by Steve Lewis
Ryan had plotted to bring down the former Defence Minister and left-wing fool, Bruce Paxton, in an effort to try to stop cuts that he believed were a threat to national security. But it had been futile. The Prime Minister was determined to bribe his way back to power and Defence was simply a cash cow to be milked.
Maybe losing the election was the best thing that could happen? What Ryan didn’t want was to lose so badly that political recovery would take a generation.
He scrabbled in his desk drawer for a bar of chocolate as he tried to conjure a plan that would keep his party viable.
I’d back anyone against Toohey now as long as they could save some furniture.
‘Minister?’ His personal assistant was at the door.
‘Yup.’
‘The Prime Minister’s chief of staff is here.’
The familiar stocky frame of George Papadakis ambled into the office and sat down with a thud. As usual he was carrying the weight of the nation.
‘Do you have any Scotch?’ Papadakis asked theatrically.
‘George, it’s barely lunchtime.’
‘Heroin then. I’ve just come from a meeting with the Chinese Ambassador and can’t face any more green tea. And I need something to dull the pain of trying to keep this shambles of a show on the road.’
Ryan liked Papadakis and didn’t envy his job but he was disappointed that this member of Labor’s Right and old-school Treasury hard-head hadn’t managed to rein in his profligate boss.
‘I’ve got headaches of my own, mate. ERC wants more cash from Defence and we’re down to the bone. As I’ve said many, many times I’m now concerned that we are compromising national security and—’
Papadakis held up his hand.
‘Brendan, I know. I’ve heard your complaints many times and I have said, many times, that everyone has to take a hit. And you know that the mental health plan is close to the PM’s heart and probably our only hope of victory at the election.’
Ryan had known he’d get no joy from Papadakis but simply wanted to underline his growing concerns.
‘So mate, apart from liquor and hard drugs, what’s on your mind?’
‘It’s your political brain I need. You know how much the PM values your judgement, you’re one of his trusted few. These leaks are killing us, Brendan. We expect them from the party, even Cabinet, but we’re now being white-anted by someone in the intelligence community. The leak from the NSC is intolerable.’
Ryan rocked back in his chair and swung round to face the window.
‘George, you know as well as I do that leaks are one of the symptoms of a government in decline. Leaks from the administration are as good as a death knock. If we can change our fortunes, then we might get back some semblance of order.’
Papadakis checked his watch and started to rise from his chair.
‘I know. I just needed the walk. And a shoulder to cry on. Thanks Brendan.’
‘Hey, have you seen the Guardian feature by Bailey?’
Papadakis slumped back in his seat and groaned.
‘No. What does the Zombie Queen want now?’
‘She says Toohey should engage in shuttle diplomacy to ensure world peace.’
Papadakis was massaging his temples as he got up.
‘Cocaine, that’s what I need. I’ll go find someone in the NSW Right. One of them’s bound to be a dealer.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Canberra
In the distance, the mountains were a tapestry of green and violet. The Brindabellas were majestic under a sky of startling blue broken by tufts of cotton white skating across the city horizons.
From the top of Red Hill, Bruce Paxton soaked up the capital’s western sprawl. Suburban estates straight off the Masterton assembly line were baking in the late afternoon sun, replacing pine plantations bulldozed to make way for Canberra’s growing population.
The city was greener than he’d expected after this summer from hell. Arterial roads carried loads of post-school children and harried mums, high-vis tradies and brow-beaten cabbies. But the byways wove in and out of the land’s natural contours and suburbs vanished beneath the rising green of trees.
‘Can you believe that a lot of Australians hate this place?’ Paxton turned to Weng Meihui, also transfixed by the view.
‘In my city there are few trees and the sky is black with smog,’ she said. ‘I love the space and the clarity of the air here.’
They walked the few metres to the bar, thirsty for a drink and conversation.
She is ageless.
Paxton wrapped his right hand around a chilled glass of white and glanced at her face. A nervous smile.
Why has she come back into my life? Now? After all this time?
The MP was cautious. He wanted to play it cool, despite himself. It had all seemed so convenient, that she would arrive. Unannounced, but not unwelcome.
His first instinct had been ‘This means trouble’. But now, as evening fell, the memories came flooding back. Of nights wrapped in her tantalising, impossible embrace. His Chinese temptress.
She teased him with a smile. ‘What are you thinking, Bruce?’
‘Well, don’t mock me, but there’s a line from a song I just love, by a bloke called Eric Clapton. Bit of a guitar god. Anyway, he sang about a woman looking “wonderful tonight”. And . . .’
She leaned over and gently took his hands.
‘Why don’t you fix the bill?’
The key turned and the door to his apartment opened. His flatmates – two Labor comrades from South Australia – were both out and he’d taken the precaution of doing a bit of cleaning up.
‘So, here it is, the castle. Not much, but I like it. And the TA – travel allowance – covers the rent.’
She sensed his apprehension, and gently stroked his arm. ‘Just relax,’ she reassured him.
He bent to the CD player and flicked through a messy pile.
Jesus, fucking Nirvana?!
He chose a Michael Bublé compilation instead. Personally he couldn’t stand the smug Canadian crooner but women, he was told, loved him. A soft-flow tune played, something about a woman making him feel young.
Now, that’s appropriate.
He turned and leaned into her tight body, hungrily meeting her lips, that familiar scent of musk and milk.
‘It’s been a—’
‘Shhhh.’ She cut him off as her fingers skilfully played with a row of buttons, releasing his shirt and easing it to the floor.
He stood in his singlet, arms crossed self-consciously.
‘And off with that, too.’
Her small and nimble fingers reached firmly beneath the hem of the singlet, and she pulled it up so insistently that he had no choice but to raise his arms above his head.
The cloth covering his eyes, he started with sweet surprise as he felt her soft, warm lips press again upon his own rougher mouth. She kissed him long and lusciously, and he luxuriated in her familiar yet exotic scent. Finally she released him, and he quickly shed his remaining clothes, all body consciousness lost as he urgently drew her to him.
Kissing all the while, he unzipped her high-collared dress and allowed the silken sheath to fall to the floor. They tumbled together onto the bed, hands eager upon one another. Hovering above her, he admired the taut lines of her body, tracing an ardent line from her lips, down between her exquisite breasts and onto the silken small of her stomach.
Just a second’s hesitation and his fingers drew lower. He circled and teased until she could bear it no longer, then he slowly took her.
They made love in a languid embrace, lacking the urgent heat of the last time they had met in Beijing. But it was somehow more intense, more connected; they built carefully and inevitably to her climax and, soon after, his own sweet release.
Her fingers traced circles in his chest hair while she rested her head on his arm. The last vestiges of the day had disappeared, and her stomach purred with a mild hunger.
For the first time, she n
oticed a few sun spots on his neck.
‘You need to take care of yourself,’ she said, triggering a grunted response.
‘Why darling? Who’s coming after me now?’
‘No Bruce. I mean your skin.’ She dabbed a small red blotch under his chin. ‘There.’
‘Oh that. Too many years in the outfield, waiting for some bastard to hit the ball my way.’
Weng looked perplexed.
‘Cricket, my love. Only game in the world that can last five days without a friggin’ result.’ He laughed at the sheer bloody idiocy of it.
Weng eased her body up on a pillow. ‘Sounds like a meeting of the People’s Congress. It can last five days, sometimes six, and all they do is rubber stamp what has already been decided. The current Standing Committee is the worst we’ve ever had.’
Paxton had never heard Weng speak this way; normally she offered nothing but slavish praise for her masters.
‘You’re sounding a touch bolshie, Mei. Things not going so well for you out here?’
She raised herself on both elbows, suddenly serious.
‘Bruce . . . sometimes . . .’
Her voice softened and he noticed the slender trail of a tear.
‘Mei . . . what is it, my love?’
She sighed. ‘Sometimes . . . No. Often I question what I have become. What I have done for my state. I used to believe in it and that made what I did bearable. But now I fear my country is lost. And I am lost with it.’
Paxton leaned over and smoothed a lock of hair from her face.
‘Well, you’re not lost, you’re with me. And I know what you are, Mei. I have always known. I didn’t delude myself that you were attracted by my charms. But I’ve never told you anything that would compromise my country.’
‘I know. Maybe that is why I love you.’
Paxton held her close as she continued.
‘If I had my way, I’d replace all the generals and apparatchiks with the smartest graduates from the universities. Then I’d allow them to open China to the outside world, to really let a thousand flowers bloom. But President Meng . . . well, he seems intent on withdrawing into some nationalist past. We are regressing.’
Paxton could empathise. For the first time in many years he was questioning his own commitment to the great cause. He had played the loyal ALP footsoldier for nearly four decades and had never recoiled from a fight.
From the time he’d signed up as a member of the Rockingham branch in Perth, his dues paid by the Building Workers’ Industrial Union, he’d obediently followed every instruction. He’d never questioned orders to do over some useless prick, some political dropkick, some reprehensible turncoat. He didn’t mind the battles with the corporate bloodsuckers, of course. They were fair game. Blowing the top off a big industrial stink and watching halfwit bosses fall to pieces – well, that was good sport. But it was when he was ordered to strafe his own bruvvers – another union thug or a Labor mate – well that’s when he got shin-splints. Not that he’d ever asked to be substituted.
He’d copped his fair share of shit too, losing his hand in an industrial ‘accident’, and then losing his family as they lost interest in a schemer who spent more hours than were healthy on the red-eye to Canberra.
All the time he was climbing the greasy pole, eyes firmly on the prize. And now? He’d been fed to the wolves a year and a half ago, and for what? He’d broken no laws. Sure, he’d built a slush fund with some Chinese cash but who in politics had clean hands when it came to that? He’d been dumped because the government was too weak and too gutless to fight.
‘I believed in a great cause, the Labor Party. Believed we could change this country for the better, follow in the footsteps of Hawke and Keating, build a stronger and fairer Australia. I believed we were united in the common good, taking on all those mugs and hillbillies who tried to shoot us down.
‘Australians used to believe in us too, that we would make a difference, that we cared about the little guy, that we were the enlargers who wouldn’t leave them behind. Now? I’m not sure what we stand for anymore. We seem to spend most of our time apologising for cock-ups. And when it does get hard . . . well, we usually cut and run.’
He paused and gazed at his Chinese princess.
‘What went wrong, Mei?’
She kissed him. Gently.
‘We got older,’ she said. ‘Now I have to go.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Canberra
The three-car convoy swept into the National Press Club, the prime ministerial limousine, C1, sandwiched between a pair of gleaming white security vehicles.
Several guards jumped from the cars into action, taking up positions on either side of C1. Advisers hurriedly grabbed notepads and iPhones.
On a soft leather seat, protected by bullet-proof glass and bodyguards trained to kill, Martin Toohey wrestled with the knot of a silk tie that was refusing to behave. Finally, he slipped off his seatbelt.
‘Okay George, time to rock-and-roll.’ The Prime Minister gave his chief of staff a friendly pat on the arm.
Near the entrance a gaggle of environmentalists was protesting against what they saw as a pitifully low carbon emission target. One was dressed as a polar bear in a suit that looked as if it had been knocked up by his mum. A bedraggled koala lurked without menace. Both were suffering in the heat, and having trouble with the scansion of their chant.
‘Five . . . five . . . will not keep us alive.’
Papadakis thought they were the ones endangered by climate. Practically no one watching the evening news would have the foggiest idea what the protest was about, he mused.
‘Clowns,’ yelled Maurice Reilly, the Press Club’s no-nonsense CEO. Reilly, who in a previous life had helped enough wayward AFL players overcome their troubles to earn a sainthood, was taking no chances. He personally shepherded the PM and his entourage into the club’s newly renovated premises.
The PM admired the two-and-a-half-million dollar overhaul of a building that had hosted every prime minister since Fraser. ‘I like these renovations, Maurice,’ Toohey said. ‘But you do seem to have a thing for brown.’
The club was packed with journalists, lobbyists, bureaucrats and the Labor faithful. Toohey’s office had primed the media with snippets from his speech billed as a game-changer. More than that, this was the Grand Final.
Strategically, the Chinese Ambassador was seated at the main table, causing a flurry of activity among the snappers.
‘Switch your phones to silent.’ Reilly’s directive reminded the room that Toohey’s speech, just minutes away, was being broadcast live across the nation, on the ABC and Sky News.
In his seat, Toohey took a final gulp of water, brushed at his suit sleeve and gathered his speech notes. He walked to the podium and scanned the room as the NPC’s president, Laurie Wilson, made the introductions. The applause was generous.
‘Thanks Laurie.’ Toohey got straight into stride.
‘This election year is a contest for the future. A contest between the builders with the vision for a twenty-first-century nation and the wreckers who lust for power for its own sake. And who will drag us back to the past.
‘Our mission, Labor’s mission, is to build a better Australia, to build the jobs of the future and to invest in a fairer country.’
Toohey’s opus was laid out as a series of steps. Each would be a news story in its own right. Toohey would make some admissions of fault in an effort to consign error to the past. Then there would be a run of headline moments that culminated with the big bang announcement.
The first declaration guaranteed a headline on its own.
‘So that we are not dogged with speculation for the rest of the year, today I announce that the election will be held on Saturday, 14 September.’
There was a sharp intake of breath at the working press tables followed by frantic scribbling. Twitter went into overdrive. #EDay.
This was unheard of, a prime minister giving away the natural advantage of
keeping the election date a secret up until the last moment. But it was just the start.
‘A decent nation cares for those who cannot care for themselves. No one in our community is more vulnerable than those with a mental disability.
‘Just last week in Penrith, I met Jody, a young single mother with three children. One, Michael, has a severe disability. Jody is only twenty-four and Michael’s needs are so great that she has to care for him day and night. She does not have any family to offer respite.
‘She told me that she lies awake at night worrying about what will happen to her son when she can’t take care of him anymore.
‘A fair Australia, a just Australia, a decent Australia, lends people like Jody and Michael a hand.
‘So today I announce the most sweeping reform to mental health care since Federation. My government will legislate this term to secure the future of Jody and Michael and the thousands who struggle each day with this silent epidemic.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Mental Health Justice Act will provide universal and lifetime cover for those, like Michael, who need our support.
‘It will also provide generous respite care for mothers like Jody.
‘This will not come cheap. In 2018, the first full year of the scheme, it will cost $6 billion a year . . .’
At this point, the economic writers lowered their heads and began to scribble. Toohey could see it on their faces: here we go, yet another unfunded promise by Labor.
But the PM was ready for the pointy heads.
‘. . . but it will be fully funded, through savings already booked from Defence, and by a unique agreement with the People’s Republic of China.
‘This afternoon the chief executive of Sinopec and I will sign a heads of agreement concerning the Medusa gas-field off the Northern Territory coast. The Medusa is the largest known gas reserve in the world.
‘The agreement will give Sinopec a 99-year lease over the site. In addition to the usual company taxes and royalties, it has agreed to an immediate down-payment of $10 billion and yearly leaseholder payments of $1 billion every year thereafter. All of that money will be put in trust to build a war chest for the Mental Justice package.
