CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The days are Wellington howls. Banshee southerly shrieks scorch across the office windows. Earthquake strengthened concrete piles provide the mainframe but will they hold up to sheets of water whipped across from the Cook Strait? Alix is moping. The campaigning cave bros on the fourth floor have locked her out of their late night scheming and early morning scouring of the data. She's got smarter work to do than possessively obsess over the click through rates on the digital platforms and the algorithmic pick up of the constant churn of AI attack videos - but I've nothing else to give her right now. The MPs are barely present on precinct, instead desperately shmoozing the local branch members they ignored all term to extract the fundraising levies before they are ignominiously deselected.

Come file this paperwork with me. Lowly work but you can slip slowly on the Talisker as we go.

But before that, see if you can flick the light switch off and pretend we're not here. What the fuck is Nobby doing here in the office trailing behind the President.

No, no, he's spotted us.

- Hi Rebecca, chirrups Nobby.

Shouldn't you be leading a military parade somewhere?

- Timaru next week. Assault course training with the reserves in the morning and then there's a marching band practice in the afternoon.

A whole day in Timaru on this shit is not a good use of your time Minister. But mental note to get Alix over there so no photographic evidence escapes of Nobby being given a leg up due to his wobbly knee.

Shit, the President has seen me trying to move the papers on my desk under a manilla folder; his expensive eye surgery reading the small print upside down.

- Are those the remits for the AGM Rebecca?

And his eyes travel down to the brimming wastepaper basket at the side of my desk.

- Why is there a large stack in the bin?

Obviously they are only temporary placed there before they go in the shredder for proper disposal.

Nobby swipes his large fingers across the desk and delightedly intones - There's the one from my mates in the Deerstalkers Association. Great proposal to put a tourist levy on shooting the herds of special interest so we can fund some more shooting huts.

Alix inches towards the door, phone on guard to infer that there is something much more important happening elsewhere.

- You haven't answered why some of them are in the bin Rebecca.

The President is on his knees rooting around, most likely to see if his remit to change the structure of the board so that he is up for re-election less often is amongst the discarded papers.

I sweep the remaining papers into the manilla folder.

The PM told me to check the remits for political risk and discard those that should not be presented in an election year.

- That's a job for the board.

That's a job for me.

- Are you going to be at the AGM Rebecca? Nobby asks. - Are we going to do that thing again when we come out onto the floor as individual superheroes? That was incredible last time. I was Captain America.

No fucking way. That was the one election I missed and that shit got through.

- What's wrong with this one?

The President has ascended from his knees and is brandishing the remit from the women’s network. - Safe spaces for women sound good. Wholesome. Safe.

My eyes cannot roll far enough, especially with Alix departed into the corridor and unable to see them. And I shouldn't have moved a muscle because the President has perceived my irritation and shuffles the pages carefully in his hands.

- I'll take this one to the board to make sure it doesn't get overlooked. With a female Prime Minister and more than thirty percent of the board currently occupied by women I don't think this is the moment to be overlooking the concerns of the dear ladies in the women's network.

If it was up to me there would be a matriarchal sweep of the board and you'd be left hunting for your testicles at the bottom of the lake on your golf course after we'd teed them up and putted them down the hill. But I just nod so that he will fuck off more quickly.

By the next day my mood had hardly improved – turquoise on the verge of indigo according to the impertinent daily notification on my watch that I cannot for the beejesus of me remove. I’d take it to one of the data nerds on the campaign floor but it would probably come back with reminders of the GDQ schedule.

Alix meets me on the side of the tiles.

- Have you got a hangover?

If I had a hangover it would be gin and tonic time.

- So are you going to wear those sunnies all day? And the hat?

This beret is the peak of incognito elegance. With the amount of prosopagnosia in these hallowed halls, you don’t need a wig and moustache to effectively blend into the background.

- And you’re in disguise because?

We’re going to open our ears and hear what’s swirling round the rumour mill. Chop chop, to Copperfields we go.

 - To the canteen?

Call it that and off with your head from the head chef who happens to be on my favourites list because he can whip up a pastry show that does not look like it was purchased inside the Beehive when you are trying to curry favour with the security guards.

Grab yourself a large plate from the counter; we’re going to be stretching out a long lunch.

- It’s only 11.45. I don’t normally eat anything till at least 2.

Pre-noon is the parliamentary procrastinators: the MPs and Ministers counting down the clock until it is surely so close to lunch time that they cannot possibly pick up the set of papers on their desk and better get in early at Copperfields before the queue starts and they could be in danger of missing their very important stakeholder high tea in the afternoon. They have the loosest of tongues because, what else is there to do. Then the heavy hitters with real tasks and the more accurate inside information take over the tables but only for a concise mastication of what is necessary. If we’re lucky, the dribs of staffers who are finally released for a late lunch will have had just about enough of it to grumble loudly about what’s going on in their esteemed offices.

Grab one of the tables over by the windows. For reasons unbeknownst to me there is a reverse-vampire effect over here and the MPs flutter to the external light source like moths trying to escape.

No, not the one next to the Green MPs. All we’ll hear is an anxious conversation about whether the kombucha in the fridge is certified organic or if the gluten free ragou is also vegan. You take the side with the Labour MPs behind you and I’ll put my back to our coalition partners.

Use your musical theatre training - with a face like yours there's no way your mother didn't have you on the stage in your younger years - and murmur every once in a while between slow forkfuls. Look at me, I'm hearing every word of the coalition minister taking to his press sec whilst engaging in a meaningful conversation with you. And it's disappointingly rank. They're in a conversation about how to get the stains out of his suit and the source of those stains is leaving a fetid imprint on my mental encyclopaedia of precinct knowledge that I don't think is worth it.

- Who is Furby? Alix says at the decibel of a stage whisper. Don't musical theatre it that way. Keep your head down and keep listening.

Furby, the fucktit. Next on the ever rolling list of possible Labour coup attempts. A sensible person would think there is no point in a third leader in twelve months but campaign polls spark a weekly crisis of political hysteria.

Now shhhh. My ears have pricked at the mention of candidate lists from behind me. And a name I did not expect to hear is being discussed.

- We thought Sinead was locked in. She did the first three workshops in the candidate school.

- And then?

- I think too much time with the right honourable Leader after one of the cocktail functions. She didn't like his emphasis on her being the face of the Auckland campaign as long as she didn't try to write her own lines.

- So she walked?

- Poached. Got invited to a dinner in Grey Lynn.

- So not by the PM?

- God no. That old hag is keeping the next rank mediocre and under heel, thumb and whatever other sack of wrinkles that will squash ambition.

If only I had my phone recording. That use of the H word could have probably negotiated one less cabinet minister after the election.

So who is it that's bringing Sinead in?

The last of the lunchtime counter line washes Minister Knight to the coffee machine's pick up point. It seems as good a time as ever to break out of my disguise and go over to ask what the fuck he is doing to get the party vote up in the Auckland electorates and why hasn't his campaign manager submitted his bimonthly milestone reports.

Knight attempts to squirm away. - I've only got a minute before I've got to get onto the forecourt to receive a petition. It's very important constituent work Rebecca. Not everything is about the election campaign.

The fuck it's not.

His press sec is shuffling from foot to foot at his side, either about to piss himself or trying to work up the courage to interrupt.

Just say it boy.

- Don't call my press sec boy. Show some respect Rebecca.

I thought your pet project was getting everyone to establish each other's sex.

We're in a stand-off but finally his press sec breaks the silence.

- We need to go right now. They're moving it onto the steps and want to do a mic check.

No they're not.

- No need to play games Rebecca.

I know your press sec looks like he really is going to piss himself but you are going to stand still while I check the information on my phone.

And there it is - I thrust the screen under their jaws - one of your biggest North Island iwi arriving at the steps in fifteen minutes for their treaty claims settlement bill.

- But we have the steps.

Do you want to mess with them? Get on the phone to the petition organisers and get them to hold back an hour.

- They're not the kind to check their phones, the Press Sec's lower lip is trembling.

Who the fuck are they? What is this petition?

Minister Knight tries to offer a confident smile that convinces none of us - It's Mrs C---‘s organisation. They’re presenting a petition to ban pornography.

To ban what? How exactly are they going to do that? Take the whole internet offline? Actually, don't answer that. We'll just have to get ahead of them and cut them off.

- I don't think these ladies will stand aside for anyone.

We'll see about that. Come on, down the big staircase. No, don't fucking run. A minister running is like cat nip to the press gallery. Stride with confidence. Two aides at your side - you're a big boy minister.

By the time we get out the front doors the call of the karanga can be heard leading the hīkoi up the steps from Bowen Street. They're taking their time, stepping firmly on the Crown's paving stones. Mokopuna are in arms and hooked over shoulders - kept close, tight.

After they crest the narrow top of the staircase they fan out.

- That's a ton of Māori, whispers Minister Knight in a voice that is not quiet enough.

Well lads, they've taken the forecourt. We can divert your lady friends round the back and you can receive the petition there.

Oh no, wait, tell me that's not them coming across the grass? A flutter of grey hair and plaid scarves above navy and black anoraks. How are they moving that fast? It's like the bloody speed walking at the Olympics.

The hīkoi is still stoically inching its way towards the steps.

- I think the ladies are going to head them off.

The hīkoi is being squeezed again as they traverse between the bollards guarding the entrance doors and the flagpoles bordering the lawn. The aunties on the eastern flank have got their eyes open. They're watching the biddies with their determined strides and can see they are aiming for the same destination. A murmur rolls back through the hīkoi without breaking their ambulatory rhythm.

Up on the steps of parliament there are two pairs, each cautiously guarding a mobile PA system - one with a tino rangatiratanga flag draped over it and the other with the crisp edges of a unit for hire. The pairs aren't looking at each other; smart enough to have their focus honed in on the different marching parties.

Is there any chance, Minister Knight, that your ladies will do the sensible thing and let them pass?

Spoken too late. With a badly judged stumble as she tries to ascend from the lawn onto the forecourt, one of the anoraked ladies has barged a gutsful into one of the kuia. The kuia whips her neck round and delivers the pūkana.

This the end of it? No. Another anoraked lady, I swear you not, takes her glasses off her face, puts them in her handbag and then shoves the kuia away from the first lady.

All hell breaks loose.

There's a flurry of elbows and pointed knees and walking poles and tokotoko as others join in the fray. The aunties hand the mokopuna back through the line and advance down towards the lawn to hold off the ascent. There's a breakaway group of ladies who have circled round to the other side and are coming towards the parliamentary steps from the north end. They're trying to spread out to block the kaikaranga. The next wave of hell breaks loose as a second flank of aunties pile onto them.

The young fellows with their haka calves and thighs are ready but they're holding back, taking up the sides of the steps as the momentum from the back of the hīkoi pushes more aunties into the hubbub. Parliamentary security are starting to stream out from the front door. They thought they were just coming out for a gander but they've seen how out of hand it is and are wading in to try and untangle the bodies. Oooh, that errant handbag into the balls must have hurt.

Jesus wept, someone's rung the police. They're trotting over the lawn with the speed of uncertainty about what in the world they are approaching.

Time for us to skedaddle.

Fucking hell, I let Minister Knight out of my sight for one second and now he's with the organisers of the petition on the other side of the steps.

Come on lad, we've got to get him out of here. Skirt across the bottom of the steps. Don't worry, they're not going to jump on us unless we jump on them. Thank god I've still got my shades and beret; way too sophisticated to be mistaken for one of the anti-pornographers.

We reach Minister Knight, Mrs fucking C---, and another woman clutching what must be the hard copies of the petition in a cardboard box.

- What do you think Rebecca, shall we see if we can get the sound system out of there and do the handover on the northern end of the forecourt?

Are you fucking kidding. The police are starting to make arrests. We need you out of sight NOW.

- We've got seventeen thousand signatures in that box. Mrs C--- points at the cardboard cube while her friend looks as if she's one hairline fracture away from letting it spill onto the paving stones.

I can see at least one press gallery photographer with her long lens sweeping the scene. Knight's press sec is too scrawny to block the Minister from the camera's view.

Fuck it. Sweep them in through the side door. We'll do the handover somewhere inside.

- They can't go through that door without swipe cards. Security will be very displeased.

This is no time to get bogged down by process Knighty. Hold the door and bring them in.

Mrs C--- is shouting out a series of old white women names, - Gladys, Henrietta, Rosemary.

Jesus wept, just the ones you need for the handover, try to be discreet.

I push through to the front of the entourage. There's a uniform walking hastily through the hall towards us.

Sorry Hemi, just taking these important visitors up to the caucus room.

- I'll have to write it up Rebecca.

I know, I know.

Surely we can take the stairs. No? The adrenaline has been too much and some hips look like they're about to give out. We have to squeeze into the small wrought iron elevator. Knight's press sec looks overwhelmed by the smell of decaying lavender and old lady hands too close to his scrotum. Knight whispers in his ear then makes some obscure hand gestures at me. You can’t just make up sign language fucktit. Wait till we finish collectively sucking our tummy in and decouple out into the corridor.

- We can't go into the caucus room.

Speak the fuck up. Why can't we go in?

- There's a clash.

We'll work around. Who doesn't love sharing an afternoon tea with a frail group of anti-pornographers.

- It's a Mrs C--- clash.

Of course it is.

- Nobby's meeting with the Wellington RSA.

Sounds like a very aligned age group but I agree that the old codgers may not be happy about having their pin up girls taken away.

- It's more than that. The Wellington RSA President is Mrs C---'s ex-husband. They're not allowed to be in the same room together.

You're going to need to find them a different room then. Find one with a flag in it. Let them take a photo but keep your face out of it. Go on, off you pop. If Nobby's meeting with the RSA then I need to be in that meeting quick smart.

Shades off, tits up, time to look important in front of the old boys. I slide into the caucus room, discreet but powerful.

Wait a second, who the fuck is that delivering a power point presentation at the front of the room?