapons of mass destruction.
James gritted his teeth. No, the only thing sacred, in times of crisis, was survival: survival of his people; survival of their way of life.
He turned, on his toe, thrust himself back up the steps of Parliament, and launched himself back toward the Beehive.
A New Kind of Zeal Page 3