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

just fear. There’s something else. A loss of face. An embarrassment. They’ve lost control of their defining idyll.’

The PM was high as a motherfucker, and I wondered if my micro-dosing maybe wasn’t that micro — maybe I’d misplaced a decimal point. We had now walked back to his office, and I was shocked to watch him usher me into it and close the door behind us. Patrick and Julie were waiting outside with wide eyes, but the PM refused to acknowledge them. I was now in the sanctum.

I placed my notebook on his desk before taking a seat. Then I loosened my face and widened my eyes to suggest docile obedience, and removed a pen from my jacket pocket.

‘Sharks, sir.’

‘Sharks and the loss of idyll.’ The PM was reclined imperiously now and staring at the ceiling — or perhaps through the ceiling and into some hallucinatory political Valhalla. ‘But don’t use that word. Strange word. It should be “home”, or “place”. Strong words. Muscular. They’ll get that. The ocean is their home.’

‘Actually, sir—’ the words were out before I could catch them.

‘What?’ Irritated, he lowered his gaze to mine.

‘Just … it’s not their home, is it, sir?’ The words broke like fugitives from my mouth, running across the desk towards freedom — or so the poor bastards thought — but only towards the pitiless guard towers of the PM’s ears. To be honest, I thought some prison breaks were inevitable while I played court sycophant. But this breach had happened too early. Too easily. The stakes were too high — I couldn’t risk his contempt or suspicion. ‘The ocean, Prime Minister. I mean, these people don’t … dwell there. Perhaps we say that it’s part of their home. Perhaps we say the ocean is something like a backyard for Australia. But, sir, it’s not literally their home, they’re not mermaids or mermen or—’

‘If I want David fucking Attenborough, I’ll ring his bell. But right now I need a scribe. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He returned his gaze to the ceiling, as I thought how to better secure my prison’s borders.

‘Sharks, sir.’

‘I think of them less as sharks, Thomas, and more as enemies of the Australian dream. “Sharks” is too clinical; it lacks moral judgement. It almost excuses them. What they are is …’ and he closed his eyes to better hunt for the word. I waited patiently. He opened his eyes. ‘I’ll tell you what they are, mate.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Terrorists.’

‘Terrorists, sir,’ and I wrote the word down. My prison held.

‘That’s right.’

‘And what might we do about these terrorists, sir?’

‘What might we do?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We will denounce them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We will repel them.’

‘How?’

‘How?’

‘Well—’

‘You’re a fucking shark expert now?’

‘Sir, I’m just thinking about how we might prosecute your argument — your vision.’

‘These are terrorists …’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘… with gills.’

‘Of course.’

‘And we will fight them on the beach — wait. What am I saying?’

‘We probably won’t need to fight them that far in, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which is not to say that there isn’t a moral imperative to fight these terrorists, it’s just—’

‘No, I understand.’

‘—they’re not land-bearing killers.’

‘No. But they are killers.’

‘Undeniably, sir. Cold, God-defying beasts. But for this evolutionary moment at least, they’re not amphibious ones. Of course, we can’t rule out their ambition.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘I think, sir, we might need some specificity.’

‘I don’t like specificity, Clarence.’

‘We don’t need much, sir. Just a sprinkle. Like salt. Or sugar. We’re just dusting your boldness.’

‘I like that — dusting my boldness.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, what’s our sugar?’

‘Our sugar, sir?’

‘Our specificity.’

‘With the sharks, sir?’

‘With the terrorists.’

‘You’re asking me, sir?’

‘Who else am I fucking asking?’

‘Nets, sir.’

‘Nets?’

‘We pledge nets, sir. Vast nets.’

‘And that’ll stop these cunts, will it?’

‘Well, it might quell the fear, sir.’

‘The fear?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a different thing, though, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are we stopping the terrorists here, Bilbo?’

‘Sir, are you asking me to stop them — or are you asking me to write about stopping them?’

Another prison break. These rebellions were instinctive. I had no control over them. At least I’d tried. Surely, even while he was dosed with acid, I’d provoked the angry titan and he would now seek a new, less challenging courtier. I watched him tighten his pink jaw, close his eyes, and recline in fitful reverie. Then I waited for my dismissal.

And waited.

The election declared, the Prime Minister had resolved to share his new, expanded consciousness with the people. The first stop was a televised ‘People’s Forum’ at the Rooty Hill RSL club. Conversation would be driven by audience questions, moderated by one of the conspicuously sane Sky presenters, and an hour before it began, I drizzled some more rainbow juice into the PM’s coffee.

It bothered me that I couldn’t keep the Prime Minister permanently stoned. It seemed likely that each time he returned to Earth, he’d frantically wonder why, in earlier moments, he had seemingly lost his mind. But his self-belief was so total that anything he said was quickly integrated into it. And once the polls shifted, he just assumed he was being guided by some deep, inscrutable, but brilliant instinct that didn’t bear examining because, well, he had produced it.

‘Thanks for the question, Bob,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Let me tell you: we’re going to stop the sharks. We’re going to — this is an RSL club, right? You folks talk plain here. So I’m gonna level with you: we’re going to repel the bastards. We’re going to send a message: leave our women, children, and bodysurfers alone.’

‘Prime Minister, if I could,’ the moderator interrupted. ‘Isn’t the ocean the sharks’ home? We just share it with them.’

‘Well, okay, Sophie, but you neglect to mention that it’s a really big home — one that encompasses 70 per cent of the Earth’s surface. Do they really need all of it? Are you telling me that we can’t protect our tiny, beloved fraction of it? That we can’t protect our loved ones from their murderous appetites, while still permitting these killers free rein within 99 per cent of their cherished water? Come on.

‘Let me ask you: don’t nightclubs appoint their doors with bouncers? And does the law not