The Speechwriter by Martin McKenzie-Murray (best biographies to read TXT) 📕

awaited his arrival, I wondered if he’d written his own speech. In parliament, he often spoke memorably — inventively mocking and exaggerating the flaws of his opponents. But how would he speak about his own flaws?

His wife stood beside him and, judging from the vacancy of her eyes, was practising severe dissociation. She hadn’t signed up for this when, 20 years earlier, she’d married the avuncular car dealer. In sickness, health … and public shame. Was she a reluctant prop, or had she volunteered her support? Did her presence suggest a woman who, after balancing her husband’s talent for sordid catastrophe against his more respectable gifts, found in his favour? Was she observing a private, hard-wrought code of loyalty? Or was this the final, begrudging sacrifice before she requested divorce? Who knew what pained negotiations had occurred, and what unique currency was exchanged in making them? All my colleagues knew was winning and losing. Their marriage was unknowable, but our triumph was clear.

Film formed on Goodlight’s eyes. Two delicate arcs of salt water, quaveringly holding their surface tension. You could see them on the television, subtly refracting light. Proof of humanity. My colleagues offered a different proof of humanity by taking bets on when the salty meniscus would first breach and streak down his face.

‘My party is being unfairly tarnished by the ruthless, personality-based attacks of the government,’ Goodlight said. ‘Afraid of their own inadequacy, the government has sought to butcher my reputation. I’m not surprised by their cynicism. But I realise that as long as I attract their attention, my party will suffer. Well, I’m a team player. So today I’m announcing my resignation as leader. Our party will soon hold a ballot for my replacement. And after they do, they will thrive with my full support. Thank you. I won’t be taking any questions.’

And as Goodlight turned to leave, his cheeks wet, his wife said: ‘No, he’ll take some.’

Goodlight stopped, stunned. So were we. ‘He’ll take a few questions,’ she said. Oh my God.

‘Trevor, the footage was inconclusive — did the bull climax?’

‘Matt, you’re an educated man. That question’s beneath you.’

‘But you asked my colleague if she enjoyed anal.’

‘Matt, if I’ve spoken robustly before, that’s just how I develop rapport. I’m not a pretentious guy. You know that. I’m from the country. Made my own way in this game. And I like some banter. Some to-and-fro. It’s natural where I’m from. Organic. I won’t be crucified by elites for it.’

‘My colleague asked for comment on the budget deficit, and you responded by promising to plug her black hole.’

‘I won’t be patronised by the media, Matt.’

‘I’m not patronising you. I’m asking if you think that’s acceptable.’

His wife was perfectly still. Expressionless. My questions were suddenly answered: The divorce papers were in the mail.

‘Acceptable?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think notions about my behaviour are being whipped into a soufflé by the government, because they’re scared—’

‘I’m not the government, Trevor,’ the journalist said. ‘And I’m not talking about notions. You defiled a beast and harassed my colleagues.’

When Goodlight didn’t walk off, it became clear to us that, extraordinarily, he wasn’t resigning from parliament — only from the leadership. A man leaving politics would not voluntarily submit to this.

‘Let me ask you a question, Matt.’

‘Sure.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘Where was I born?’

‘Yes.’

‘Adelaide.’

‘Wow. A city slicker and a foreigner. See, Matt, this is what I’m talking about. Elites. You come here and deign to tell us country folk how to live. Well, I’m a rough diamond. If I snap a bra, that’s me telling you I love your work. What do you do if you like a colleague’s work? Lemme guess: you email them. You send a nice little note, CC your boss, maybe your mum, and you write, “Nice little job you’re doing.” That’s weird and frigid. I’m not like that. I’m honest.’

‘You performed oral sex on a farm animal, and you have serially harassed colleagues and journalists.’

‘That’s your description, professor.’

‘It’s not a description. It’s a statement of fact.’

‘I won’t step into this whirlpool of hearsay.’

‘You’ve literally just resigned from the leadership. Aren’t we to assume that you recognise your behaviour is grossly inappropriate, and precludes you from parliament?’

‘No. What I recognise is that the government will cynically use—’

The opposition hastily resurrected its previous leader, who was already packing up his home for a country retirement. ‘Please,’ they begged, and having suffered an embarrassing loss four years previous, they must’ve begged well — or he glimpsed something that few others did.

The Premier smelt blood and called the earliest election in state history. Was this not a window demanding breach? Should a general not immediately direct his troops through it? The opposition had fellated livestock, and we were the party that didn’t fuck animals.

The seats were analysed, and the verdict was in: we couldn’t lose.

Then news broke: the Premier had employed the son of Bessie’s killer. And that blew up like Little Boy. Consecutive front pages, frantic talkback. The fellatio was forgotten. I’d never anticipated this. Never thought it was a possibility. And despite my distinctive name, the party had never questioned me about it before installing me in the Premier’s office.

‘Is this really such a big deal?’ I asked Emily.

‘Toby, this was our September 11. It’s like the New York mayor hiring Bin Laden’s bastard child.’

‘It’s not like that at all.’

‘I can’t believe you never said anything.’

Scared of being recognised, then murdered, on the train, I took a taxi home after work. As mandated by law, the driver had talkback radio on. He had the frightening habit of punching the wheel to affirm the most violent opinions he heard. ‘It is … unbelievable,’ the driver said, ashing his cigarette out his window. ‘Un-fucking-believable. The very flesh and blood of her killer. The very flesh and blood. Un-fucking-believable.’

This should have been the moment that I pricked my fantasies, stopped trying to impress my dead father, and felt anger instead of shame.

This was, after all, the city that considered the fatal overdose of six pro footy players in a mafioso’s spa to