Challenge

by Paul Daley

  They are my haunting spirits—the men, all of them men, whose failures and shortcomings illustrate how not to do it. Others, despite their weaknesses, are inspirational. I’ll remain up there with them, too, whether I make it through or not. Cold comfort, really.

  In my briefcase I keep a copy of Vere Gordon Childe’s How Labour Governs—A Study of Workers’ Representation in Australia. It’s a mint-condition 1923 first edition, given to me by Indy on the anniversary of our affair. Sounds about as sexy as a case of the runs, I know. But the guy was a lost genius, a soothsayer who, almost a century ago, spotted what was fucked with the party and how it could never really be fixed. VGC gave it to the pricks, observing way back then that our MPs and functionaries were lightning quick to jettison socialist ideals once in power because they immediately gravitated to the centre and became hostage to the trappings of office.

  He belted the unions, saying the party had degenerated into a vast machine for capturing political power, a gigantic apparatus for the glorification of a few bosses. By which he meant the union leaders.

  I’ve learned this bit off by heart—can recite it underwater: To retain the support of the nationalists the … Party has gone in for a course of sentimental flag-flapping which savours of jingoism. It has allowed the strictly economic motive of lying behind the White Australia Policy to be obscured by racial prejudices and has pandered to fears which have played into the hands of the militarists in a dangerous manner.

  Touché, VGC!

  It reminds me why I hate Australia Day—all those rednecks sucking on their dark and stormies, waving the flag, wearing the flag with that bloody awful Union Jack on it. And don’t get me started on Anzac Day—you know, we kicked their arses in Gallipoli just like we’re gonna do again with those towel-head terrorists in the ’Stan.

  But I digress. When a party of the Centre Left tries to hoodwink the punters—like Dawes did—by going to the Centre Right, it ends up looking like a pathetic imitation of the real thing. It hasn’t got a hope. It’s true, under all the pressure from the shmucks, I, too, have allowed it to drift. And now, to save the show I’m dragging it back to the other side of centre.

  A few weeks ago I recited VGC’s words in a tactics group meeting.

  Vagnoli said, Hey, Danny—Vere Gordon Childe? You mean the Vere Gordon Childe from Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull?

  The same, Vadge, I said. Sometimes you surprise me with your insight. Archaeologist, philologist, Australian-born discoverer of ancient civilisations, professor. A hero to Indiana Jones. Publicly ignored by most in the party. Ostracised, he fled to Europe. He returned to Australia in 1957.

  Then he took up with the party again, right?

  No, Vadge. Then he jumped off a cliff and killed himself.

  Anyway, back in the big room the whips kick out the photographers and swat away a couple of journalists and then shut the doors. I think I know how Vere Gordon Childe felt—always swimming against a tide of effluent and utterly isolated. Totally alone. Suicidal. Well I wouldn’t say that I’m genuinely contemplating ending it all if it doesn’t go my way. But I’ve had my moments when the thought of nothingness appeals. As does imprisonment or hospitalisation with a serious illness, if it meant I didn’t have to deal with the sort of shit that’s swirling around me now.

  Crawley declares the meeting open. Says something flat, typically uninspiring about the Drysdale terror Bill. Throws to the room.

  An hour passes in a drone of self-important voices—fifteen speakers including Dave Sweetman saying give Drysdale what he wants, and then Duncan parroting the same utter inanities the Sweeties have instructed him to say about us giving Drysdale the rubber stamp and letting the High Court sort it out. There’re a few voices for me—Crawley, of course, Jamieson and Usher.

  But I can read the mood: they are scared and reckon we should cave in.

  Now Vagnoli, the dumb fuck, is saying something unintelligible about Napoleon—how you shouldn’t pick a fight then retreat. I’m looking at my watch. He takes my signal, winds it up.

  My turn. I stand, walk around to the front of the table. I’ve left my notes because my hand is shaking too badly to hold them. I know what I want to say, but don’t know where to start.

  I’m sucking in breath and hoping the autocue in my brain, which usually knows where to begin, will roll when I need it to. My heart is slowing now as the cogs turn and mesh.

  I start nervously, awkwardly, stammer a bit—I, I, I, I know there’s an easier way to live than this. We’re up here twenty weeks a year, away from our families and our homes—away from so many of our human responsibilities. And when we are home we’re out—what?—five, six nights a week at electoral functions meeting the expectations of the voters who put us here.

  I’ve been to birthday parties for dogs, I’ve been to lamington bake-offs, I’ve been to tree-plantings and to the unveiling of plaques at nursing homes. I’ve broken so many promises to my kids about being home tonight that they’ve stopped asking because they don’t want to embarrass me. I’ve missed their birthdays and I’ve left Ana waiting outside the cinema or alone in a restaurant on our anniversary because I’ve forgotten about her while I’ve dealt with a constituent’s issue.

  There’re a few nods. They all relate to what I’m saying. But I can also tell they’re anxious about where it’s all going. And this lot likes certainty.

  I keep talking, say, It’s not just me—none of us here in this room has anything vaguely resembling normal lives. And we never will if we are going to do this job properly. I’d never try to explain this to the punters. But we sacrifice an awful lot—maybe too much—to serve this parliament, this great party of ours, this country.

  Heads nod again. That’s a good sign. I’m getting them, so I continue with a bit more feeling about how we all miss our kids growing up, how we don’t get to see them play sport or go to their learning journeys at school.

  We forget our wives’ and husbands’ work responsibilities. But our families put up with it because they believe in the service, too. And they believe in the movement and the party.

  And you know what the worst thing is? We feel guilty all the time because we are crap parents and crap partners. We are terrified that our kids won’t turn out okay. And I know that some of you have lost children. Some of us have lost marriages because of politics. And some of us struggle to hold on to our marriages. And some of us have sacrificed it all to politics. We should never forget Andy Tiernan and what drove him to do what he did. We need to be here for each other if ever someone in this party—or indeed, in this parliament—should find themselves in that situation again.

  Right about here I pause, just long enough to throw an evil eye at the Sweeties, the pair of cunts, who sit there a few rows in and a couple of seats apart, each looking at his soft white hands. The pause is uncomfortable but I hold it. All other eyes are on me. Now a few heads start turning as gazes—the briskly curious, and the lingering and condemnatory—rest on the brothers.

  I relieve the room of its discomfort, say that on Saturday, just two days ago, I was at home. It was one of the few Saturday mornings I’ve had with my family since I’ve been leader. We had plans. Then I got the call from the PM to say the country was in the grip of some terror alert. I had to come up here urgently for a briefing. I had no choice. My family was disappointed. But it was the job or them. And the job won yet again. I omit, however, my fear that it was, perhaps, the final straw for Ana.

  The rest you mostly know, I say. The PM invited me into the tent—urged me to enlist you to support legislation letting him and the security chiefs arrest and lock up without charge anyone suspected—suspected!—of terrorist activity. He wants me to sit on some committee to oversee arrests, assess the evidence and decide if these people should stay in jail, without legal representation, indefinitely. It’s a kangaroo court that undermines the separation of powers. It’s Northern Ireland in the 1980s, it’s your worst dictatorship—Syria, Zimbabwe. It’s
just plain wrong.

  Let’s not kid ourselves. We all know that this is aimed at Normalian-Australians, a few of whom—yes—have been in the news for the wrong reasons. There have been attacks on our troops in Afghanistan involving some Normalians who have spent time here, but whose religious persuasions have been perverted by jihadi recruiters. This is happening across the world—in Britain, America, the Netherlands, Germany—not just with Normalians. But also with Lebanese, Saudi, Filipino, Malaysian and English residents. So let’s not avoid the real issue here: Drysdale’s Bill is aimed squarely at harnessing the anti-Normalian sentiment simmering across Australia for all sorts of unrelated reasons. But I say they are good people and I won’t be part of any plan to institutionalise prejudice against them.

  The prime minister wanted me to sign up immediately, even though he and ASIO refused to give me any details about this so-called planned attack. I told him I wouldn’t be rushed—that I needed time to reflect on it, but most importantly, to discuss it with my party.

  So here we are. Mornings like last Saturday … we all have them in politics. I’d be lying if I didn’t say to you that there are times when I wonder if it is, actually, all worth it.

  You all know my story. The good bits and the not-so-flattering bits. So I’m not going to bang on here about why I entered politics and why I wanted to lead this proud and important party that has always been the genuine driver of social and economic change and equality in this country.

  I shut up for a minute, scan the room, search their faces. It’s completely silent. They are locked onto me.

  I start up again, say there’re three types of people who want to represent—and lead—this party in parliament. I see a few eyes roll. But I carry on anyway.

  First, I say, there’re the creatives—those who bury their heads in policy and argue in the backrooms to transform the platform and maintain the endless fight for reform. Then there’re the warriors. The combatants. Those who love the fight against the Tories and against the elements in our own ranks who’d stymie change and reform in order to consolidate their own power bases.

  Finally there’re the appeasers. Around here we’ve come to refer to the politics of appeasement as consensus, as the Third Way. Well I’m here to tell you the Third Way is nothing but a late-nineties slogan that has proven to be a dead end for our identity and our integrity.

  So, what am I?

  At this point there’re a few uncomfortable glances around the room.

  You’re a warrior, Vagnoli pipes in. You’re a warrior, Danny.

  There’s the odd half-hearted aye aye.

  I shake my head and say, No, no I’m not. I’m a creative and a warrior—I’m a creative warrior.

  I didn’t choose this path because I wanted an easy life, I say. I chose it because I want to improve the lot of ordinary people—people who don’t have access to the power that the elites have. People without the right postcode. It’s why I talk about the Window of Optimism. I know some among you grimace when I mention the window. But it’s not just a slogan. It’s real—my way of saying I want to reach out to those who feel isolated from power and community and decision making, to let them look into broader society and see what they can be a part of, so they can aspire to work with us to make their own lives better. I am for inclusiveness and optimism and courage. But every fibre of my being tells me this legislation is evil and is driven by the politics of negativity and fear. I can’t, I won’t, lead a party that’s willing to support legislation like this. And today I stake my leadership on opposing it.

  Someone gasps. I continue, saying, I wish I could tell you that I know what’s going to happen next. But I’m sorry—I just don’t know. If you support me then we’ll be opposing the Bill, with its venal, racist, divisive amendments, for a second time—and you all know what that could mean. If you don’t support me then we’ll be having a leadership vote today.

  There’s much murmuring and whispering at this point, shaking of heads.

  I tell them, With your support I want to vote against this Bill in the House and then punt it, with the Greens’ backing, out of the Senate. Drysdale might use it as a DD trigger because he’s got nothing else. He’s weary, he’s cynical and he’s almost dead in the water. He’ll say I am—we are—soft on terrorism and terrorists, that we can’t stop the terrorists arriving in this country and can’t keep the streets safe.

  But we will shout out to the country that we are against racial vilification and fearmongering, and we will campaign on a clear, positive alternative agenda for the country. Education. Environment. Health. Communities. Ending poverty. The window. Access to the postcode.

  I pause for effect.

  Usher stands, begins applauding slowly. Others follow. Now nearly everyone is on their feet, clapping, whistling. There’re maybe ten who sit silently.

  I put up my hands. The room hushes. They sit.

  Comrades, there’re easier paths to follow, I say. But I am going to fight all the way up to and past the barricades. I promise you I’ll resist the government on this with every breath and every word. I can’t promise you we’ll win. But I can promise I’ll lay down my political life trying. This is not the time for consensus or for rolling over just because it’s less difficult. I am not an appeaser. And I am not about to turn around and choose an easier life now. Join me. Let’s fight.

  The applause begins again as they rise to their feet. Minutes later it crescendos and slowly dissipates.

  They are mine. This time. I look behind me, around to my left at Proudfoot, who is still sitting. He claps a couple of times.

  I hear myself saying, So, any contenders for the leadership? Does anyone want to challenge today?

  Silence.

  I turn to Proudfoot.

  Timmy? I ask. He stares at the table, shakes his head.

  Any other takers? I’m staring at Dave Sweetman. We lock gazes. He blinks.

  Okay then, I say. Thanks, comrades.

  Proudfoot stands, juts out his jaw. The nerves around his eyes flicker. He is flushed as he walks towards the door. Usher comes up, hugs me. Others line up to shake my hand.

  It is no longer complicated. I am on the warpath.

  17

  Time is now locked in fast-forward, like I’m clenched in the jaws of some runaway beast—Shark Face?—careening along a havoc-strewn path that is smashing through the middle of the great building.

  From the caucus room Eddie and Usher and Crawley and Errol and I glide through King’s Hall under the gaze of the portraits of Speakers, great and small, hanging on the panelled walls.

  All heads turn as we walk down to the café where the lobbyists and staffers and spivs and hangers-on display half-masticated focaccia in open-mouthed stares, as the beast hurls me around and about to shake hands and smile and do small talk.

  I grab my takeaway coffee, head back towards the office and a six-inch-high pile of Question Time briefs.

  This morning every thought, every decision, each step forward and each breath, happened as if I was trapped in a vat of molasses, weighted down by some great inertia. Now it all feels like it’s happening too fast to get a reasonable fix on.

  The comrades mostly left the caucus room pumped, smiling and assured, ready for a punch-up and saying they were willing to die on their feet. Word went out like a siren: he’s stared down the leadership and he’s going to fight to the death.

  Vagnoli even did a quick one-two for the media in the hallway—as subtle as a sledgehammer for the short planks: Danny Slattery has staked his leadership on calling the government’s bluff—caucus backs him a hundred per cent.

  Not a bad message. It’s running on the Net, on the radio, on TV— but still third after Snake Boy’s worsening condition and the latest off-screen development of Captain Cook. Realistically, that’s where I reasonably should be in the news cycle before my doorstop out by the pond in the leaders’ courtyard.

  As I walk into the courtyard and towards imminent collision with the peloto
n of approaching media, Eddie goes, Danny, keep it short—do statesman, not street fighter here.

  First question: Did you throw the leadership open, call for a spill?

  Not at all, I say, given all the talk that’s around—that you people are happy to circulate—I just thought I’d test the proposition, so I asked if there was anyone who wanted to challenge, who thought they could do a better job. Nobody put their hand up and said yes, so there was no need for a vote. No takers on leadership today, sorry, guys.

  Four leadership-related questions later someone asks me why I don’t like Captain Cook or Peng.

  I want to say, really, is that the very best you can do under these circumstances, you stupid fuck? But I’m heeding Eddie’s advice so I say, Please, this isn’t a joke. There’s an awful lot at stake here. I really don’t want to demean what’s happening in this parliament and around my party by talking about a cooking show. If you’ve got something serious to ask me about, then please go ahead.

  The political questions then come thicker and faster—every variation of are you afraid of a DD election that will end your career?

  Then about the comments that I made on the doors after coming in from confession earlier today.

  Mr Slattery, you said this morning that members of your party were terrified about the political ramifications of opposing the prime minister’s terror legislation. This morning you said that your party was divided. What’s changed?

  I lean forward and raise an eyebrow, unleashing a motor-driven whirr, chirrup, click-pop of shutter and flash—a soundtrack to the interest in my gesture.

  What’s changed, I reply, is that I’ve convinced my party that sometimes it’s more important to do the right thing than to operate in fear of losing your seat. I don’t know how this is going to play out in the electorate. But I have told my party that I will not pander to the prejudices and the hatred out there or to the cynical manipulation of that sentiment by this tired, idea-vacuum of a prime minister. I have said that I will not sell my principles or lie my way into the prime ministership. If they want a liar for a leader they should stick with the status quo. And then we can all go home. There’re other things that I can do and you can get back to asking questions about cooking shows. Thank you. That’s all I’ve got time for now. I’ve got meetings before Question Time.