Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  The babe bit made me wince. ‘I understand your frustration,’ I said politely as my hands formed fists, ‘but I don’t have any answers for you. Could you or your staff find us some desks to work at and give us a bit of privacy? We’re attending to an urgent matter.’

  ‘Me too, sweetheart. It’s called an election campaign.’ He etched inverted commas in the air with four puny digits. The veins in his neck looked like an embossed road map. ‘Right now, all we’ve got are a couple of billboards and a fucking website.’

  His face was so close to mine that the brim of his hat touched my forehead and I could make out the borders of his porcelain veneers. Scanning the room for potential weapons, I fixed my eyes on Milly’s shoes and wondered if she’d let me borrow one for a little bludgeoning.

  ‘Back off, mate,’ said Luke behind him, tapping him on the shoulder. ‘Nobody speaks to my staff like that.’ There was molten fury in his eyes.

  ‘Look, Harley, this bird doesn’t seem to appreciate what we’ve got to achieve here today.’

  ‘Ruby is not a bird, Tully. She’s a policy advisor and has a far greater appreciation of the complexities of this campaign than you will ever have, as was all too evident from the script you wrote.’

  ‘Settle down, Luke. We’re all on the same side here, mate,’ Tully tried.

  ‘Don’t tell me to settle, you numbskull. I’m your client, not your underling—you’d do well to remember that.’

  I fantasised about spitting in Tully’s ridiculous hat and putting it back on his head, but he’d already left.

  ‘You okay, Roo?’ Luke put his hand on my shoulder. His tie was all higgledy piggledy. It was spaghetti bolognaise: a photograph of the stuff printed on the cheapest satin.

  ‘No, actually, I’m not okay,’ I said, straightening his tie. ‘I’m bitterly disappointed to have missed the opportunity for a bit of good old-fashioned Australian dispute resolution.’

  ‘You could’ve taken him.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I didn’t feel up to the task of preparing my boss, the Leader of the Opposition, for a press conference on a scandal big enough to derail his campaign. But there wasn’t time to be spooked. Under the hot studio lights, I got to work.

  Catch Twenty-Loo

  It wasn’t until halfway through Max’s opening statement that I first understood the physical endurance it takes to be a journalist. With scarce surface area on the speaker’s lectern, one must hold one’s recording device close enough to capture speech, but distant enough to avoid obscuring the shot.

  That afternoon, it was my job to record my boss’s explanation of what had or hadn’t happened in the first Gulf War. All I could think about were the pins and needles in my outstretched arm. And my swelling bladder. Oscar held his iPhone next to the boring digital dictaphone Luke had lent me.

  Max finished his statement. ‘I’ll take any questions you might have.’

  I had one. ‘Mr Masters,’ I saw myself saying in a dead-arm-induced hallucination. ‘Why is it that all our limbs must suffer in order to take multiple recordings of the same words? Surely there’s enough camaraderie between us to share one?’ I swapped arms and felt sensation return sharply to my right elbow.

  ‘Mr Masters,’ said Gary Spinnaker behind me. ‘This represents a clear and intentional breach of duty. Why should voters trust that you won’t breach duties associated with the higher office you now seek?’

  We’d rehearsed that question in the car. I looked up at Max. A bead of sweat in the centre of his hairline threatened to drip onto his forehead.

  ‘I made the wrong call,’ he said, ‘and I will cop the consequences that come with that. All I can do is hope the Australian people understand that I wasn’t aware of the incident until some months after it happened. When I was informed of it by the officer responsible, who was clearly suffering stress, I made enquiries. There were no witnesses, no reports of injury and no complaints from the victim or his family. I was advised that the officer’s condition had become debilitating and that he was experiencing vivid hallucinations and nightmares. He then requested an honourable discharge. Notes from his debrief led us to believe that the incident he referred to was a figment of his imagination. I haven’t heard from him since—either in an official capacity or otherwise.’

  ‘What would you say to the victim’s family?’ asked a woman at the back of the room. We’d prepared for that one too. Against the advice of the Defence Department, Max had insisted on calling the victim’s mother that afternoon.

  ‘That’s not a hypothetical question,’ said Max. ‘Today I called the family of the victim. I expressed my sympathy to them for what they have suffered.’

  ‘But Mr Masters, this is not just about your subordinate, is it? It’s about you. You’re responsible for this cover-up and you’re only talking about it now because you know it will be in tomorrow’s papers.’ This came from the investigative freelancer who had researched the story for months and was incensed that his blockbuster exclusive had now become an all-you-can-eat buffet for his competitors.

  Max paused and looked down at his shoes. There was a rat-a-tat-tat as photographers clicked, eager to capture the image of his remorse. When he looked up, the sweat bead had migrated to the tip of his nose, and even though those present knew it wasn’t one they would do nothing to stop it being portrayed as a single tear. A millisecond passed and he wiped it away.

  I found myself assessing whether a teardrop would be good or bad for the campaign instead of listening to his response. Good, I concluded, because there weren’t words that could convey Max’s anguish. I had spent the afternoon watching the man relive his inaction.

  A few hours earlier, he had been physically ill at the thought of having overlooked the man’s wrongdoing. ‘I didn’t think he was capable of violence,’ he kept saying, his eyes somewhere off in the distance. ‘I thought he just wasn’t coping with the stress. Usually there would be reports and complaints coming in if something like that had happened—we’d hear it from the community—but there was nothing.’

  Sitting on the floor behind him, Milly cradled her little brother as Fran would me. ‘I know, darling.’ She rocked him gently.

  We were trying to prepare him for the press conference, but he didn’t give a damn. ‘Fuck the presser,’ he said. ‘Get me his mum’s number and an interpreter right now.’ So we did. It was a harrowing call to witness. When she forgave him, he wept. This was a good man.

  Now, when my left arm died and the sound technician behind me groaned under the weight of his boom mike, I willed my bladder to hold out just that little bit longer, promising to treat it better in future. I could hear my father’s voice when we went for Sunday drives long ago: ‘You should’ve gone before we left the house, Rubles!’ I’d had the opportunity back at the studio, but instead went in search of Almighty Avocado at the nearby chemist’s to cheer up Max. Thankfully, it was a successful mission.

  ‘Last question,’ called Di, to my relief. Oscar took it, catching me examining his hands; he flexed his fingers. ‘Do you anticipate this incident will be investigated, Mr Masters, and, if so, isn’t it possible you will face charges over it?’

  ‘That’s a matter for the department,’ said Max. ‘I informed them this afternoon that I offer my full cooperation with any of their processes. Thanks, everyone.’ He gathered his papers and stepped away from the lectern. I made a quick exit, avoiding Oscar’s gaze for fear that I might wet myself.

  The marbled bathroom down the corridor was empty so I slammed open the door to the first cubicle, hitched up my LBD and sat down on the perfectly clean seat. ‘Ahh,’ I said, but I’d ahhed too soon.

  It was the splosh in place of the usual trickle that first alarmed me. Second, the absence of the dictaphone that had been resting on my lap. Third, the trickle that followed. And last, but by no means least, the realisation that I was on one of those evil, hyper-sensitive auto-flushing loos, designed by some cruel person to become a surprise bidet to anyone
prone to flinching mid-stream.

  On the upside, I hadn’t yet moved a muscle. Well and truly on the downside, I had emptied my bladder on Luke’s dictaphone and was stuck with my dress hitched up to my waist and knickers around my ankles until I could find a way of fishing it out. The slightest movement might flush it entirely.

  It was quite the dilemma. I turned my head to the wall, ever so slowly, to gauge the sensor’s position. Auto Flush Technology —Hygiene is our Priority , said a green sticker. ‘Hygiene my arse!’ I growled. What could be less hygienic than having one’s region splashed with toilet water?

  With the tip of my pointed shoe, I dragged my handbag towards me then into the air. I held my breath and reached to grab it, my torso still as a statue so as not to ignite the sensor’s wrath. In full MacGyver mode, I rifled in search of fishing implements. Hairbrush? Too bristly. Handkerchief? Possible fishing net. Lipstick? Prone to mush. Sewing kit? Potential line. And then I saw my saviour: a solitary sanitary pad. Sticky as hell, it would lure the all-seeing, all-knowing sensor into thinking I was still seated, giving me enough time to fish out the dictaphone.

  I peeled the pad from its plastic liner, turned gently and stuck it over the sensor. Success. ‘Cop that, sensor!’ I squealed. Dismounting my porcelain horse, I grabbed a Sanitary Items Disposal Bag from the wall-mounted dispenser beside me. It was fishing time. On my knees, I looped pink thread from my sewing kit through the handles of the plastic pouch and bent over the bowl, ready to scoop me a dictaphone. It bobbed merrily on the surface. There was still hope. But before I knew what was happening, the pad lost its grip and swung from the wall by a single adhesive strip.

  You should have used double-sided tape, my head contributed.

  The sensor flashed a red light at me as if to poke out its tongue as I watched the great white monster effortlessly swallow Luke’s dictaphone whole, with no thanks but a gurgle and a burp.

  Damp and defeated, I dabbed at my forehead with squares of toilet tissue. My phone vibrated on the cubicle floor.

  Where’d you rush off to? I was going to ask if you were up for a drink tomorrow night. Oscar

  My luck had changed.

  I’ll gladly have a drink with you in exchange for a sound file of Max’s presser. R

  Deal. I’ve emailed it to you. What happened to yours? Oscar

  Diluted sound quality. R

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Di in a harsh whisper down the phone line.

  ‘In my room. Wardrobe malfunction.’ I tried not to let the soggy bits of my dress touch me as I pulled it over my head. ‘I’ll be down in a second.’ It was too soon for my new couture to be consigned to the laundry bag, but there’s nothing sexy about wee water.

  ‘Grab your bag and meet me downstairs in two—we’re off to the airport.’

  ‘No.’ I stomped my foot like Clem in a tantrum. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Suck it up, Roo.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Cloncurry.’

  ‘What curry?’

  She laughed and hung up. It was a serious question. It sounded like something from the takeaway menu at Bombay Bicycle Club back home.

  Maddy was in a cab with Di outside the hotel. Bob Marley’s ‘Stir It Up’ poured out of the subwoofer.

  ‘Hi, Roo,’ mouthed Maddy, waving at me as I leaped into the back seat beside her. In the front seat Di was in the middle of an animated call.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘where have you been?’

  ‘When was the last time I saw you?’

  I considered her question. ‘Adelaide.’

  Di glared at us from the front seat, so Maddy reached into her handbag for a pile of boarding passes fastened with a bulldog clip. It looked like a deck of tarot cards. She flicked through them, holding them open at the previous Thursday’s date so that I could read on. Adelaide to Sydney, Sydney to Cairns, Cairns to Darwin, Darwin to Melbourne—all in forty-eight hours. I wrote her a message on the back of a receipt that had been roaming in my handbag. How are you even awake?

  She lowered her sunglasses and wrote back: I adore my job.

  I raised an eyebrow at her.

  Campaigns are like love affairs, Maddy wrote. The adrenaline keeps you going. You sleep when it’s over.

  This was precisely the way I felt about the experience except that for Maddy I expected the affair was motivated by her love of the party. Mine was more of a rebound fling, the kind you have with someone simply because he’s not the man who broke your heart. I met him on holiday in the tropics. He was unpredictable, exotic even. With him I did things I’d never have dreamed of. I needed superhuman energy levels to match his stamina. We didn’t even speak the same language, though out of necessity I had learned the basics.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Di said to the driver, ‘can we turn on the radio?’

  Reluctantly, he switched off Bob Marley. Di commandeered the dial.

  ‘In breaking news, former prime minister Hugh Patton has commented on Slaughtergate from his family home in Sydney,’ said the announcer. We could hear seagulls over the harbour in the background.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ said Patton, ‘I’ve brought you here today to tell a story. In my first term as prime minister, I recall the chief of the defence forces bringing a proposal to my attention that had been initiated by a naval captain stationed in the Persian Gulf.

  ‘The captain’s proposal was for post-traumatic stress specialists to be available to service personnel for up to six months after each tour of duty. Cabinet rejected it for funding reasons, but we were all touched by its sincerity. It was the action of a captain deeply concerned for the wellbeing of one of his subordinates. That captain was Max Masters, Leader of the Opposition.’

  Di threw an air punch.

  The announcer continued, ‘Mr Patton refused to answer any questions, but when asked whether this meant that he supported the Opposition over his own party, he said simply that the story speaks for itself.’

  ‘Holy shit!’ said Maddy. ‘Did the former prime minister just bitch-slap his successor?’

  ‘Brennan will be spewing blood,’ said Di with a grin.

  Apparently this was a good thing.

  ‘You done?’ asked the cab driver. He cranked up the volume on ‘No Woman, No Cry’, which carried us all the way to Tullamarine—my fourth time there in eight days.

  In the Qantas Club, over more than our fair share of a passionfruity sauvignon blanc, Di explained why we were on the road again.

  ‘Essentially, our candidate for Rafter in western Queensland is a bit nuts. The party’s been in such a rush to preselect candidates that due diligence has been a little less diligent than we would have liked.’ Di chowed down on a stash of over-sauced party pies. ‘This lady’s a blogger. She blogs under a nom de plume so a Google search won’t bring it up, but it would appear that’— she paused and lowered her voice—‘it would appear that she plots the landing patterns of extraterrestrials from Saturn.’

  ‘That’s more than a bit nuts,’ said Maddy. ‘That’s about eight Iced VoVos short of a packet.’

  ‘Two questions,’ I said. ‘One, isn’t Saturn a gaseous planet? And two, what on earth is an Iced Volvo?’

  ‘VoVo,’ howled Maddy, ‘not Volvo.’

  I was still blank.

  ‘It’s a biscuit—pale pink icing with a landing strip of jam sprinkled with desiccated coconut.’

  ‘Sounds foul.’

  ‘Don’t knock it ’til you try it,’ said Di through a mouthful of pie.

  ‘I did find some delicious sweets in a supermarket the other day,’ I offered. ‘They’re like English toffees covered in chocolate and wrapped in blue paper printed with tidbits of trivia on film stars. I got Brad Pitt. Very chewy and quite more-ish.’

  Maddy and Di looked at each other as they laughed, their eyes watering. It was a sort of contagious hysteria.

  ‘You mean Fantales?’ Maddy clutched her sides as fat tears rolled down her face.

  ‘Yes.’
I was somewhat bewildered. ‘You know them?’ I found the half-eaten packet in my overnight bag and put it on the table.

  We giggled like teenagers at a sleepover and the lounge staff frowned as we polished off the Fantales, the mini pies and every last drop of the sauvignon blanc.

  When they called our flight, I was still under the impression we were headed for Australia’s Brick Lane.

  Felicia Lunardi

  I opened the vertical blinds in my room at the motor inn to the hum of an over-exerted air-conditioner.

  Perhaps that’s why it’s called Cloncurry, I thought, peering through the window at garam masala–coloured dust outside. Trying to ignore my spectacular white wine hangover, I stepped into my pencil skirt for the third time that week, threw on my cleanest top and went outside to find the girls.

  It was then that I discovered the etymology of the name: it’s called Cloncurry because it’s scaldingly hot. Not Melbourne-hot or even Brisbane-hot; Cloncurry brings something unique to heat. Discarded gum trodden into the footpath formed a gooey puddle rather than the usual sticky clump. A squashed marsupial on the road was steaming as if in a tagine. Each of my thighs had suction-cupped the other and my shoes gripped the concrete like velcro. It was a rancid heat. I wondered whether the Cloncurry Embroiderers’ Guild met in the morgue for an environment more conducive to fine needlework.

  ‘Shut it!’ commanded Di as I slid open the glass door to an icy shed marked Air -conditioned Dining Room . She was leaning on the water cooler, gulping from a pint glass, reading the Sunday papers. Maddy sat at a laminex table tucking into what looked like, but couldn’t possibly have been, a bowl of porridge.

  ‘Morning, Roo,’ she chirped. ‘Grab some breakfast. It’s delicious with banana and brown sugar.’

  Di and I exchanged glances. ‘Maddy, sweetheart,’ I implored, ‘it’s about two hundred degrees outside; why in God’s name are you eating hot porridge?’