The Speechwriter by Martin McKenzie-Murray (latest books to read .TXT) 📗

‘That he fucked — sorry, blew — a bull.’

‘And how do we stand the story up for him?’

The media adviser was silent.

‘Do we know for sure that he blew a bull?’ the chief-of-staff asked.

I was proud that they’d adopted my nomenclature.

‘We’re reasonably sure,’ the policy director said.

‘Why?’ asked the chief-of-staff.

‘There’s talk of a video.’

‘Has anyone seen it?’

‘No.’

‘Then how can we be sure?’

‘A journo told me he reckons there’s footage out there.’

‘This sounds like a shit parlour game,’ the chief-of-staff said.

‘I’m pretty confident,’ the media adviser said, shuffling papers before him. ‘I’ve spoken with a reporter on background, and he shared what a witness told him.’

‘And what did the witness say?’

‘That he inhaled a cow shaft.’

‘We’ve just learnt that a cow doesn’t have a shaft.’

‘Fuck, Liz, that’s just what he said, okay? Inhaled. A. Cow. Shaft. We can all agree that we’re ignorant about the taxonomy of livestock. What remains is the dubious flagrante.’

Until now, my boss, Belinda, had remained conspicuously quiet. Then she straightened in her chair. ‘We could push out something flimsy,’ she said, seeming irritated, ‘and then be caught in accusations of sleaze.’

‘Go on,’ said the chief-of-staff.

‘It’s simple,’ Belinda said. ‘This story didn’t originate with us. We’ve only heard about it. And we’ve heard about it because you think there are nauseated witnesses, bewildered colleagues, and insulted farmers to corroborate the story. Okay? Now, if this is true, we don’t need to do anything. If we leak, it will eventually be reported that we leaked. Right now, we are innocents. Humble and committed public servants who will later be appalled by the news that the dignity of a bull, and of democracy itself, have been defiled.

‘So let the rumour metastasise. Let it grow so large that the papers are compelled to report it. And if they are reluctant, because of manners or evidence, bloggers and talkback radio will pre-empt and compel them. And witnesses will come forth. We sit back until that happens. And it will happen. Then we can talk about what we might call it. But it’ll hardly matter. We won’t need to talk about it because it’ll explode. And then everyone else will do the talking for us. We remain statesmen. The party that doesn’t fuck animals.’

The party that doesn’t fuck animals. Genius. That night I went to my girlfriend Rachel’s place and, as soon as I was in the kitchen, spat recollections of the day. ‘I was in the Premier’s office,’ I said breathlessly while opening a beer, ‘and the leader of the opposition, he’s fucked a cow, and we talked about that, and, listen, he’s doomed. We’re saved. He fucked a cow, babe. A bull, actually. He blew a bull. Is that fucking? I don’t know. But it’s not cool.’

She stopped stirring the risotto. ‘Goodlight’s fucking a cow?’

‘Fucked. They’re not in a relationship.’

‘He fucked a cow?’

‘A bull. He blew a bull.’

At this point, Rachel relaxed her grip on the wooden spoon. ‘You were invited to the Premier’s office?’

‘Yes.’

‘To discuss whether Goodlight fucked a cow.’

‘It was a bull.’

‘Sure. Fine. Goodlight blew a bull.’

‘Pretty wild.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, her tone changing. Suddenly I realised my mistake. She’d been indulging me. Allowing me to betray my tawdry excitement. ‘I just don’t know how this matters to the widow I saw today,’ she said. ‘The one who still lives at home even though she’s legally blind. The one who’s a retired English teacher, who has little contact with her family. I won’t bore you with the reasons why. But I bathed her. Dried her. Later, I wiped her arse. And you know what? I didn’t leave after that. Which would be easier. But I stayed, because she needed to change roles. Having played the patient, she wanted to play host. And I let her. She made sandwiches and tea. And then you know what she asked me?’

I put my beer down.

‘She asked me if I liked Dickens, Toby.’

‘Dickens?’

‘She wanted someone to talk to about him. And she hasn’t asked me if I’ve read him, but if I like him. Right? So I paused before I gave her the bad news that I’ve never read him, but I’m sure he’s great. Then she was quiet for a bit. And this bit sucked. It was just a few seconds. But I could tell that she was disappointed, and figuring out which parts of her enthusiasm could survive my ignorance.

‘She’s lonely and she’ll die soon. She has a good mind, but it’s surrounded by ruins. But she never complains. She’s never rude. Instead, she makes tea and small talk. But you know one thing she’s never talked about?’

I could guess.*

[* ‘Your girlfriend’s cool.’

‘Ex-girlfriend.’

‘Makes sense.’]

Emily was right: there was footage, and within days the media had relaxed its doubts about airing it. Was this not in the public interest? And Belinda was right to hold off: they already had it, it was just a matter of time. Be patient. Don’t get your fingerprints on it. Let it blow up like Little Boy. We were the party that didn’t fuck animals. The full, nauseating effect of the footage was softened by pixilation and poor lighting. Still, it was extraordinary viewing. Video was carried on most news sites; stills were splashed on the nation’s papers beneath headlines like ‘Opposition Leader Blows Chance at Premiership’.

The paper that scooped the story warned Goodlight, which allowed the opposition leader to prepare and time his resignation. The day after the story broke, Goodlight was assembling the media to announce his departure.

He must have known this day was coming. The morning after The Slalom, Goodlight would have woken to a profound hangover. First, the headache. Then the swift and terrifying dawn of recollection. For six months, he probably questioned the loyalty of his mates, oscillating between faith and suspicion. More troubling were the two farm folks. Was his charm sufficient to earn their silence? He was smart enough to know the answer.

At work, we gathered triumphantly around the television to watch Goodlight’s resignation. As we