CHAPTER NINETEEN: Unease
James Connor stared at the Beehive staff cafeteria TV screen.
“What the hell…?”
The same damned young reporter was back, with more yarn to spin.
“Joshua Davidson strikes again!” she said into the camera. “Next on the agenda? Healings! Lots of them. Who needs a public health system, when Joshua is coming to town?”
Connor rose to his feet. “Great,” he said. “Who needs fiction with reporting like this?”
People were surrounding the report, jostling against her – trying to get air time.
“My foot!” One elderly woman said. “It was crook, and he fixed it! My GP didn’t have a clue.”
“And my head!” another younger woman said. “Terrible migraines, now gone!”
“Pity about the delusions,” Connor said – and he switched the set off.
There was a sudden silence in the cafeteria: an uncomfortable silence. Surprised, Connor glanced around his MPs – they had been watching!
“Back to work, people!” he said. “Happy hour is over.”
Connor walked out of the cafeteria, and made his way toward Parliament House. There, in the First Floor Foyer, as expected, Clarkson joined him.
“Jim,” he said, as they made their way to the Debating Chamber. “Seen the news lately?”
“Tell me you’re not talking about that Joshua,” Connor said. “I’m about up to here with all the stories.”
“I like his style.”
“What?” Connor glanced at his grinning face, and sighed. “Of course you do. Silly me.”
“He’s emptying our hospitals!” Clarkson said. “Nice social policies.”
“‘Policies’?” Connor said. “That’s a new one.”
“Food to the poor, healing to the sick: sounds like he’ll put us all out of a job!”
Connor gave him a double take. Put them out of a job? That was a bit close to the bone! “Planning for retirement, Patrick?”
“Maybe he could take my job!” Clarkson’s eyes were dancing.
“Yeah, right,” Connor said. “He can have it!”
And they arrived in the Chamber.
What was on the agenda? Ah, yes: the ‘Emergency Reallocation of Public Funds’ bill. All rose, for the Speaker. He prayed. All sat, the announcement of the bill was made, and then Connor rose to his feet.
“Mr Speaker,” he said.
“The Right Honourable Prime Minister James Connor.”
“I nominate that the Emergency Reallocation of Public Funds bill be read a second time.”
“Mr Speaker,” Clarkson said, rising opposite Connor.
“The Right Honourable Leader of the Opposition, Patrick Clarkson.”
“I’d like to ask the Right Honourable Prime Minister whether now, finally, with the help of one Joshua Davidson, public funds might actually be excess?”
Laughter spread across the House.
“Public Health pollution must be down,” Tracy Harrison said, of the Clean Green Party, rising to her feet.
“I understand crime is falling,” Rawiri Heka said, of the Maori Party.
“Hope seems to be rising,” a Christian Conservative Party MP said, standing. “Morale hasn’t been this high in our country for many years.”
Connor rose again quickly to his feet. “Point of order, Mr Speaker,” he said. “We are not here to discuss Joshua Davidson.”
He fixed his eyes on the Speaker. The older man looked between Connor, Clarkson, Harrison and Heka, and then nodded.
“Right Honourable Patrick Clarkson, withdraw your last statement.”
Clarkson was smiling from ear to ear. “Mr Speaker, I withdraw my last statement.”
“The question is that the motion be agreed to,” the Speaker said, and now the Minister of Finance rose to his feet.
“Mr Speaker, I would like to support the Emergency Reallocation of Public Funds bill.”
Clarkson rose to his feet.
“Mr Speaker, I would like to ask for more information regarding the powers rendered by the bill, and I ask where the funds might be allocated should the need arise…”
Connor girded himself: this one, as expected, would take more of a battle of wits. So be it.
The debate continued. The vote was taken. The Government coalition with the Christian Conservative Party was still in the majority. The bill was passed on to the Finance Select Committee, for consideration.
The Speaker left the Chamber. Satisfied, Connor followed quickly behind.
As he made his way back to the Beehive, Connor began to remember Mark Blake’s words.
“I thought you were afraid of fragmentation.”
Connor shook his head. Fragmentation? No. There was no such threat.
“He’s prancing around like a king.”
A king. That thought struck more fear into Connor’s heart. A king? But again, no. There was no evidence of such a thing. Only a man, only a little mass delusion – food, and care. Nothing more. In many ways, the man seemed much more a priest than an actual king.
No wonder Blake was threatened.
Smirking, Connor walked across the alleyway, and around into the Round Reception Hall. Yes – let the priests work out their own quarrels. He had no interest in matters of God.
He caught the lift, rose to the ninth floor, and entered his office. It was vital they nail this bill: time to prepare more information for the Select Committee.
Sitting at his desk, he reached for the bill’s folder – and then heard his cell-phone ring. Half-distracted, he reached for it, and answered.
“James Connor.”
“Dad?”
“Rachel!” Happily he looked at her photo, on his desk. “Unusual time for you to call.”
“I’ve taken some time off work.”
“Oh, yes? Everything okay?”
“Umm…” Her voice sounded hesitant, and then she continued. “Have you seen the news?”
“Yes, yes – how can I miss it? Joshua Davidson’s face is planted everywhere.”
She paused – and then she continued again.
“He was outside our hospital.”
“Yes?” His eyes were drifting over the folder – he reached inside.
“I saw him.”
Now Connor stopped, and focused fully on her. “And?”
Again, a pause. Connor frowned. “Rachel?”
“I think the healings are real.”
Chills went up his back. “What do you mean, Rachel?”
“Dad – I think they are real.”
Panic threatened him – he forced it down with iron grip.
“Rachel, you’re not allowed to say that kind of thing. You’re a doctor. You’ll lose your job.”
“I’m a scientist as well as a doctor,” she said. “And as a scientist, I have to acknowledge what I see.”
Connor’s vision blurred for a moment. He blinked furiously, and focused hard on her image.
“Rachel,” he said. “Just keep this to yourself, okay? Keep it to yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something going on with you. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll get Mum to visit you, or something – we’ll help you out.”
“Dad, I’m not mad.”
“We’ll get you some help.”
“Dad!” Now her voice rose, and was strong – he had never heard her speak that way before. “You have to listen to me!” she said. “The healings are real! I’m a doctor – I know what I’m talking about! You have to listen.”
Connor began to sweat. “But how can they be real, Rachel? What are you saying?”
Again, her voice paused. And then…
“I don’t know what I’m saying, Dad: I don’t know how to interpret the evidence. I’m just saying that the evidence is here. And…I thought you should know. You’re our Prime Minister.”
A sudden burden weighed on his chest: heavy, a little frightening.
“Rachel,” he said. “Did he make any ment
ion of being a king?”
“No,” Rachel answered.
“Do you think…?” Now he hesitated. Surely the phone was bugged. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”
He heard her shifting, on the other end of the phone. Then, again, she spoke.
“No,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
Now Connor was silent. He stared at her photo – at her beauty: at her smile.
“Keep me posted, Rachel,” he said, feeling now a deep sense of conflict. He was using her! Using her as an informant. And he knew she also would know it. “Let me know if you find out more.”
He heard an almost inaudible sigh – and then, for the last time, her voice.
“Have a good day, Dad.”
“Okay,” he said. “Have a good day, Rachel.”
A New Kind of Zeal Page 19