Deceit

by Richard Evans

  ‘I vote we go now,’ said Paul Kress, a government member. ‘I have an important dinner at the US embassy I can’t miss.’

  English began to sway slowly from side to side. The others looked about their group, waiting for someone to make a decision.

  ‘Don’t forget, we have the retirement presentation for the clerk tonight,’ added Catherine Kennedy. ‘It’d be nice to get there to acknowledge his service.’

  ‘Stuff the clerk, he’s never done much for us,’ English blurted.

  ‘Ease up Mark, I’m just saying it would be nice to be there.’ Kennedy, the deputy speaker of the parliament, gave him a reassuring smile.

  ‘Let’s make it easy. Who doesn’t want to go?’ Rocher impatiently asked the group, who had fallen silent trying to avoid a decision.

  ‘Me,’ the pilot said, sucking hard on his cigarette.

  Rocher smirked, slowly shaking his head. ‘Anyone else? Mark?’ The heavy drumming of the rain filled the room and English bowed his head, defeated. ‘Okay, pack up and let’s go.’

  ‘I must formally advise you that you are doing so at your own risk and you’ll need to sign a waiver,’ the pilot said as he pulled a folded paper from his jacket and passed it to Rocher. ‘Any breakages of either equipment or yourselves will not be covered by the airline, is that understood?’

  ‘What about funerals?’ Trainer joked, collecting his papers. No-one laughed.

  ‘Duly noted. Where do I sign? Oh, and Peter, can you record that advice,’ Rocher directed as he signed the waiver and passed it back to the pilot. ‘Folks, if anyone is uncertain about taking this flight you can stay and take a flight tomorrow morning. Anybody want to stay? Mark?’

  English shrugged and no-one else responded as they packed their briefcases and satchels.

  ‘So be it, you’re all nuts.’ The pilot headed for the plane, rain whipping into the room through the open door. He tossed his sodden cigarette into the wind.

  ‘Come on boys, this’ll be fun.’ Catherine Kennedy skipped after the pilot into the rain, holding her satchel on her head to protect her stiff bouffant; her signature developed over twenty years of service in the federal parliament.

  The others braced themselves against the wild weather, gripping their suit jackets, shrugging their shoulders, then bolting after her through puddles and driving rain to the plane. Rocher lingered by the door, waiting for his secretary, Wilson, to zip his case and join him.

  ‘It never gets any easier, does it? Remember that flight we had in the Kimberley a few months back?’ Rocher’s broad smile almost convinced Wilson.

  ‘Yes, but I haven’t seen rain like this for a long time,’ Wilson responded. ‘And, I’m not so sure this is a good idea.’

  ‘Nothing to fear, Pete. Our man will take us out over the ocean to get us above this lot. Ten minutes of jumping around and then it’ll be smooth as silk all the way home. We can crack open a bottle of wine once we’re over the mountains.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Wilson dashed from the room in a wretched attempt to keep dry.

  By the time Rocher reached the plane, the single-engine turboprop Cessna was spluttering into action. He climbed aboard, pulling up the steps and sealing the hatch, confirming with the pilot he had done so. He then sank into a leather chair behind the pilot, facing the group, as ground crew in wet weather gear busily secured the plane for take-off and unchocked the wheels.

  It was a tight squeeze to get to the back of the plane, the generous leather seats reducing aisle access and movement, but the eight politicians settled in as best they could for a flight they expected to talk about at future cocktail parties, or when called upon at dinners to recount unusual political experiences. This would be the night they survived potential catastrophe and lived to tell the tale, and the more they told the tale, the more laughs they would get at the expense of their colleagues.

  Wet, miserable, and just a little apprehensive, they spread themselves among the fourteen plush seats. The pilot passed back a handful of towels to Wilson, which he distributed to the rest of the group, all keen to wipe themselves down and dry their hands and faces.

  Catherine Kennedy seemed the most disordered by the dash to the plane, her trademark bouffant flattened and lopsided, revealing a somewhat sparse patch of scalp. Luckily she didn’t have a mirror; she would not have been pleased if her reputation for perfect grooming was tarnished. Cautiously, she dabbed and prodded at her wet hair, trying to reshape it, while those colleagues sitting behind her smirked and exchanged looks.

  Although it was still only late afternoon, the light was grey and ominous under the roof of storm clouds. As the plane moved slowly from the tarmac apron toward the runway, the pilot, visible from the cabin, was working through his pre-flight check, speaking quietly into a microphone attached to oversized headphones. The politicians were surprised by the plane’s stability, feeling only a little buffeting in the gusting wind. Perhaps the anxiety in the cabin was misplaced.

  Rocher held up an air sickness bag and asked, ‘Anyone want one of these?’

  ‘I’ve already struggled through those sandwiches once already; I don’t want to see them again,’ joked Trainer.

  ‘How come you’re never this funny in the house?’ demanded English.

  ‘The boss always tells me to keep a lid on it, so I behave myself, unlike Harry here.’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Nothing, as usual,’ said Trainer.

  Harry McMaster, younger than Trainer, squeezed a smile and quipped: ‘The trouble with you, Nick, my boy is that you are too predictable. Never a serious word, ever.’

  ‘I’ll have some serious words to say about this potential mess, I can tell you.’

  ‘It won’t matter,’ said English. ‘Your team doesn’t have the numbers – you’ll be in opposition for a long time yet, mate.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I reckon Jimmy Harper is the most able man to have entered the parliament since Menzies. He’ll take it up to your bloke. Someone has to.’ Trainer had reset his political antenna.

  ‘Well, you could be right,’ offered McMaster. ‘But the PM is not going anywhere, and while he remains in the parliament, you’ll never win.’

  ‘You can’t be that confident. I’m not so sure your bloke will run at another election. Too old.’

  Rocher’s phone buzzed and its shrill alarm startled him. He realised it was the prime minister’s call tone.

  ‘Speak of the devil. Hi Andrew.’ Rocher had known the prime minister since university and was one of only a few colleagues permitted to call him by name.

  ‘Freddy, where are you?’

  ‘Just about to leave Newcastle. We’ve been delayed by bad weather. It’s bucketing down and we’re about to take off into it. We should get to Canberra around 6.30.’

  ‘I was just making sure you’ll be back for the vote on the Immigration Appropriation Bill tomorrow morning.’

  ‘We’ll be there. We understand its importance, and it’s the reason we’re all flying back. We couldn’t afford to wait here any longer. We should be back in time for your function for the clerk – we’re looking forward to it.’

  ‘No big deal. The sooner he’s gone the better.’

  ‘Now come on, Andrew, you know he’s only doing his job.’ ‘Bastard, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘He’ll be gone soon enough, cheer up.’ Rocher shifted uncomfortably. ‘Look, we’re about to take off so I’ll ring you when we land. I need to talk to you about this inquiry in Newcastle and the potential trouble ahead with the local community. It could cost us a seat or two at the next election, which means we could lose government. The opposition are taking a tough line on it.’ Rocher winked at the two opposition members listening in to his conversation.

  ‘Sure, do that, old friend. I’ll be keen to learn more. Take care,’ ended the prime minister.

  Rocher dropped his phone into the small upper pocket of his damp Armani jacket and looked over to see an apprehensive Wilson gazing a
t him from the seat opposite. ‘Don’t worry, Pete, this bird is one of the safest in the air.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Wilson seemed unconvinced.

  Facing into the wind, the pilot raised the engine revs to a screaming crescendo, building enough force to propel the plane into the air. The travellers sat silently, feeling the plane wobble as it fought against the brake.

  ‘Okay, this is it boys. Hold on,’ Rocher joked to his colleagues. They all looked past him at the pilot, seeking reassurance but getting none.

  Just when the engine seemed about to explode, the pilot released the brakes, jumping the Cessna into a fast sprint along the runway to take off. The plane shook and bumped sharply as it drove hard into the wind, laboriously working to reach the required speed of 150 knots. Rocher squeezed the arm of his chair and gnawed his bottom lip as the plane’s nose lifted. Moments later, with a great shudder and creaking shake, they were airborne – cupboard doors popped open and small, untethered knick-knacks tumbled into the cabin. The politicians sat silently.

  The climb seemed dangerously slow amidst all the shuddering, banging and shaking. Rocher continued gnawing on his lip, glancing at Wilson, who stiffened in his chair. Rocher himself was still gripping the arms of his seat, pushing back hard, resisting the uncontrollable movement of the plane. He was already regretting his decision to take the flight as another thud shook the cabin and he looked out his window, seeing nothing but turbulent, grey cloud.

  ‘Fuck!’ shouted Kennedy, as the plane jolted heavily to its left.

  ‘Not likely, Cathy,’ joked Trainer, seemingly immune to the unease of his comrades.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ Rocher said after a few tense minutes. ‘Once we’re above the cloud band it should be smooth sailing to Canberra.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ said Kennedy, trying to regain her composure, her hair slipping further as her head jolted with the turbulence.

  Thumps and bangs continued to sound throughout the cabin as the plane shuddered and plunged, fighting to climb through the turbulence, and resisting the furious wind. A sudden eerie silence descended on the cabin and everyone looked at each other for support, hoping for a little relief.

  Bam! A colossal thump shuddered through the entire plane, followed abruptly by a thunderous knocking sound from the front, as if a steel-capped boot was rotating in a clothes drier. An urgent intermittent warning beep sounded from the cockpit, which glowed with a red flashing light. The plane dropped, shuddered and jerked, groaning as the pilot fought for control. An automated voice from the cockpit warned, ‘Terrain ahead, pull out. Terrain ahead, pull out.’

  ‘Brace for impact,’ the unruffled voice of the pilot said.

  ‘Terrain ahead, pull out. Terrain ahead, pull out.’

  The politicians assumed the brace position as best they could, and waited.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MONDAY 5.55 PM

  ‘Is that a rufous whistler?’ Gordon O’Brien said to no-one in particular, staring into a leafy maple from his office window. ‘It’s a bit early to hear them.’

  Standing behind his desk, O’Brien often looked for signs of life within the mighty tree beyond his first-floor window. He loved that maple tree. Ever since he had moved into the office following his promotion to clerk of the Australian parliament, he had watched its changing colours and silhouette throughout the seasons. If he was stressed or worried by his parliamentary duties, he was often calmed by the tree’s lush green leaves of summer, or the stark, sculpted boughs of winter. He especially loved the colours of autumn – the golds and amber – and always felt refreshed by the new buds and tiny red blossoms of early spring. Finding a bird or some other little creature hopping about the branches captivated him, removing him from the demanding daily grind of parliamentary procedure.

  Gordon had stared despondently into the tree many, many times over his seventeen-year career as clerk, often wishing he was elsewhere, but in a little over two weeks his career would come to an end as he had finally decided to retire. Paradoxically, he realised he would miss all this, even the stress of managing the daily machinations of the national parliament, and thought with dismay about the uncertain loneliness of retirement, and the fear of living a life unfulfilled.

  The distinct black, white and russet markings of the whistler were a delight – it was not unusual to see whistlers in late spring and summer, but still. ‘What a little beauty.’

  ‘Who is?’ asked Marjorie Earle, Gordon’s long-serving personal assistant, as she entered the office and set a pile of papers on his desk. ‘What have you seen now?’

  Gordon continued to track the bird as it hopped from branch to branch, searching for food. ‘I’m going to miss it, Marjorie,’ Gordon sighed. ‘All of it.’

  ‘You’ve done enough, Gordon. You can’t keep going forever.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Gordon sighed. ‘Still, I’m going to miss it.’ He drew a deep breath in through his nose, ballooning his chest, and held it slightly before slowly releasing it in a noisy, dejected sigh.

  ‘Don’t you dare change your mind.’ Marjorie stopped momentarily and studied her boss. ‘I’ve already sold my house, and I’m off in January, so don’t expect me to change mine.’

  Gordon smiled as the bird fluttered away and he turned from the window. ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘It’s almost six. They’ll be waiting for you.’ The faithful assistant, ever present and confident enough to provide Gordon with advice, even when he didn’t want it, straightened the papers.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ Gordon dropped into his chair feeling the energy draining from him. The thought of having to mingle with backslapping parliamentary staff and politicians was not one he relished; and he was not looking forward to what he knew he was required to do.

  ‘It’s not every day the prime minister throws a party for one of us.’ Marjorie slid the first of the files toward him, her bangles hitting the desk.

  ‘I won’t miss that one, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Come on Gordon, let them celebrate your service. God knows you’ve sacrificed enough for all of them, so let them thank you.’

  ‘I just want to serve these last two weeks and leave quietly. Frankly, I don’t like them that much, and what they’ve done to this place is disgraceful, so why should I let them celebrate me.’

  ‘Get over yourself, Gordon. Go and enjoy a chardonnay or two, and let them fawn over you. You deserve it.’

  ‘What have you got for me?’ Gordon carefully scanned each brief for both content and potential errors before signing with his thick fountain pen and sliding it back to Marjorie after blotting his signature. Modern ballpoint pens were yet to touch his much-loved desk.

  ‘Gordon, these things can wait.’

  ‘No, they can’t.’ Everything had its place and only unimportant items were ever allowed to sit for any length of time awaiting his approval.

  Marjorie sighed a little too loudly and bit her lip to stop saying something she might regret. Gordon could flick through a file quickly, scanning the contents, looking for anything out of place, and signing where required. He trained his staff to prepare briefs in plain English on the variety of parliamentary business issues requiring his approval, so there was no confusion with ambiguous language, and clear recommendations for action were set out for him. It made his busy life easier, but he always kept a careful eye on standards.

  As Gordon methodically scanned the papers and files, Marjorie stood silently by his side, as she had done for seventeen years. She’d shared his battles with the politicians who had sought to change the protocols and standing orders of the parliament. He often told his staff it was his job to protect the parliament from the political barbarians at the gate.

  All parliamentary business crossed Gordon’s desk for review and approval. His advice about parliamentary process and procedure was sought by politicians, and he had seen a lot of them come and go. Some were bad, driven by nothing more than self-interest, but most who came to
serve their electorates came with good intentions. Gordon knew the rorts, and how to undermine the parliamentary system. He abhorred politicians with a frivolous attitude toward the established historical rules and protocols of the parliament, and often corrected a recalcitrant politician, even the prime minister, when they crossed the line of acceptable parliamentary behaviour. Gordon took it personally if anything untoward happened under his watch, and believed that he was the difference between an effective legislative chamber and chaos.

  ‘That’s new,’ said Marjorie as she admired a small, fluffy object sitting on the brass lamp base.

  Gordon paused and picked up his one weakness, a fishing fly. ‘Yes, I made it this morning.’

  ‘You really love it, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to doing more.’ Gordon smiled for a moment, twirling the lure in his fingers, studying the orange and green feathers, imagining how a trout might see it, holding it up in the light, his eyes never leaving his creation. ‘Could you turn the news on please, Marjorie. I’ll listen to the headlines before I go.’

  Marjorie moved to the marble coffee table, picked up the remote and flicked on the television. The internal parliamentary telecast from the chamber of the House of Representatives momentarily showed a politician on his feet shouting before she tuned to the local news program. Gordon gently returned his prized possession to the lamp stand and resumed reading a file.

  The distinct music of the six o’clock news introduced the headlines, and Gordon listened as he flicked through the final piece of paperwork.

  ‘Prime Minister Gerrard sends a signal to illegal boat people after a meeting with the Indonesian president approving funding for a new immigration detention centre on the Indonesian island of Ambon. Fire disrupts services in the hills, with arson suspected. A teenager struck and killed by a commuter train in Sydney while saving a friend’s dog. The Australian cricket team struggles to match England’s bowlers in a batting rout in the first test at the Gabba.