CHAPTER TWELVE

At least there are some paramedics on hand although the one vaping by the side of the ambulance looks more bemused than ready to jump into action.

- You can do it, shouts the Chief of Staff encouragingly.

Get the wheels back on the ground you fucktit.

Nobby is flailing and the grinding tractor gears are only pitching it further onto its side.

- It's going to go all the way over, Alix whispers, horrified.

Surely somebody can...ah here come the cavalry. The winning tractor driver and a couple of his mates have finished unhooking the sled and are trotting over. Real men with wear marks on the elbows of their Swaandris and manure etched into the soles of their boots. Rolling up their sleeves, they lock burly fingers round parts of the tractor in unison and pump biceps and brace thighs.

This display of masculinity is not doing it for Alix. She is still looking queasy.

- Hold off that throttle Mr Holt.

The mud stops spinning and the metal chassis slowly shifts on its axis until the airborne wheels thud onto the ground. Inexplicably, once Nobby emerges, the onlookers, including the vaping paramedic, start cheering. Nobby waves a hard hat, which seems far too big for his head. He looks like he thinks he has won the chance to fuck the prize bull in the country fair.

- Are you going to slap him one? Alix asks.

I'm not going to get my shoes covered in mud. He can make his own way back to the airport.

I'm doing VERY IMPORTANT things in the Press Sec's office. The doctor has told the PM that the bunions are not going away and his esteemed opinion is that orthopaedic shoes are the only solution. Absolutely fucking not. The Press Sec has sourced navy, charcoal and patent black pumps at a very modest fifth of the heel height of the PM's normal footwear. The Chief of Staff is pissing everyone off by pushing badly Photoshopped pictures of the PM wearing Nike and – shudder - Sketchers across the desk. We have three hours before her flight home to the electorate to provide the capsule wardrobe for each set of shoes.

- Is she going to be doing fit check videos on TikTok?

Fuck off Chief of Staff.

Is she grumpy about this?

- Add it to the list, the Press Sec says with the sneer of a public servant who finds the campaign period extremely tiresome unlike those of us true believers who are high on the fumes of political adrenaline.

Alix sticks her gullet round the door. Strange smile. Are you happy or are you apprehensive?

- Polls are in. And the first write up of the focus groups.

She knows she has to hand them over but she remembers my spiral into poll obsession during the by-election. Don't worry girl, the day I stop spiralling is the day you take over my job. What's the smile for then?

With a completely unfathomable sense of confidence the Chief of Staff straightens his too skinny tie, stands up, and has the audacity to thrust his hands out to take the papers from Alix's hands.

Sit the fuck down.

- Do you want the comparables or just the Project Tui data?

Alix has deftly moved into the room so that she is addressing the Press Sec and me with her back to the Chief of Staff. Good move girl but now he's just looking at your arse.

- It's looking good.

Well that's a fucking relief.

- Green voters hate it.

- Obviously.

Sit the fuck down Chief of Staff.

- I was just going to get...

Sit the fuck down and listen to the results or get the fuck out of the room.

- Our core supporters and the coalition partner's core supporters love it.

Unsurprising.

- When it comes to Labour swing voters there is huge support. And, get this, when it comes to Labour core supporters there's almost as high favourability as with our core. There's no comparison for any of our previous policy positions getting that kind of support.

The Press Sec stops threading coat hangers into dry clean bags and raises an eyebrow. - How is that possible? Have they miscalculated the data set?

- I asked them to re-check the numbers. They said it's legit. Three percent margin of error etcetera etcetera.

- So how is that possible?

Alix shrugs.

Have you seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? Of course not, Alix and the Chief of Staff are too fucking young. And it looks like the Press Sec too.

It’s about a high school prankster. Good looking type but Ferris is an obnoxious know it all. Mr Popular. Too fucking popular. His prank of the movie is to pull the greatest possible sickie. Why slum it in school with the cattle class when you can go on a romp around Chicago instead.

There are TWO antagonists in the film. The High School Principle - the icon of authority who the young people will rail against, of course. But there is also Ferris' sister Jeanie. Not as charismatic, not as popular and entirely pissed off that Ferris has charmed the students into believing he is on death's door while he is getting away with a raucous day off. Her mission: prove that Ferris is faking it and let everyone see him for the fraud that he is.

Everyone who watches the film thinks they are Ferris; superimpose themselves into his light footed shoes. Stick it to authority by cinematic proxy. But deep in their psyches they are Jeanie; twisted with contempt that somebody gets away with IT (whatever the it may be in the fathoms of human perceived personal unfairness). Somebody is larging it up while they have to drudge away at the daily grind. We don't want to believe it's true but it's etched deep into human nature that we hate the idea of someone getting something for nothing, something they don’t deserve.

Because it's Hollywood - counterculture wannabies until it's their kid that they can't get into Ivy League without a significant donation - Jeanie comes around in the end (spoiler alert). So we never have to confront ourselves. What does it mean that when push comes to shove our first instinct is to do what Jeannie does - narrow our eyes, double down on catching the layabouts, show them up and revel in our hardworking, rule following superiority.

- And this connects to Project Tui how? The Chief of Staff is trying to squirm his way back into the sphere of Alix’s view.

Of course we, the general public, don’t hate poor people. But the idea that they can pull an extended sickie, give hard work a pass when it doesn't suit them and otherwise fuck around? When we have to play by the rules? Outfuckingrageous. Half the country would bring back workhouses if they could. Military service is the light version. And plays into every deep down in the hidden core fascist wet dream.

Everyone thinks they are one lucky break away from being the millionaire that buys their own private yacht. The reality is that unless Daddy has a trust fund, 95% of the working adult population is only three lost paycheques away from being a beneficiary themselves.

So yes, Ms Press Sec, they are lapping Project Tui up. FIRM but fair. NO NONSENSE but compassionate. HARD WORKING New Zealanders doing what is best for the underprivileged poor.

Don't look like you're having second thoughts Alix. You're on the payroll. What's the alternative? Think about that carefully and work out if you're willing to try and get on the payroll for that one.

Jesus wept Chief of Staff. Why have you got ink on your pants? Have you been paying attention for any of what we've just been talking about?

Vibrations across the table. Alix picks up her phone with a sigh.

- It's Nobby. Hold on. Why are you whispering? I can barely hear you.

She puts it on speakerphone in the middle of the table.

- I think [mumble gurgle] delicate [gurgle gurgle mumble] worried that [mumble mumble].

Speak the fuck up Nobby. We can't hear a word of what you are saying.

There's a shuffling noise and the grating static from a blast of wind.

- I'm trying to move further back in the boat so he doesn't hear me.

Where the fuck is he? What boat?

Alix shrugs her shoulders. The Chief of Staff pulls his phone out, jabs fingers into the screen, muttering - I know he was on a flight yesterday to Auckland or to Christchurch.

The Press Sec gives him a withering look, twice taps the mouse quietly on her desk and replies - His diary has a stakeholder engagement in Murupara.

He's on the Rangitaiki river?

Alix's phone crackles with the hoarse voice of Nobby trying to whisper quietly and loudly at the same time. - We're anchored just off the shore. Two Māori men have appeared and they're shouting at us about a rāhui.

Well of course they fucking are. A body was pulled out the river two days ago. Get back onto shore quick snap and apologise.

Another grating wind blast - The Chief Exec has pulled a gun on them. He's not putting it down and the old one's just continuing to shout at us.

- Hope it's not Matua H----. If it is Nobby's fucked.

We all pause to look at the Chief of Staff. How do you know Matua H----?

- He's my uncle. My nan's brother.

You're Māori?

The Chief of Staff nods.

And you want to work for us?

He shrugs.

Nobby crackles through the phone, - What do I do? They're both getting angrier and angrier.

Who else is on the boat?

- Just the two of us.

You'll need to get him to put the gun down for a start.

- What if he shoots me?

- Surely you know how to disarm a man with all that military training of yours? The Press Sec replies sardonically.

- He's not actually going to shoot anyone is he? Alix asks.

Who the fuck knows. Who is this Chief Exec?

The Press Sec's eyes dart across the screen; her hand light on the mouse. - Agri business. Old farming family. Owns three different stations.

In that case Nobby better hope he can dodge a bullet. The Chief of Staff opens his mouth to pitch in his two cents but glares on each side from Alix and the Press Sec put an end to that.

- Oh shit, Nobby whispers. The younger one looks like he's filming on his phone.

Do they know who you are?

- I don't think so. I've got my collar up and my sunnies on.

Undercover fucking Nobby. Well, get your back and shoulders turned so they don't see who you are. Tell me you're not wearing the Swanndri with your name embroidered on it.

- I am. It's really warm.

- He'd be best off jumping in the river and escaping downstream, says the Press Sec.

Alix looks appalled at the idea.

What are they doing now Nobby?

- They're just glaring at each other. But the gun is still cocked. Hold on, crackle crackle, there's a couple of women coming down to the shore.

Who are they?

- I'm not sure. I'm trying to get a look at them and keep my Swanndri out of sight. It's really hard. Should I take the Swanndri off?

No, for fucks' sake. Don't do anything to make yourself more conspicuous.

- One of them is on her phone. She's talking to the older man. He's not looking happy with what she's saying. The younger one looks really pissed off. Now they're shouting something in Māori at the Chief Exec. They're doing a haka. And, wait a second, that's it. They've turned their backs and they're all walking away. The Chief Exec is putting the gun away.

Nobby's voice sounds like he has finally unclenched.

- Who's that you're talking to Nobby? The Chief Exec's gruff voice is loud enough for us to hear it through the phone.

Nobby stalls. - It's em...

Repeat after me. It's my wife. She called to ask if I could pick up the kids tomorrow. We're working out if she can leave the car at the airport for me. Now you say, love you honey, speak soon. And hang up.

The phone goes dead. We all take a moment of silence to digest the what-the-fuckery. Alix picks up her phone like it's dirty.

- Where did those women come from? Alix asks.

- That was Aunty Rose, says the Chief of Staff.

We all turn to look at him.

- I messaged my nan and she phoned Aunty Rose who got on the phone to the Chief Exec's wife and they worked something out, and then Aunty Rose told it to Matua H----.

- Just like that? The Press Sec raises half an impressed eyebrow.

The Chief of staff has some kind of purpose after all. What about the video? Can she get it deleted?

We wait, all eyes on the Chief of Staff as he types into his phone and snakes his fingers across the screen while he waits for the message icon to ping.

- Nah, she says Aunty Rose is going to hold onto it while they work through a boundary dispute on one of the farms. But...He waits for more text to appear on the screen. - As far as they are concerned Nobby's insignificant to this.

Story of Nobby's life: insignificant.

We take another moment of silence to digest the shitfuckery. The Chief of Staff tries to take a congratulatory, arms-behind-his-head lean back in his swivel chair which leads it to almost topple. Fuck tit.

- Out, says the Press Sec, entirely sick of us.

By the time Alix and I have reached the forecourt, a text has arrived from one of the Major Generals. He wants me to go to a meeting in the --- hotel. Off you fuck back to the Party Office Alix. This sounds like big girl stuff.

The hotel is not my favourite. Too many hacks set up their off the record chit chats with MPs in here. And the Negronis are shit. I think everyone assumes the staff must be exceptionally discreet considering all the political wrangling that goes on but I am CERTAIN that they are the source of more leakage than the long-standing backbenchers' adult diapers.

I scan my eye for Major General H---. A hand waves languorously from one of the booths tucked in by the window.  Who is this weaselly fucker?  Lightly pomaded hair and manicured nails, three decades too young. This is not one of the majors.

I STRIDE to the booth because obviously I'm not perturbed. And I am so fucking KNOWN in this town that I raise one digit at the barman as I pass and he gets on to adding the second most expensive bottle of Sav onto the weasel's bar tab. I glide, liquid limbs, into the seat on the same side of the booth as him. That makes him feel extremely uncomfortable. He sits up to try and gain some height and then with a magician's slight of hand which he has clearly been practicing when most of his contemporaries would have been tugging one off, he flicks me a business card.

Of course I don't have a business card because I'm not a total wanker.

- Major General H--- told me to expect some crass language.

Who are you? Exactly?

- I'm Project Tui's cavalry.

No you're not.

Justin Palmers, says the thick, embossed card. Typography that's been done properly.

- Major General H--- thinks otherwise. A deposit for project scope has already been electronically transferred to my Australian consultancy company. I have three concerned citizen organisations ready to start town hall meetings and letter writing campaigns. An established advocacy organisation is excited about funding to support a new digital advertising campaign. And I have a social media team that can use the most sophisticated AI tools to generate unique content deep in Facebook, Instagram, TikTok and, of course, X. They can't wait to get their teeth into, what was the phrase your press release used, “an opportunity to find out what family means, to find out what pride in our country means and to find out what service for a greater good means."

I don't do astroturfing.

- This is a supportive alignment of common goals.

This is a cuckfest of unwanted extra players.

- Additional resources, that is all. No paper trail.

There's always a paper trail.

The barman has discreetly placed the bottle on the table with enough in a glass for me to swill. I gulp gannet it back, nod my approval and he fades into the shadows. Glug, glog, a messy pour and thrown to the back of my throat as I stand up.

This is the last you'll be hearing from me.

- You have no idea how many discussions are happening behind your back Rebecca. I look forward to supporting Tui.

He winces because I've accidentally scuffed the tender part of his ankle with my sharpest heels retrieving my handbag.

Nod at the barman as I stride past. Head held fucking high. No sign of how rattled I am.

On the street I call Major General H---. He doesn't pick up.

I call Major General H--- again and he doesn’t pick up.

I call Major General H--- again and he doesn’t pick up and I send one emoji that shows exactly how I feel.

I’m so pissed off I’m outside the Party Office before I know it. I can only hope the President is in there so I can take out my displeasure on him.

Barely out of the elevator and I hear a shriek from the main office. Not the Best-dressed bitch has found Moochi on sale shriek. More like there's a mouse in the office shriek. Hmm.

Oh there it goes again but this time it sounds like it's coming from Coffee Underling. Investigator hat on, here I go.