The Big Ask (31 page)

SEX CLAIM MINISTER IN NUDE ROMP
declared the headline.

According to the report, the Minister for Transport had been disturbed the previous evening by parliamentary staff while trying to slip into his office in a state of undress. Not immediately recognising him, they had given chase. In an attempt to elude his pursuers, the government leader in the Upper House had taken a wrong turn and crossed the floor of the chamber during a debate on the deficit. The incident was witnessed by a
Sun
reporter, who was waiting for an opportunity to seek the minister's comments on allegations of inappropriate sexual behaviour circulating in his electorate.

Claiming he had been robbed of his clothes while taking a stroll in the nearby gardens, the minister lunged at a press photographer and attempted to destroy his camera.

The menials of Murdoch had struck paydirt and they mined it for all it was worth. Further pictures appeared on the inside pages, along with reports that a near-naked man had earlier been observed in the vicinity.

Poor Angelo. Timing is all in politics, and this was far from the ideal moment to go streaking through the corridors of power. By late morning, Ange's allies on the public office selection committee had hung him out to dry. Finding himself a faction of one, he was compelled to review his priorities. Citing stress, he submitted his resignation as minister and announced his intention to retire from parliament at the next election.

That left just me and Save Our Trains at the starting gate. On the following Monday, when the result of the preselection poll was declared, I became the endorsed Labor candidate for Melbourne Upper.

The state election was held almost exactly twelve months later. The result was a landslide that buried Labor so deep it might be the next century before we tunnel our way out. As always, Melbourne Upper remained solid and I was duly elected as its representative in the Legislative Council. I sit there now, one of a tiny rump of Labor members.

Unfortunately for my constituents, vengeance is the watchword of the new regime and my days in parliament are spent ineffectually voting against legislation that appears specifically designed to punish safe Labor seats for their traditional loyalties. Banished to the wilderness, the party has directed its energies into squabbling over the spoils of defeat.

Bob Stuhl is bigger than ever. According to Faye, he is diversifying into the telecommunications sector. Australia has one of the highest take-up rates of mobile phones in the world and Bob is positioning himself to capture a significant share of the traffic they are expected to generate. The size and cost of cell phones is shrinking before our very eyes and it will soon be difficult to believe that a fit young man could once have been beaten to death with one. I myself have finally succumbed. Twice. One for me for work-related purposes, the other for Red. He needs it, I feel, since he travels so far to and from school every day.

One of the first acts of the incoming Liberal government was to close two hundred government schools, Fitzroy High among them. Somewhere else had to be found for Red. Reluctantly, after considerable soul-searching, I decided to enrol him in a private school. To be frank, his academic performance at Fitzroy was disappointing and Wendy's ceaseless telephone tirades were beginning to wear me down. On top of which, sending your children to government schools is contrary to established practice for Labor members of parliament.

Red still thinks the purple blazer makes him look like a twat, but he's finally settled down to the two-hour daily commute. At least he doesn't have to wear a boater. He still sees Tarquin socially, of course.

What with the annual school fees, the mobile phone and the mandatory laptop computer, I'd probably be feeling the strain if it wasn't for my parliamentary salary. My interim year as a consultant was not as financially rewarding as I'd hoped and there wasn't much left of my lump-sum pay-out by the time the election rolled around. Angelo's spectacular fall from grace tended to tarnish me by association, despite the fact that our connection had been formally terminated three weeks prior to his self-immolation.

Angelo has returned to the law, where a tendency to lewd behaviour is a professional asset and a reputation for misogyny is a recommendation for appointment to the bench. His wife, Stephanie, stuck with him steadfastly in the aftermath of his ordeal. They were divorced, however, soon after his parliamentary term expired. She got the lion's share of his superannuation.

Howard Sharpe continues to rule the Haulers' roost, having been re-elected without opposition for his seventh successive four-year term. Soon he'll be looking for a new sidekick. There's a federal election coming up and Mike McGrath made the cut for the Senate ticket, so he's Canberra-bound. He'll doubtless find many kindred spirits in the national capital, particularly among those visiting from Sydney.

Miss Leatherette of the Liberals, by the way, is currently in charge of the new state government's prison privatisation program. Word has it that she's very close to the marketing director of the global corrections corporation, Wackanut Inc.

As arranged, Lyndal and I had dinner together on the Tuesday evening after the preselection poll. What with one thing and another, I didn't feel like Italian, so it wasn't candlelight and champagne at Florentino's. Instead, we settled on sake and tonkatsu in a shoji-screened alcove at Kenzan, the Japanese restaurant at the Regent Hotel.

‘I'm keen to come to grips with that issue you raised prior to the closure of nominations,' she told me.

‘And I remain curious about your preferences,' I said.

‘Perhaps we can go upstairs afterwards and assess each other's credentials,' she suggested, taking a hotel key out of her purse.

‘Waiter,' I called.

Soon after, she landed a job with the Department of Human Services, reviewing its needs-based service-delivery performance. I gave her an excellent reference, based on a personal assessment of her capabilities. She continues to harbour long-term ambitions for a federal seat. After almost eighteen months she and I are still bedding down the central plank in her platform.

Red approves of our relationship. ‘She reminds me a bit of Mum,' he told me. I have no idea what he means.

The lad will be fifteen soon and Wendy has finally conceded defeat on the custody front. My status as a member of parliament makes it a tad difficult for her to cast me as a complete incompetent, although it hasn't stopped her trying. I'm reluctantly forced to agree with her on one point, however. Being an opposition member in the Upper House of an Australian provincial parliament is hardly the most high-powered job in the world.

Still, it meets my modest requirements. It keeps the bank at bay and the refrigerator stocked. I have time to devote to the tasks of fatherhood. I do what I can for my constituents. And I have absolutely no reason to visit the Melbourne Wholesale Fruit and Vegetable Market at four o'clock in the morning in the middle of winter.

Anyway, that's the story of how I became a member of parliament. Whether you believe it or not is entirely up to you.

It's a big ask, I know.

More great crime fiction from
The Text Publishing Company

SOMETHING FISHY
Shane Maloney

Even in the political wilderness, hope springs eternal for the Honourable Murray Whelan MP. He has found true love with the auburn-haired Lyndal Luscombe. And she has in her bag an ultrasound photograph that bears an uncanny resemblance to Murray. But life wasn't meant to be easy, especially for the ALP faithful.

Soon Murray is once more on the trail of a killer, and a summer holiday at the beach gives no let-up from the chase. Amid the hum of teenage romance, the slap of thongs on sand and the smell of suntan lotion and vinegared chips, there's something else—something fishy—in the air.

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‘I look forward to the next Murray Whelan book with the same anticipation of pleasure that I feel for the new Carl Hiaasen or Elmore Leonard.' Sydney Morning Herald

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WINNER OF THE NED KELLY PRIZE FOR BEST
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On a sultry summer night Murray Whelan is in the Botanic Gardens tasting Salina Fleet's apricot lips. Meanwhile a dead artist is being fished from the ornamental moat outside the art gallery. Political minder and brushed-off lover Murray Whelan goes looking for the big picture and learns that when you dabble with death there is nothing abstract about a loaded gun.

‘Whelan is a delight and so is nearly everything about this very funny thriller.'
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‘A succulent, consistently funny detective story…The plot is like something John Cleese might dream up if he was drunk with Dashiell Hammett.'
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‘An enjoyable, richly-textured read which I can strongly recommend, regardless of what continent you find yourself on.'
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‘One of the finest Australian books I have read in a long while.'
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‘Whelan's voice…is wonderful. He's at once acerbic, sardonic, ever hopeforld-weary and briskly satirical…always witty and ineluctably clear-eyed.'
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NICE TRY
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‘Full of deft one-liners…Cigarette-addicted Whelan's wry social commentaries, ironic observations and many failed attempts at getting the girl make him one of
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