Never a True Word Page 12

  In the old days, when politicians were more familiar with words such as dignity and responsibility, the punishment for misleading parliament was to either resign or be sacked. These days you would have to be caught out in an outrageous lie, the Opposition would need to have photographic and audio evidence that you knew you were sprouting porkies, and there would need to be about a dozen eyewitnesses before anyone would even think of doing the right thing.

  None of this stops Sloan from regularly reminding us that it is ‘his job on the line’ if we fuck something up. On this particular day Sloan is to be the government’s star attraction in parliament. With an eye to that old election we hatched a plan to fund a few more hundred cops on the beat. It’s hard to beat good old law and order as an election issue. These indeed are salad days to be a cop. Terrorism has been a boon for business as well. Neither side of politics has the spine to stand up to the police and tell them they have done very well in recent times and the ridiculous annual increases to their budget have to stop.

  Occasionally, internally, we muse about the idea of just shaving that increase. Not by a lot, just enough to stop other government departments feeling like poor relations. Now and again a minister such as Sloan may even suggest on the quiet to the Commissioner that perhaps he won’t be getting every bell and whistle he has requested in his proposed budget, and within a few days there will be a few strategic leaks made to sympathetic police reporters. Or the Commissioner will suddenly grant an interview request to a reporter and may even suggest a few questions the journo may like to ask him. Cue headlines like ‘Commissioner says he’ll have to cut police numbers to meet government targets’ or ‘Commissioner says he’ll have to shut police stations to meet government targets’. That will be followed by a firestorm in the papers, talkback radio and TV news and then by the inevitable government capitulation. The cops are as shameless as any politician when the mood takes them.

  For the big announcement I have worked up the usual press release. It says something along the lines of ‘Yay we are great, the cops are wonderful, boo the Opposition, they say they like the police but they don’t really mean it’. For the last two days I have tried to get Sloan to look at the press release.

  Each time I am rebuffed by the ‘can I look at it later, mate?’ excuse.

  Then I receive a text from a number I don’t recognise. ‘Did you get it?’

  I fire back a quick reply. ‘Get what?’

  The answer zooms back. ‘That nice picture I sent you.’

  Now I’m worried. Instead of texting I try to call the number. No one answers.

  I send another text: ‘Who is this?’

  A long wait. Then. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

  That is that. Strange, but not overly worrying. Yet. But it is enough to make me a little edgy as time rolls around for the press conference with the coppers and the appropriately named Commissioner Gary Blue in the press conference room at parliament.

  It is down to start at 1.30, giving us thirty minutes before Sloan has to turn up for Question Time. By 1.15 I am nervous. Sloan has not appeared; he is not answering his phone. We last saw him at midday when he said he was popping out for a quick lunch with Charlotte. He still has not seen the press release. Eventually, at 1.18, he arrives. A full sixty seconds ahead of the good Commissioner. Sloan has my press release in his hand as Blue enters the room.

  ‘Commissioner, great to see you again,’ bellows Sloan. He shakes Blue’s hand and gives him the press release. Blue starts reading the press release. Now obviously I had already sent my fine words to my equivalent down at the cops, just as a courtesy, and in the expectation any mistakes would be picked up. Simon Welsby, the bloke I have to deal with at the cops, is a bit of a dill. We went to uni together in the dark, distant past and his basic stupidity offended me back then as well.

  I emailed him the release and told him to get back to me if there was any drama. He didn’t, but that knot in my stomach is tightening as I watch Blue read the press release. When Sloan handed it to him I expected he would give it a quick glance, after all he has already seen it, hand it back and say ‘That’s fine, Minister’ or some other banality. Instead the room has gone quiet as everybody watches the Commissioner read.

  ‘Everything ok?’ asks Sloan.

  Blue doesn’t answer for about ten seconds then says: ‘I’m not sure about some of these numbers, Minister.’

  ‘Which ones?’ says Sloan, rushing to his side to get his eyes on the release again. I am stunned. Not now. Not now. We have only ten minutes before we front the cameras.

  ‘What’s your concern, Commissioner?’ are the words that somehow manage to get past my strangled throat.

  ‘Well, it says here total numbers will rise by 325 in two years time. My memory is that it’s actually 375,’ he says. ‘And the total police budget number is wrong as well.’

  ‘B-b-but,’ I stammer, ‘I sent this to Simon and told him to get back to me if there was a problem. He didn’t get back to me.’ At this point I realise Simon hasn’t come with the Commissioner so I’m on my own here. I am looking at the Commissioner as I say this but out of the corner of my eye I can see Sloan going red.

  ‘Jack, shut the fuck up,’ he suddenly barks at me. Even the Commissioner looks surprised at this. Sure the police might give a crim a good beating in a cell now and again but even they draw the line at ripping apart someone who is supposed to be on your team while outsiders are present.

  Blue to his credit tries to save me. ‘I’m sure there’s fault on both sides here, just a communication problem. If you give me two minutes I’ll make a phone call to double check the numbers. We can change the release and get on with the press conference.’

  ‘That would be great, Commissioner,’ says Sloan, ‘but please don’t feel you have to make excuses for this fuckwit. It’s his job to make sure every little thing that goes out under my name is accurate and he didn’t do it.’

  The Commissioner looks a little bemused. It’s probably because he hasn’t seen this side of Sloan before. I take a little comfort in this. If a bloke who has risen to the top of an organisation as ruthless as the cops is surprised by Sloan, perhaps I’m not imagining things after all. Blue leaves the room with his two advisers to make his call. I try to ignore Sloan for a second and turn to Leo. ‘Look, I have the original copy of the release on my thumb drive. Once the Commissioner checks the numbers I’ll change them, print out some new copies and we’ll be fine. We might be five minutes late but we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Ok,’ says Leo. ‘Get on the computer, set it up.’ Sloan by now is slumped in his chair, not looking at me, not looking at anyone, just giving off every impression of being the unluckiest bloke in the world to be stuck with such a bunch of morons for staff.

  I fetch my laptop and retreat to a rickety old desk in an antechamber to Sloan’s office. At least I am out of the firing line for a moment. The Commissioner is already out here, holding his mobile in his left hand while scribbling down notes with his right. He seems to be saying ‘yep’ a lot but then hangs up and takes the two strides needed to bring him to my computer. He looks over my shoulder and says, ‘Ok, I was right with those numbers if you can just fix them up all will be good. Apart from that it’s fine.’

  I thank him, make the necessary changes, click the print icon, put the number twenty in the copies field and send it into the electronic netherworld. Because our office is so small there is no room for a printer. So after I send the new version of the release I have to leave the office, walk twenty metres down a corridor to the printer, swipe it with my special parliamentary card and pray that it all works. As I walk out into the corridor I collide with a couple of TV crews making their way to our press conference.

  ‘Last minute panic?’ asks one of the reporters whose name I have forgotten. Dwayne? Corey? Something like that.

  ‘Nope. All good. Just sorting out the press releases so you’ll have something to say in front of the camera today,’ is my overly snide
reply.

  But he doesn’t seem to notice or care and dismisses me with, ‘See you in there, mate.’

  I take the still warm pieces of paper back into the office. With as much calm as I can muster I give a copy to Sloan and one to the Commissioner. After a quick read Blue speaks first. ‘Looks fine to me. Let’s go and do this press conference.’

  ‘Well, as long as you are happy, Commissioner, I am happy,’ says the suddenly smarmy Sloan. And with that touch of Sloan obsequiousness the two of them march out of the office, along the corridor and into the waiting press pack, looking like they are the best of mates. I walked fifteen metres behind wondering if I will ever be able to escape from this hell.

  32

  Predictably, Sloan says nothing to me after the press conference. He manages to keep up the good humour while the Commissioner is present but after he leaves Sloan’s black mood returns. Question Time presented no obvious problems. He enjoyed going into the Chamber and sticking it up the other side by showing off how many extra cops this government had managed to employ compared to ‘that lily-livered lot over there’.

  ‘You’re the best friends a crim ever had’ was the line that caused the most uproar and allowed Sloan to sit down with a satisfied grin. When he emerges from Question Time he calls us into his office. Plainly he thinks he’s emerged triumphant from Question Time, and has done so single-handedly after his incompetent staff more or less stuffed up.

  ‘Fellas, you let me down today. You made me look like a fool in front of the Commissioner. He had to spot the mistakes. He had to fix the mistakes. He must think we are a right bunch of fuckwits. He’ll be laughing at me with all his cop mates right now. What happened today?’

  Silence as we wait for someone else to jump in first. It’s been about ninety minutes since the press conference finished but I still haven’t let go of my bottled-up anger. I am sick of this bloke, sick of this job, sick of being treated like a (well-paid, admittedly) servant and sick of all the unnecessary drama Sloan creates. I know I shouldn’t be doing this but when you are pushed to the edge sometimes you have to push back.

  ‘Ray, perhaps if you had taken the time to look at the release sometime in the last three days when I asked you we could have avoided this situation,’ I say.

  He tenses in his chair and explodes. ‘Are you fucking kidding me? This is my fault. You fucked up and it’s my fault?’

  ‘Yes, I fucked up. I grant you that. But perhaps if we had a bit more co-operation from you, life would be easier for all of us and less mistakes would happen.’

  ‘I don’t believe this, I don’t fucking believe this.’

  He is so angry now he is out of his chair and striding around the room. Nobody else speaks. No one jumps in to back me up. I feel like the condemned man swinging in the breeze just below the gallows. But I think fuck it, I might never get another chance like this.

  ‘And another thing, Ray, if you ever speak to me like that in front of other people I’ll just walk out. I can just about take it when there’s only us involved but if you pull that shit, like you did today in front of the Commissioner, then I’m gone.’

  We wait. He’s back in his chair now. The others can’t look at me but I’m not sure if it’s because they are terrified Ray will think they are on my side or they are worried they will burst into laughter. Sloan is looking increasingly perplexed but he has at least fallen several shades of red in the facial department. The worst of the storm may be over.

  He stops fiddling with a pen on his desk and tells us to get out. We leave quietly and I gently close the big wooden door behind me. All I can think is I have to sit before I fall down. My legs are weak and the nausea in my stomach bodes no good.

  I turn to Leo. ‘Shall I just pack up my things and go then?’ He is still speechless. Harry and Bob are just looking at me with broad grins on their faces.

  ‘You mad fucker,’ says Harry. ‘You mad, mad fucker. What were you thinking? I mean, mate, I agree with every word but I usually keep those conversations inside my head. You don’t say them out loud.’

  Harry is speaking barely above a whisper, still paranoid that Sloan will be able to hear him through an enormous door and walls about a metre thick.

  ‘I think I just had enough really. That shit in front of the Commissioner really fucking annoyed me. I don’t think even the great Ray should be allowed to get away with that sort of nonsense. I think it was just time to take a stand for a change. We always let that fucker walk all over us. I don’t know …’

  At that moment the door behind me opens. It’s Sloan, stern but not apoplectic. ‘Come in here, Jack,’ he says. I follow him back into the office and he motions me to sit opposite him at his desk. Weirdly, I have a flashback to being an eight-year-old at school when I was summoned to the headmaster’s office after throwing another boy’s schoolbag over a fence and into a puddle. I was scared then and I now recognise that feeling in my gut as not nausea but fear.

  ‘What was all that about, Jack?’ Sloan begins. He doesn’t seem angry, a good start, so I decide it’s time to get off my high horse. Maybe I can still save my job.

  ‘Ok. Look. You are right the mistakes in the press release were my fault. I am not backing away from that. It’s my job to make sure stupid shit like that doesn’t get through but this time it did. So I am sorry about that.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘But,’ I continue in my softest voice. ‘I am not sorry I said that I won’t accept you humiliating me in front of outsiders. It’s just not on. You can’t treat people that way and expect them to work for you.’

  ‘Ok,’ he says again. ‘I apologise if I went over the top but you need to know I cannot have my staff attacking me in front of others. I admire your passion but you need to control yourself.’

  ‘Do you want me to quit?’

  ‘No. But don’t do it again. I mean it. You’ve had too many years in journalism thinking you can do what you like and be answerable to no one. That won’t wash here. Not with me.’

  ‘Ok.’

  And with that I stand up and leave annoyed for submitting once again to his nonsense, but relieved I have still have a job. The boys are waiting for me.

  ‘You still employed?’ asks Bob.

  ‘Afraid so,’ I confirm, and I give them the gist of my conversation with Sloan. They are most amazed by Sloan’s advice that I need to control myself better.

  ‘Seriously?’ asks Bob.

  Leo just shakes his head. ‘In the room next door lives a bloke born without a shred of self-awareness. A bloke who loses his temper if someone forgets to put sugar in his tea. A bloke who once blamed me that the weather forecast was wrong. And he’s telling you to control yourself?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I say. ‘He blamed you for the weather forecast being wrong?’

  ‘Yep. He came into my office one day around lunchtime. Said he was going for a walk and asked if it had been raining outside. I hadn’t been out all day and had no idea but I had the paper on the desk and told him the forecast was mostly cloudy, eighteen degrees. An hour later he came back to the office after being caught in a shower and called me a useless bastard and stormed into his office. Slamming the door of course.’

  33

  For the next few days I keep my head down. I don’t bother Ray unless I have to and fortunately for me parliament is over for a few weeks and we have nothing big on the slate. There’s no sign of a grudge but I am exceptionally deferential when I have to speak to Sloan and uncharacteristically quiet in staff meetings. No point in poking the beast I reason.

  Still, while my reputation may have dimmed in Sloan’s eyes, in other places it is soaring. A few days after my little contretemps with Sloan I am out walking through the city. I can smell the approaching summer in the air of this spring day and feel its heat on my back. A voice stops me and I squint into the sun to make out its source. It’s a Cabinet Minister. A mate of Ray’s as it turns out, but not blind to his faults.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he
says by way of greeting, ‘if it isn’t the one and only fearless Jack. The man who took down Ray Sloan. “Fearless Jack” they call you now, defender of the meek, slayer of dragons, protector of the innocents.’

  ‘Oh, go and get fucked,’ is my witty comeback.

  ‘Leave me alone, you big bully,’ he says with a smile. ‘Seriously though, mate. Good on you for standing up to Ray. He’s had it coming for a long time now. I know how he treats you guys and it’s fucking criminal.’

  ‘Well, thanks. I’m surprised he didn’t fire me.’

  ‘He can be a bully, there’s no doubt about that, so he wouldn’t have known what to do when you stood your ground. Having said that there may be a few jobs coming up around the place if you want to jump ship and live a quieter life.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but we did all promise—Leo, Harry, Bob and me—to hang around until at least the election to see it through. All bets are off afterwards though.’

  ‘Fair enough. Good man. Hang in there. But maybe we’ll chat again later.’

  I am out on the streets heading to meet the mysterious sender of texts and photographs. That morning another message had pinged my phone.

  ‘Are you ready to meet?’

  ‘Who is this?’ I wrote again.

  ‘All will be revealed if you turn up.’

  I agree to meet at an appropriately busy café in the middle of town. I am intrigued, not to mention worried. I can’t see how anything good is going to come of this. I still haven’t spoken to the others about this. Despite my reservations, I am still holding onto the hope that it is all some kind of elaborate practical joke. The café is frantic when I arrive. Barely a spare table to be found. There is a loud hubbub of friendly chatter from the business suits gathering for a pre-lunch coffee. White-shirted waiters rushing to and fro push past me as I scan the room, not knowing who I am looking for.