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

that. You get logjams. Now add his indecision, and the service is frozen. We’re entombed in ice, mate. We’ve doubled our hours, and halved our efficiency.’

‘There’s no playbook for this. It takes time to figure out the levers.’

‘Mate, he’s ignored the fucking levers. They’re called ministers.’

‘I just think it’s too early to write him off.’

‘Bullshit. Time’s irrelevant. These types don’t change. Indecisive, imperious and paranoid — shit combo, and it’s killing us. I’m telling you, if he’s awake and brooding at 4am, and the Political Muses sing to him a plan for transforming Queensland into a giant aquarium — well, fuck, that’s what he’ll do. And if by 4pm the Muses have retracted their advice, and the astonished ship of state has to be turned around, then so be it. It’s no way to run a country.’

The secretary’s door opened. The Wizard, in navy power suit and clown face, strode towards us. ‘Isn’t our new speechwriter special?’

‘He’s a balladeer for our national project,’ John said.

‘How lovely.’

She strode back into her office. We followed. Her office had impressive views of Canberra’s empty roundabouts.

‘Toby, I get the feeling that you’re defective,’ the Wizard said. ‘Were you dropped on your head as a child?’

‘Not literally.’

‘Was your father combing your hair, and then accidentally-on-purpose punctured your fontanelle?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps your family joined a sex cult when you were young, and it warped your sense of boundaries?’

‘You’re really fixated on childhood, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘In my experience, it’s where defective personalities are born.’

‘Secretary, the cricket policy is insane. And if you must know, I’m recently heartbroken. It’s given me a kind of nihilistic carpe diem vibe.’

‘“Nihilistic carpe diem” is a contradiction, Toby.’ She turned to John. ‘Why did you hire this freak?’

‘He seemed normal on Skype.’

‘This is the second time you’ve fucked me today, John,’ she said. ‘You will now crawl to the Minister’s office and apologise profusely. And if his office wants your help cleaning this shit up — and they won’t — then you’ll do whatever is asked of you, even if that means spinning this as a hoax perpetrated by Little Lord Fuckleroy here. And John?’

‘Yes?’

‘Get those fucking prawns under control. I can smell them from up here.’

John nodded, nervously scratched his face and smudged his whiskers. Then the Wizard stood, signalling that the meeting was over.

I was confused — I hadn’t been sacked, an outcome I think I had subconsciously desired. But as John and I shared the lift in oppressive silence, I realised: You can’t be fired here. I could give a poltergeist a suit and call him a media officer, and guess what? He’d shift furniture and scoff at punctuation, but would still take home more than a teacher. I suppose he wouldn’t need a suit, but whatever.

The elevator doors opened. ‘I’m going to counsel you,’ John said.

‘Counsel me?’

‘Yep.’

‘You?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Unfortunately.’

It all made sense now. I was professionally immortal. We all were. The dreamers, drunks, and lechers. The idle and parasitic. The saboteurs and whistleblowers. The good, the bad. All of us were fixed to a profuse and infinite teat — the cost was suffering the indifference and derision of the Minister’s office.

We returned to the fishbowl. It was time for my counselling.

‘Okay,’ John said, clapping his hands angrily. His smudged cat face was quite distracting. ‘Let’s do some counselling.’

‘Okay.’

‘Before you arrived, life was simple. Now it’s not. And I hate you.’

‘This isn’t really working for me, John.’

‘I’m holding a mirror before you.’

‘The therapeutic mood is normally much cooler, John. More detached, less accusatory.’

‘My professional diagnosis, Toby, is that you’re a naive wanker and I should never have hired you.’

‘What did the secretary mean when she said you’d fucked her twice today?’

‘What?’ John squinted.

‘Are you sleeping with the Wizard?’

‘No.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘The sex is complicated?’

He glared at me. I smiled, immortal. ‘Is that it?’

‘No,’ John said. ‘Jason from security is coming to talk about the prawns, and he wants you here.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘Because you’re the only one on the floor who began after it started.’

‘And what about you?’

‘My seniority frees me from suspicion.’

‘What’s Jason been doing?’

‘Investigating.’

‘Investigating?’

Jason tapped on the glass door. John gestured him in. ‘Who are your suspects?’ Jason asked, sitting down.

‘Don’t have any,’ John replied.

‘Why not?’ Jason was very pale. ‘Fuck, I can’t stand much more of this smell.’

‘You want some water?’ John asked.

‘What’s that gonna do for me?’

‘Are you okay, mate?’ John asked.

‘You have no idea, man.’

‘What’s going on, Jason?’ I asked.

‘Dunno if I want to get into it.’

‘Go on,’ I encouraged.

‘I had this prawn cocktail once in Bali, yeah?’ Jason said. ‘Worst mistake I ever made. That shit was funky. Like, criminally funky. Just creamy poison. One month later, me fiancée leaves me. Splitsville. Said every time we made love she couldn’t get the image out of her head of me lying on that bathroom floor spraying sewage. Like a broken fire hydrant, she said. What do you call it when you say one thing is like another thing?’

‘A metaphor,’ I said.

‘That’s it. The missus had a few. Arse bells. Mud flute. Muck trumpet.’

‘Was your fiancée a musician?’ I asked.

‘I can understand it, in a way,’ Jason said, ignoring me. ‘I bench a hundred. She loved that, you know. My strength. But those prawns smashed me. What can a prawn bench- press? I’ll tell you: fuck all. Don’t have arms. But they got me. Got me good. Shit, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

‘Have you begun interviewing our floor?’ John asked.

‘I hate metaphors,’ Jason said.

‘Jason,’ John said.

‘I loved her.’

‘Jason.’

‘What?’

‘Have you interviewed the floor?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. Everyone denies it.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘Waterboarding.’

‘Jesus,’ John said.

‘That’s how they got Bin Laden. I saw it in that documentary, Zero Dark Thirty. And it’s cheap. Plank, bucket, and a cloth. I can go to Bunnings today.’

‘Jason, that wasn’t a documentary,’ John said. ‘And we’re not torturing my staff.’

‘It’s not torture. It’s more like giving a dog a bath.’

‘It’s not a bath,’ I said.

‘They call it “simulated swimming”,’ Jason said.

‘Simulated drowning,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, it wasn’t a documentary?’

‘It was a dramatisation,’ I said.

‘Based