Even so, sightseers keep coming to look at the famous prisoner, alone in his dungeon. Sometimes I feel a little like that guy in the Bastille in all those old movies—the Man in the Iron Mask. And come to think of it, wasn’t he the twin brother to the wicked king, just like I am? Or was he the real king? Or did he just look like the king?
I can’t remember, and the only resource material in here is Hansard. Miserable fucking reading that is, believe me.
Although I do read it.
Most of it is dry as sawdust, of course, but if you’re patient, and weed through the drearier passages, then sometimes it does manage to come alive. After all, here before me are the verbatim transcripts of the last one hundred and ten years of parliamentary sessions. There have been some fiery debates in that time, well worth perusal. Awkward questions and angry denials. Furores and uproars and members expelled. Resignations and accusations and condemnations. Truly, the House has seen some great rhetorical battles in its history, and the pages of Hansard record them all, invective by invective.
The great identities are there too, the prime ministers of ages gone. Barton. Deakin. Fisher. Hughes. Scullin. Lyons. Menzies. Curtin. Chifley. Holt. Whitlam. Fraser. Hawke. Keating. Howard. To mention but a few.
And, of course, the Honourable Bernard James.
All names—apart from the last two—of which I assume you Americans will probably know nothing. But I can tell you, I sit here sometimes at night, and the echoes of those men remain in this room. Oh, admittedly, most of them worked in the old Parliament House, not this one. But the place itself doesn’t matter. The House is still the House, whatever building it might be in. Those men are here. And, if Banjo Paterson will forgive me the quote, their ghosts may be heard.
They don’t sound happy.
Indeed, in the first few days of my imprisonment—when your treatment of me was much rougher than it is now; when you had me strapped to this chair, denied food and water and sleep; when you plagued me with questions day and night; when the cigarettes came out, and when the ‘positions of discomfort’ were applied—well, I confess I became a little delirious there, once in a while. And I’d imagine that there were other people in the House. I’d see stern faces behind your own, men sitting in the Prime Minister’s chair across the table. Faces I recognised from old newspapers and old footage. Barton, I’m certain I saw him. And Lyons. And Curtin. And others. They never spoke, they never frowned, they never shook their heads. They just watched on. But ah, the judgement in their eyes.
This is not what they built this chamber for.
But Hansard contains more than just old arguments and old prime ministers. There are other histories in there too, testimonies to the challenges the whole nation has faced. Depressions and recessions, bushfires and floods, droughts and cyclones. And yes, wars of course, endless wars, and internal threats from enemies of every kind. And at times, reading the old speeches, you can almost feel, beyond the walls of the House, the actual nation as it was in the past, and how the country must have pulsed and swayed in different eras. You can almost feel, behind the politicians and their rhetoric, the Australian people. The many millions of them. Their struggles, their suffering. Their anger, their hate. Their hope and their triumphs and their doubt.
But most of all, you can sense their power. It’s not a thing that is ever mentioned happily, or comfortably, by a single politician that I can find. It’s an uneasy presence in their speeches, a monster over their shoulders that needs to be placated. It’s evidenced by the changes of government, the elections won and lost. It’s evidenced by the many names that disappear from the records with brutal suddenness, without farewells or ceremony. It’s evidenced by the referendums that are proposed, to be either beaten down or passed. And in certain moments, you get a sense that the monster is not to be fooled with, or taken lightly.
Open the Hansards from the First World War, for instance. You’ll find Billy Hughes in there, blustering about the need to introduce conscription, about the profundity of our alliance with Great Britain, about the desperation on the battlefields, about how a vote against the draft would be akin to an act of treason, a vote to lose the very war. Even so, come the referendum itself, the Australian people voted no. Indeed, they did it twice. And both times they were saying, ‘We’ll fight your damn war, but we’ll do it with volunteers. We’re not going to force anybody into the trenches.’ And with volunteers alone, they did it indeed.
Or skip ahead, to Robert Menzies, in the 1950s, when the cold war was at its height and, over in the United States, the House Un-American Activities Committee was in full hysterical swing. Hear Menzies in stentorian voice, decrying the Communist Party and demanding that the nation pass a referendum to ban it forever or be swallowed up by the red tide. ‘Put a sock in it, Bob,’ the Australian people replied. ‘The Commies can stand for election like anybody else, and good luck to them, because they’ll need it. But we don’t ban political parties in this country.’
The strength of those decisions. The courage of them. I mean, World War I was no joke. The cold war and the Communists were no joke. People were scared. And yet the nation refused to be stampeded by its leaders.
Yes . . . but that was the old Australia.
If I flip to the Hansards of the last fifteen years, then what do I see? I see the rise of the new nationalism. I see the declaration of the war on terror. I see the outlawing of refugees. I see security laws passed time and time again, each regime more oppressive than the last. I see dozens of organisations banned. Protesters locked away. Freedoms disappear. Coercion legalised. I see new standards being set almost every day for how a western democracy should operate. And every single one of those standards is lower. And then lower again.
But nowhere, anywhere, do I see the Australian people saying no. The monster is silent. We arrived at this position—this George Orwell nightmare in which we all now live—willingly, it seems.
That’s what I mean about miserable reading.
But look at me, the great judge and critic.
What example have I set, even in these last weeks, that’s so wonderful? At what stage in this whole sorry saga have I stood up and cried, Enough? Who have I helped? Harry? Aisha? The Underground? Anyone at all?
Not bloody likely. I sit here, and write, and turn the pages of Hansard, and I remember the deaths of virtually every single person I came in contact with after that cyclone descended on my resort. And frankly—when I look back over my role in these events—I feel about as useless and ineffectual as all the other men who have sat in this very chair, ever since 1996, when John Howard and my brother took power, and the country was set on this godforsaken path.
THIRTY-SIX
Well, well. My suspicions were right, interrogators.
All this waiting around, when clearly you had no further use for me. It was just so Bernard could pay me a visit.
He strode into the House not an hour ago, even as I was putting down my pen—as confidently as if it were Question Time in the old days, with the Opposition floundering on the ropes as usual. My brother, the Prime Minister. Tanned and fit and groomed. His suit immaculate, his shoes shined.
The pompous little shit.
I didn’t get up.
A couple of bodyguards were with him, but he waved them back to the door, and then took his old seat, the Prime Minister’s chair, across the table from me. And if he was aware of any significance in the fact that the last time he’d sat there was the same day that we’d last met—and the last day that Australia operated as any sort of democracy worthy of the name—then he didn’t show it.
‘Leo,’ he said, his expression cultivatedly grave and concerned.
‘Oh fuck you, Bernard,’ I replied.
That raised a tolerant smile. He glanced at my papers. ‘They tell me you’ve been writing your autobiography. Is it finished?’
‘All the fun bits, yes. I don’t really know how it’s gonna end though.’
‘Ah.’
‘But
there’s a passage about you masturbating in the shed, when we were kids.’
He only looked at me, then shook his head as if disappointed.
I said, ‘You’re here for the big conference, I suppose?’
‘I am.’
‘And is President Nate here now too?’
‘He is. The concluding ceremonies are tomorrow. Followed by the joint signing of all the new treaties and accords.’
‘And you’re centre stage, are you? We’re playing a key role in everything, Australia? I mean, we’re more than just the caterers here in Canberra, right? We’re not just serving out the tea and lamingtons to the big boys?’
‘Our voice is heard,’ he said.
‘Oh, I bet it is. The Americans must owe you big, if you’ve done all this for them.’ Anger rose up in me. ‘That night at The Lodge. When that agent came in and told you about the bomb, it was all just pretend for you.’
He inclined his head modestly.
‘But why did you want me there? Why all the crap about Mum’s will, and about cutting me off? You knew none of it was going to matter.’
He shrugged. ‘I had the time to spare.’
The time to spare? Ha! I didn’t believe that for a second.
In fact, you want to know what I think, interrogators? I think he wanted me there that night because, somewhere inside him, there was a tiny spark of guilt glowing in regards to the travesty he was about to enact. It might only have been subconscious, but I think he needed to break completely from his family before it happened. To finish burying his mother, to cast off his only brother, to sever himself from all connections of kinship, before taking the final step into depravity. Just like Aisha—ridding herself of her parents before the jihad could begin.
But then who really knows with a furtive prick like Bernard?
His hands stroked the table. ‘I’m here to talk about you, Leo.’
I ignored that. ‘What’s the name of this thing anyway?’
‘What?’
‘This table.’
He stared. ‘The Table of the House.’
Well, that was a let down. I gazed up at the walls and the visitors’ galleries. ‘Why here? Why did you ask them to put me in this room in particular?’
‘Well, I knew it wasn’t being used.’ He considered the chamber in satisfaction. ‘Besides,’ he added virtuously, ‘I didn’t want you in a cell.’
And that was a lie too. I could have been kept in a house, a motel, anywhere at all. But no, the prison had to be Parliament House, at Bernard’s insistence. And this is just my theory, interrogators, but perhaps that’s how Bernard, in his dark mind, actually views the House of Representatives—as a prison. His own days in here were not happy—hemmed in by laws, constrained by the necessity for votes and debates and compromises. No doubt he was glad to be finally free of the place. And then couldn’t resist the urge to lock me in here, in his stead.
I said, ‘But don’t you need a meeting hall like this? Where do all the big ceremonies take place during this great conference of yours?’
‘We use the old Parliament House. Everyone thought it was more comfortable. Not as roomy, but more . . . intimate.’
And perversely enough, I could see that. This new Parliament House is all sharp edges and steel and glass, but the old one, it’s more like a well-worn gentlemen’s club. All scuffed polished wood and cracked leather. The sort of surrounds that world dominators have gravitated to ever since Britannia ruled the waves. Poring over the maps with brandy and cigars.
‘So this building is empty apart from me?’
‘Not exactly. Some of the offices are used.’
‘By who?’
And he didn’t seem to want to answer that.
‘It’s the Americans, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘This is their headquarters now.’
‘It’s no such thing.’
‘Oh no? Then why haven’t I seen a single Australian face since they captured me? Why are the Americans doing all the questioning? Why isn’t it ASIO or the AFP? This whole debacle is their business, isn’t it? So where are they?’
The old stubborn look was there. ‘It doesn’t matter who questions you. We have an arrangement for the full exchange of intelligence.’
‘Oh, right. Absolutely. And God knows, you can always trust the Americans, can’t you? Especially when it comes to intelligence.’ Then the realisation finally dawned. ‘But they don’t trust you, do they? Not you, not ASIO, not the AFP. You guys fucked the whole thing up. Ever since Aisha’s boys nabbed me, you’ve made a mess of it all. So they’ve shunted you lot aside. Cut you out of the loop. In your own damn country. In your own damn Parliament House.’
Bernard glared coldly. ‘Either way, they’ve finished with your interrogation. And the question of what to do with you now—that’s entirely up to me.’
Which shut me up, good and proper.
‘So what do we do with you, Leo?’
I couldn’t answer. That’s the problem with—well, I can’t think of anything else to call it but sibling rivalry. Of course, brothers fight all the time, younger and older. And, in any family, the little brother will eventually score some sort of symbolic victory over the bigger. That’s hard on the older brother, to have to admit defeat, and yet it’s all part of growing up. But when the little brother has won absolutely everything, and holds the bigger brother’s life completely in his hands . . . Let me tell you, no amount of growing up can help you there.
Bernard sniffed. ‘Under the state of emergency security provisions, the law allows only one penalty for your various crimes.’
And I knew what that penalty was, sure enough. I said, ‘What are my crimes, precisely? What law did I break?’
‘Trespassing in the Canberra Protected Zone is a capital offence, for one. But there’s at least a dozen others. Using false identity cards. Consorting with known terrorists. Illegally entering a cultural precinct.’
‘I had no choice in any of that. I was a hostage. Seems to me, all I did was get kidnapped. And that only happened because I’m the Prime Minister’s brother. But that’s my real crime, isn’t it, Bernie? Being your brother.’
He laughed.
I said, ‘What is it exactly that you can’t stand about me? Is it just that I always had more fun than you? That everyone always had more fun than you?’
He smiled his dead smile. ‘You should thank God you’re my brother. I’m the only one who can get you out of this.’
‘And will you?’
‘I’ve always bailed you out before, haven’t I?’
‘You signed my death warrant!’
‘Maybe,’ he said. And then, offhand, ‘But you don’t have to die.’
‘I don’t?’
‘Not if you’re smart. Obviously, you can’t just be let go. As far as the world is concerned, you died over a month ago. But that isn’t necessarily a problem. Quite a few officially dead people are living and working here in Canberra.’
‘Osama bin Laden, for one.’
‘He’s an extreme example, but yes.’
‘So what—you let me live, but I have to stay in Canberra the rest of my life?’
‘There are worse options.’
‘I wonder. You never liked living here, I recall.’
He took the remark seriously. ‘This city was a mistake. It should never have been built. At least now it’s being put to a useful purpose.’
He said it with such complacency, with such indifference about what he had done to Canberra and the whole country. And yet I could see that it was as much explanation as I would ever get on the matter. There was no question of whether it was right or wrong—simply that it had worked.
I swear I would have reached over and belted him in that moment, if only the Table of the House wasn’t so wide.
Instead I said, ‘And what would I do here?’
‘Anything you like. You’d be monitored, of course. But you’re not entirely without skills. I’m sure a job could be found for you somewhere.
Meanwhile, there’s plenty of nice houses to choose from. Make yourself a home.’
And the rage drained out of me. What use was anger to me now? He had me, and we both knew it. So, I thought, a life in Canberra. Could I do it?
In short, of course I could.
After all, the high moral ground was not my native habitat. The pursuit of pleasure had always been far more important to me than worrying about who runs the world and how it’s done. Staying alive was even more crucial. And there was no reason I couldn’t be comfortable in Canberra. Bernard was right—I did have some skills, and one of them was always keeping myself supplied with the little luxuries. There would be booze somewhere in the city. There would be good food. There would be women around who were prepared to fuck my tired old body, if I asked nicely. What would it matter if they worked for the CIA or ASIO or some other secret police force? What would it matter if their heads were full of laws and rules and self-righteousness? As long as their cunts were tight and juicy.
Bernard was watching me, half smiling.
Ah, but I’d seen so many people die. Some of them crazy and violent, like Aisha and her boys. Some of them pathetic, like the refugees in the desert. Some of them doggedly doing their best in impossible situations, like the people in the ghetto. And some of them simply striving for a fairer world, like poor old Harry. But all of them caught in the same web that Bernard and his friends had spun. And that wasn’t supposed to matter? I was just supposed to forget it all?
Bernard’s smile told me exactly what he thought I’d do.
And oh, how I would’ve loved to prove him wrong. How I would’ve loved to rail at him about freedom and justice and the value of life, to declare that self-preservation wasn’t everything, that fear wasn’t the only motivating factor for humanity, that my soul wasn’t cold and shrivelled like his. But in the end, I refused his offer for no such noble reasons or sentiments. I would have said yes to Bernard despite all of that, and served out my sorry existence in this charade of a city, and lived with the humiliation of owing him my life.
Underground Page 27
