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ONE

Except for the rain which kept the temperature higher than an early Canberra winter normally would allow, autumn was gone.

John Order, now single, middle-aged Member of Parliament with a 176 by-election majority, was sufficiently preoccupied with yesterday’s hot rumour of a snap election when he arrived for work to notice the chamber pot had been moved.

A large bowl inherited with the office, it was used to alert him an unexpected visitor awaited. Because it could be seen as you approached the doorway, if it was moved from its central position upon the occasional table Order simply could keep walking to a private entrance further along the corridor, thus avoiding a meeting until he was ready to do so.

“Mr. Order.” The shabby figure of The Battler, a scrounger for money around Canberra’s central business district, rose to accost him. Dressed in a jumble sale of cheap and now dirty clothing, the untidy man with the wild beard and absurd Inca beanie was someone to avoid even in the streets of the city. You didn’t want him in your office.

Order automatically reached into his pocket for a coin, wondering how the grubby old derro had breached the legislature’s security and made it to him.

“No, Mr. Order, that’s not why I’m here,” The Battler said, nevertheless accepting the two dollars. He paused.

“So why are you here?” Order hoped Liz, his experienced and efficient mature aged secretary, already was phoning downstairs.

“I’ve found a body.”

“Dead or alive?” Order was determined not to encourage the man’s drawn out performance.

“She’s dead, of course,” The Battler replied sensibly.

Order raised his voice: “Liz, phone the police.”

“No, Mr. Order!” The Battler’s triumphant tone gave way to pleading. “I don’t like the police. That’s why I came to you. You know what to do with dead bodies. You’ve found one yourself.”

Is that all I’m to be remembered by, Order thought sadly. A questionable suicide early in my parliamentary career, perhaps too shortly to be ended?

Old Paddles Porter’s rumoured announcement to his members had caught the Opposition by surprise – at least to the extent that conventional political wisdom said if an election was needed a late August or early September poll was desirable. Like bears the punters were coming out of winter hibernation and feeling frisky. A time for political rebirth.

The alleged idea to go to the people in late July was regarded as risky and, of more importance, tactically uncharacteristic. For all their claims to innovation, politicians essentially are conservative, otherwise they don’t last long.

The emergency meeting of the Party room after yesterday’s rumour led to several hours of wasted talk before it was decided to adjourn until the Party’s administrative machine had come up with a strategy for a short eight week campaign.

If he’d summarised his feelings about an early election, Order would have thanked Bernie, the party secretary, for his insistence about doorknocking each weekend to strengthen his grip upon the electorate and, hopefully, add to his small majority.

Yet there was so much to do: so much to organise, to plan, to promote, to undermine, to destroy. But not yet, not today. Far too early for the tacticians to move. They needed time to argue among themselves.

This was why Order looked at the dirty dishevelled man with the appeal in his eyes standing before him. He knew what he was going to do, but wondered how he should address the old tramp when he did so?

“Liz, I’m going out.” And to The Battler: “Alright, where is she?”

In the older suburbs of Canberra in more generous times when land did not command the premium it did today, the planners experimented with various design layouts for the future National Capital. Cul-de-sacs and wide central areas, sweeping circuits and U shaped streets and, here and there, they left odd bits of open space which more adventurous schemes had rendered too small to accommodate another house.

It was to one such overgrown site The Battler directed Order, specifically to the abandoned vehicle sitting in a tangle of tall weeds.

“She’s in there,” the old man said when they alighted, pointing a dirty brown finger toward the faded white Volkswagen of the original beetle outline. He began to walk away.

“Stay here,” Order commanded, still wondering what he should call the aging derelict. The Battler surely couldn’t be his name?

“I’ve done me duty,” whined the object of his speculation.

“Show me,” Order ordered, taking The Battler by the shoulder and pushing him toward the abandoned car.

This had not been vandalised, Order noted. Certainly the tires were down, probably flat, but the glass in the windows remained to show an out-of-date registration sticker.

Except for an unsecured passenger door what recently had been called a Punch Buggy by schoolchildren would, elsewhere than this small neglected block, have passed for a temporarily parked car.

Except too for the body inside.

A young girl, a hippy in Order’s estimation judging by the clothes she was wearing: clothes he recognised as dress ups with which friends’ children played in his earlier married life.

She was wedged behind the steering wheel, an easy fit for her slight frame, with her legs across the gear stick and into the passenger’s space. Her head, topped with long mousy coloured hair, leaned against the driver’s side window.

He touched her thin wrist, seeking the throbbing vein.

About twenty, he guessed.

And dead.

“Liz,” Order said into his mobile, “get the police to Windrush Circle. Yes, W-I-N-D-R-U-S-H. That’s right, that’s the suburb,” Grateful no two Canberra streets had the same name. “Yes, he was right.”

“I’ll go now then,” the old man declared.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. You might as well stay here –” Order was about to say Battler. What was this bloke’s name? “– because the police will want to talk to you an’ I reckon they can pick you up any time they wish.”

“Not for this they won’t.”

“Of course not.” For a few seconds Order wondered if this useless old creature could have killed the young woman – if anyone did so. And for what? Rape, theft, envy? What’s his name anyway?

“Stay here,” Order advised. “You’ll be safer from the police with a politician.”

………………………………

“G‘day, Battler.”

“Hello, Mr. Williams. Hello, Sergeant Shanks.”

“G’day, Mr. Order,” said Detective Inspector ‘Gabby’ Williams, the laconic officer known to him. “You seem to have a scent for bodies.”

“The Battler,” Order said, relieved to know the term of address at last, “led me here. Look’s suspicious.”

“Autopsy will decide,” said Williams, in his usual sparing words, and then: “How’d you find her, Battler? Well out of your territory, I’d say.”

“I was looking for bottles an’ cans.”

“Spirits, no doubt,” said Williams, his eyes taking in the affluent houses around them.

“What I could find. It was a dark an’ stormy night. Then it started to rain an’ I thought I’d get in the car an’ I found her.” He gestured to where a growing group of officials were busy doing whatever such people do when a dead body is found.

“When was this?”

“Last night, Mr. Williams.”

“Why didn’t you report it then?”

“Jeez, it was pissing down. I’d have got soaked finding a phone.”

“You stayed in the car then?” Order interrupted in disbelief. “With the –”

“Only ‘til it stopped raining, Mr. Order.”

“Sergeant,” DI Williams said wearily, “take Battler’s statement then track down who was the last owner of the vehicle – the rego’s still there.”

The policeman moved further into the road, away from the activity, wordlessly drawing Order with him.

“He’s lying, isn’t he?”

“Wait an’ see.”

“Surely he couldn’t have killed her?”

The policeman remained silent.

“But the bottles an’ cans nonsense? I’ll bet he was around here for another reason.”

“Such as?” Williams paused then added: “John, this is a police investigation an’ I’ve taken you aside to caution you about talking to the media – who are arriving now, I see.” He nodded to a television van pulling up.

“Nothing I can tell them,” Order protested.

“And let’s keep it that way, John. You’ve an election coming up, I understand, an’ if you stick to the script that The Battler came to you an’ you subsequently found this body an’ reported to the police, you’ll come over as a responsible local member.”

Quite a speech from the normally concise Gabby Williams, Order decided, and wondered why he was so keen to minimise the importance of the event while still giving him, John Order, the craved for publicity?

The reason was denied him by the arrival of the first female television journalist and her banal questions. Unfailingly attractive, unfailingly friendly, she was soon joined by others, they all slogged on, seeking the interesting several seconds grab, perhaps a slip, a critical word or line, that could add another segment to the evening’s news.

Order played Gabby Williams’ straight bat, refusing to speculate, just telling how he came to be involved.

The five to ten minute scramble of the media networks coincided with the departure of everyone else, save for a lone constable outside the police tape at the site of the abandoned vehicle.

And The Battler.

Whatever he’d been doing since Sergeant Shanks had taken his statement, it certainly wasn’t being interviewed for television. Grubby old men were necessary for stories about poverty and homelessness, not bodies in abandoned cars and when a local politician was involved.

Not that Order saw himself as in any way involved. He believed he had assisted a local resident, though probably not a constituent and far less a voter, in dealing with a stressful situation. In simple English: The Battler had found a dead body and asked John Order for help.

Nevertheless, his non-involvement didn’t extend to abandonment.

The Battler stood before him, forlorn and bewildered. Even disappointed perhaps that his discovery had been of so little profit to himself.

“Want a lift back to Civic, Battler?” Order generously offered.

“Thank you, Mr. Order.” The old derelict buckled himself into the seat harness. “I wonder if those cops know about the squat around the circle. ‘Cause I reckon that’s where she came from.”

TWO

If the rumoured earlier date of the election had come as a surprise, the election itself had not. Most honest political observers admitted the government was in trouble; the savvier of them agreed the sooner it went to the polls the better chance of victory, because the situation could only get worse.

To rely upon divine providence or luck to produce a favourable change of fortune as the only reason for delaying going to the people was a forlorn gamble and none knew this better than government backbenchers in marginal seats.

It was a journalistic cliché that the announcement by a government member, particularly a minister, they would not be contesting the next election presaged the claim of a loss of confidence in victory. Generally the same accusation was not made about an opposition member deciding to step down: nobody suggested that that politician thought the tilt for the treasury benches was hopeless.

So predictably now the rumour mill ground into overdrive. Len Duncan or Old Len Duncan aka simply OLD was going. Hardly news because he’d announced his intention months ago. Jim Rhodes, one of Order’s committee chairs, and Eddie Brown, who parked his Commodore badly every day beside Order’s vehicle, were two others said to be considering retirement from politics, while Bob Craddock, the education minister, was under preselection challenge from a feminist member of his party.

There was nothing unusual about any of these developments; they were part of the normal political scene. What was different this time was the media’s interest in and attention to these events and the Opposition sensed a political wind change.

All of which was a new experience for John Order, who, having won in a mid-term by-election, had not yet contested a general election, irrespective of the chance of government.

“Any news from the machine?” Order asked Liz, after telling her about the aftermath of the body find.

“Nothing. And I don’t expect we’ll know for a day or so. It’ll take them that long at least to crank up the campaign.”

“I thought we were ready?”

“I’m sure we are in general terms, but until a definite date is known there’s a lot that can’t be finalised. Television, for example,” Liz continued, seeing Order’s puzzled expression. “We might have the slogan and even have filmed the advertisements, but we don’t know the budget until we know a date.”

“Television, eh?”

“Unlikely for you, John,” his secretary warned, using the familiarity they had developed when alone. “It’s the political heavies who star. Best you can hope for is to be a nodding head behind a senior spokesman or get lucky like you did today over that poor young girl.”

A view confirmed at lunch by his friends Rob Glasson and Tim Forbes.

“We’ve about ten weeks of Hell ahead of us, John,” said Glasson, finishing his steak.

“He’s right,” agreed Forbes. “Campaigns bring out the worst in candidates an’ voters alike.”

“Just because the government isn’t doing too well at present –”

“Howso?”

“Glasson’s law, John. Spokesmen always comment on bad news, ministers on good news. Just count who’s being quoted the most these days. Simple but effective.”

And while Order was digesting this interesting item of political lore, Rob Glasson concluded: “They might be down but they’re not finished. We’ve a fight ahead.”

“An’ caretaker doesn’t kick in for another five weeks,” added Tim Forbes.

“So we’ve still five weeks for new government initiatives,” confirmed Order, who was familiar with the political requirement government’s cease taking such action five weeks out from an election and hand the day-to-day responsibilities of governance to the public service bureaucrats.

“An’ we’re sitting for three of those weeks,” said Glasson moodily.

“Cheer up, Rob. It can’t be that bad. Your seat’s safe,” Order remonstrated.

“Doesn’t matter. The party machine takes over an’ makes life unbearable. Your life’s not your own anymore. Where you’ve been quietly going about your business, doorknocking or whatever, suddenly comes under scrutiny, as if the machine didn’t trust you to do the best job you can to keep your own job.”

“Once in election mode the campaigning ratchet’s up,” said Tim Forbes in a more reasonable tone of voice than Glasson’s angry gloom. “Everything from giving blood, collecting for a charity, attending a memorial service or going to a football match, is evaluated for its publicity value to a candidate. As Rob says, it’s very intrusive.”

“It’s always disappointing to be reminded elections aren’t about government, they’re about power,” said Glasson portentously, rising to his feet.

“Doesn’t seem too happy,” Order said softly, watching his friend make his way to the cashier to sign his account.

“Rob hates elections,” admitted Tim Forbes. “It’s not that he’s lazy – you can’t afford to be if you hold a safe seat, too many others want it – rather he just despises the phoniness of the campaign focussed exclusively on winning votes. He believes he’s here to serve people not himself an’ it should be done with honesty. Some people regard that attitude as very old-fashioned.”

And later in his office Order had cause to appreciate his friends’ warnings.

“Came in from the Party,” Liz said dismissively.

So they don’t trust us, he thought, looking at the detailed e-mail notes requiring the campaign office to be advised each Monday of the number of doors knocked in the past week and where in the electorate this took place together with the number of pamphlets letterboxed in the same period; this with an admonition all pamphlets had to have their content vetted by the central campaign office. Shopping centre visits also would be coordinated centrally to avoid too many candidates turning up somewhere and nobody elsewhere.

Activities for the week ahead had to be submitted each Monday for the same reason: a cause for particular resentment among backbenchers who suspected their precious church fetes, public meetings and sporting carnivals, events they jealously kept to themselves, risked being appropriated by their frontbench colleagues to raise their own profiles.

Lastly, the popular Jim Terry, public relations officer and media man for the backbenchers, was seconded to the central campaign office, there to be swallowed up along with Mother Hubbard, as the media relations section was known.

“I won’t have time to campaign, Liz,” Order protested. “I’ll be too busy filling out these requests. Surely Bernie doesn’t approve of this bureaucratic nonsense?”

Bernie, the wise old Party secretary, who wore a cardigan and was a heavy smoker. No friend to political correctness, he was a mentor to John Order and many other younger members. He genuinely conformed to the much abused phrase of living legend.

“I’d say Bernie’s been sidelined,” Liz replied diplomatically.

So all the glory boys who are never around when the day-to-day drudge work is done can move in to claim the victory, Order decided. He understood now Rob Glasson’s depression and recalled a rumour which made all of these control measures so essential: if Fearless Leader doesn’t take us to the government benches this time, he’s cactus.

“For your part, John, you’re probably better off than most. Your doorknocking’s well advanced, an electoral newsletter went out recently an’ I think your old by-election pamphlet can be upgraded quickly with a few new photographs and fresh copy. I’ll get onto it straight away.”

“An’ what can I do?”

“I’d say it’s the lull before the storm, so why not get out into the electorate?”

This meant Jay.

A relief teacher filling in when others were unable to work, Order had met her at the opening of refurbished classrooms at a local primary school. The second time they met by chance at a swimming carnival she casually introduced the subject of her husband and young son, which Order read to be a hint she’d like to be friends but nothing more. That their third meeting saw them in bed came as a surprise.

The arrangement was very convenient. With her son at school and Jay working only part-time, the opportunities at Order’s flat for daytime dalliance were many and both parties took maximum advantage, often at short notice, of the accessibility provided by a mobile telephone.

A curiously uncomplicated affair, Order decided, listening as the number rang on his hands free telephone as he navigated the post lunch hour traffic.

Apart from the one brief reference to family at their second meeting, Jay had told him nothing of her private life. Whether or not she was happily married, where she lived, what her husband did and where her boy attended school, even her surname, of these Order was in ignorance.

It seemed all she wanted from him was him and John Order was delighted to oblige.

A female voice – Jay’s – answered as she always did by quoting her mobile’s first six digits; another anonymous idiosyncrasy which told any caller so little. She then invited you to leave a message, which was the signal to Order she had a job somewhere today and was unavailable.

Disappointed, he prepared to return to the office when he realised he wasn’t too far from Windrush Circle.

The scene was deserted. The car had gone, parallel lines of flattened grass from a bare patch of earth testifying to its transportation probably to the police garage at Weston for further examination. Even the blue and white tape was missing from the vacant overgrown block.

With no reason to stop, Order drove slowly around the circle, looking for the squat The Battler had mentioned in the car as the dead girl’s likely home.

Of early 1960’s architecture it had seen better days, no doubt to the chagrin of the tidy town private houses around it. The front garden was untended and a sagging lounge sat beside a tin that appeared to serve as a letterbox, to judge by the paper overflowing from it. The wooden features of the house needed painting, the roof tiles a good scrub and the gutters a thorough clean out. Order itched to adjust the venetian blind hanging haphazardly in a window and shrank with disgust from the sight of the grey sheets behind the closed French door entrance to the lounge room from a debris littered veranda.

A sad fall from grace for what had been a well kept family home in a street of still well kept family homes.

Considering the condition of the house, the gleaming Mercedes parked over the cracked weed infested pavement of the driveway was incongruous to Order’s eyes.

Incongruous perhaps but acceptable. Whereas the man beside the car hitting a young girl was not.