Sucked In

by Shane Maloney

  ‘I’ve heard the McIntyre rumour,’ I said. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘Phil Sebastian’s on the run,’ she said. ‘He cancelled the meetings I set up this morning with various of the branch secretaries. He’s locked down with Barry Quinlan. They’re putting the blowtorch to Quinlan’s people on the central panel, trying to extract written guarantees of support.’

  My mobile started to ring. I asked Helen to hold.

  ‘Cop this.’ Ayisha again. ‘Alan Metcalfe’s office rang. Apparently there’s a story doing the rounds that you joined the protest rally last night and rugby-tackled one of the silvertails as he was getting out of his limo. People have been ringing them to say it’s a good thing at least some Labor members have got a bit of fight in them. Seems you’re becoming the emblem of rank-and-file dissent.’

  Oh deary dear. This was all getting out of hand.

  ‘The leader wants a word, of course. I think he’d like to run you out of town on a rail. I said you were down with the lurgie.’

  No doubt about it. I had no choice but to pull the plug.

  ‘When you come around, bring my nomination form,’ I said. ‘And a box of matches.’

  I went back to Helen, included her into the midday get-together and took the phone off the hook. The least I could do was tell them all to their faces. Until then, what I needed most in the world was a little lie down in a darkened room with a cold compress.

  The damp face cloth was just beginning to work its magic when somebody banged on the door. Two somebodies. Senator Quinlan and Alan Metcalfe. Barry had brought a bunch of flowers and Alan had a box of chocolates.

  Not really. But they might as well have.

  ‘I hope you’re feeling better, Murray’ said Metcalfe. ‘Fair to say I know all about last night’s incident. Both your actions at the time and your subsequent…’

  ‘Cut the cackle, Alan.’ Quinlan elbowed him aside. ‘Thing is, Murray, Phil Sebastian’s had a fit of the collywobbles. He’s only prepared to run if it’s a lay-down misere. Which, as of Andrew McIntyre’s nomination an hour ago, it isn’t. If Phil pulls out, we’ll both have the credibility chocks kicked out from under us. Unless, of course, we put our pooled resources behind another candidate.’

  I stepped back, waved them inside and padded down the hall ahead of them in my extra-thick, extra-comfy socks.

  ‘We’re looking for somebody with parliamentary experience and good local credibility. Somebody capable of mobilising rank-and-file support at short notice. Somebody who’s not averse to taking a risk.’ Quinlan tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Oh, and by the way, thanks for saving my life.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said, and took them into the den.

  The Coolaroo by-election was held in September.

  Diana, Princess of Wales, hit a post in a Paris underpass the same week, so it didn’t rate much coverage. Labor’s overall vote dropped three percent, but nobody blamed me. It fitted the national trend.

  I made my maiden speech in the House of Representatives in November. My theme was the need to maintain a bipartisan commitment to multiculturalism. Ayisha, acting in her capacity as my federal staff advisor, suggested the topic. My Coolaroo electorate officer, Helen Wright, came up for the day to watch from the gallery. Overall, they rated me nine out of ten for content, seven out of ten for presentation.

  As promised, I backed Mike Kyriakis as my replacement in Melbourne Upper, but he was pipped at the post by one of Metcalfe’s people. He was disappointed, naturally. Still, as I reminded him afterwards, a Labor victory in Victoria is about as imminent as the second coming, so it wasn’t exactly the end of the world. He doesn’t see it that way, of course, and I suspect I’ll need to keep a sharp eye on him when it’s time to re-nominate.

  In the meantime, I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy. As well as the regular commute to Canberra, where I’m sharing a pied-a-terre in Campbell with dull old Phil Sebastian, there’s plenty of running around in my capacity as assistant to the Shadow Parliamentary Secretary for Quarantine and Customs. It’s just the first step on a very long ladder, but you’ve got to start somewhere.

  And it gives me an excuse to drop in on Red from time to time. He’s in Sydney now. At NIDA, if you please. All that extra-curricular youth theatre stuff paid off big-time. It was probably his performance in Rosencrantz v Guildenstern that did the trick. Lucky break, really, that Whatsisname Bell, the Shakespeare bloke, happened to catch a performance. The bit where Red stabbed Polonius in the arras was a real ball-tearer. Brought the house down, and not long after he received an invitation from NIDA to audition. An invitation!

  Anyway, he’s saving money by living with Wendy and Richard in their palatial spread. And Wendy’s so chuffed about the status value of a son at NIDA that’s she’s turned into a regular stage-door mother. Poor bugger. Every now and then I swing through for a briefing on parrot-trafficking or Y2K readiness in passport-control and we have a meal together. If the Swans are playing a home game against the Lions, we catch the match.

  They finished fifth at the end of the season, by the way, and their form is gradually improving. Margot’s in good form, too. Quite a story to it, matter of fact.

  She put the Diggers Rest place on the market and one of the prospective buyers happened to be Terry Barraclough, the boyfriend who’d fathered Katie. He didn’t know about Katie, or her condition. That was something else Margot had concealed.

  He was mortified at the thought of the situation he’d left her in. Turned out he’s been living overseas for the past two decades and has a very successful international career as a marketing consultant in the wine industry. He’s divorced with grown-up children, and Margot and Katie have gone to stay with him at his place in the Napa Valley for three months. What Margot calls her trial re-marriage. If Katie settles in, she’ll consider staying.

  On the other side of the ledger, Sid Gilpin is currently enjoying confinement and treatment in a medium-security psychiatric institution, pending a review of his suitability to stand trial.

  That eventuality appears to be something of receding horizon. By all-round implicit agreement, attempted assassinations of Australian politicians are considered a matter best swept under the carpet.

  As for Kelly Cusack, our encounter at Parliament House was the last I saw of her. In the flesh, that is. Shortly after, she was promoted to doing the prime-time news for the national broadcaster’s Queensland network. Doing very well, too. They like her up there because she looks so, well, nice. And although it was fun while it lasted, I’m glad she and I went our separate ways before the thing with Lanie started. It made things so much simpler.

  Coy as it sounds, Lanie and I came at it slowly after the excitement of our first, aborted get-together. We gave Greek conversation a miss that Sunday and she asked me around for a late lunch instead. Nicole was off at her father’s, and we had the place to ourselves. Nice little split-level with a view over the peppercorn trees to Dights Falls. She fed me a chicken couscous and we drank a bottle of wine. There was talk of going for a walk by the river, but it started to rain.

  So she opened another bottle and played me a lovely bit of Satie and we ended up flaked out on a pile of cushions on the floor with a tub of Norgen-Vaaz melting beside us.

  We had the hots, all right, but both of us had been around the agora enough times to know that jumping into the sack can just as easily end things as start them.

  We got there eventually and we’re still there, almost a year later. Two sacks, actually, turn and turn about. Neither of us are quite ready for the full meld. And there’s Nicole to consider.

  As well as the freelance teaching racket, Lanie’s picked up a regular gig tickling the ivories in the atrium bar at the Regent. Show tunes and jazz standards. And oh boy, does she look the goods, mood-lit behind a Steinway.

  I drop by sometimes, just to bask. Then I take her home and roger her brainless.

  We still haven’t made it to the casino. The restaurant
s are pretty good, from all accounts, and the management is offering full comps, but it’s just not our scene. When we do eat out, it’s at Pireaus Blues, a great little Greek place in Brunswick Street that does a sensational rabbit stifado.

  Haven’t been there lately, unfortunately. As well as my parliamentary duties and whatnot, I’ve had my shoulder to the wheel of the republic referendum. The minimum-change model may not be very imaginative, but it’s obviously the only way to go at this stage. I admit that the Resident for President slogan is a bit cheesy. Still, you can see the appeal in certain quarters. As I reminded Red over half-time pies at the SCG, an actor–president is not without precedent.

  If things go according to plan, we’ll have a republic by the new millennium. And a Labor government to inaugurate it.

  I could be wrong, I suppose. What do I know?

  Nobody ever tells me anything.

  Table of Contents

  COVER PAGE

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  BEGING READING