Only two weeks later Andrew Smith came to me with that quasi-smile of his. He was as thorough in his mission as I’d hoped- he had broken I don’t know how many privacy laws and presented me with a dossier. While he fed his dog, I went through the files, giggling, gasping, and guffawing. It was an incredible dossier, and if I hadn’t had other plans for it, I could’ve published it as fiction and made the bestseller list. Now all I had left was to memorize it.
Then I set off to do the only really nasty thing I have ever done.
The live press conference was held on the steps of the Opera House, for no good reason. The smell of the harbor and of the media scrum mingled in the cold morning air. Every reporter, current affairs host, shock jock, and media personality in Sydney had shown up, and we all stood dwarfed by the bizarre geometry of that iconic theater. This reunion, it was something. Me and the media, like a divorced husband and wife meeting for the first time in years at the funeral of their only child.
As soon as I swaggered up to the podium, they posed their loaded questions, as if defending a high ideal. I cut them off.
“Hermaphrodites of the press. I have prepared a short statement: you wouldn’t know decency if it came up and shat on your face. That’s it. I told you it was short. But I’m not here to explain to you why you are parodies of your former selves, I’m here to answer your questions. And knowing how you all like to shout your questions at the same time with little or no regard for your comrades who might have small, fragile voices, I will address each of you individually, and you may ask your questions that way, one by one.”
I gestured to the journalist standing closest to me. “Ah, Mr. Hardy, I’m glad to see you here and not at your gambling counselor’s, where you go Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. What is your question? No? No question?”
They looked at each other in confusion.
“OK. What about you, Mr. Hackerman? I hope you’re not too tired- after all, a man with a wife and two mistresses must have a lot of energy. Your first mistress, twenty-four-year-old journalism student Eileen Bailey, and your second mistress, your wife’s sister June, obviously aren’t keeping you as busy as one would think.
“What’s going on? Where are the questions? What about you, Mr. Loader? I hope you’re not going to hit me with a question in the same way you hit your wife- five times, one police intervention. Did your wife drop the charges because she loves you or because she’s afraid of you? Anyway, what do you want to know? Nothing?”
I didn’t let up. I let loose. I let all the cats out of all the bags. I asked in turn about their marriage counselors, penile implants, hair transplants, cosmetic surgery, about one who had cheated his brother out of his inheritance, about seven who had cocaine addictions and one who’d left his wife just after she was diagnosed with breast cancer. By humiliating them one by one, I turned the assembled crowd into individuals again. They were unprepared, squirming and sweating under the glare of their own spotlight.
“Didn’t you tell your psychologist just last week that you’ve always wanted to rape a woman? I have the recording right here,” I said, tapping my briefcase. What were a few defamation and invasion-of-privacy charges when I was going down for fraud? “And you, Clarence Jennings from 2CI. I heard from a certain hairdresser that you only like to sleep with your wife when she’s menstruating. Why is that? Come on! Out with it! The public has a right to know!”
They were swinging their cameras and microphones on each other. They wanted to shut them off, but they couldn’t miss the scoop when the competition was right there beside them. They didn’t know what to do or how to act. It was chaos! You can’t erase a live broadcast; their secret lives were dripping through television sets and radio speakers everywhere, and they knew it. They condemned each other out of habit, but then it was their turn in the sick limelight. They stared at me, at each other, disbelieving, ridiculed, like gnawed bones positioned upright. One removed his jacket and tie. Another sobbed. The majority wore terrified smiles. They appeared reluctant to move an inch. Caught with their pants down! Finally! These people had for too long taken on the importance of the subjects they reported on, strutting around as if they were celebrities themselves, yet laboring under the misapprehension that their lives were exclusively their own. Well, not anymore. They were caught in the morality traps they themselves had set. Branded by their own cruel irons.
I gave them a leering wink so they could be certain I had thoroughly enjoyed invading the sanctuary of their lives. Fear was in their throats- they were petrified. It was magnificent to watch the falling of great masses of pride.
“Now go home,” I said, and they did. They went off to drown their sorrows in beer and shadows. I stayed alone, with the silence saying everything it always says.
That night I celebrated by myself in Caroline’s apartment. She was there but wouldn’t inhale so much as a champagne bubble in the name of victory.
“Well, that was childish,” she said, standing at the fridge eating ice cream from the carton. Of course she was right. Nevertheless, I felt sublime. As it turned out, hateful revenge was the only pure aspiration from my youth that had survived intact, and its satisfaction, however puerile, deserved at least one glass of Moët et Chandon. But the awful inevitability of the situation had dawned on me: they’d be coming for me soon with redoubled strength. I must right now choose between the reality of prison and the reality of suicide. I thought I really would have to kill myself this time. I couldn’t do prison. I have a horror of all forms of uniform and most forms of sodomy. So suicide it was. According to the conventions of this society, I’d seen my son reach adulthood, so my death would be sad but not tragic. Dying parents are allowed to moan about not seeing their children grow up, but not about not seeing them grow old. Well, fuck- maybe I wanted to see my son graying and shrinking, even if I had to witness it through the foggy frosted glass of a cryogenic deep freeze.
What’s that? I hear a car. Shit. I hear footsteps. The haunting percussive beat of footsteps! They stop. Now I hear knocking! Someone’s knocking at the door! Suicide? Prison?
Well, what do you know: a third option!
I have to finish this off quick. There isn’t much time.
I came out of the bedroom to see Caroline curled up on the couch like a long skinny dog. “Don’t answer it,” she said, not speaking these words out loud but mouthing them noiselessly. I took off my shoes and crept up to the door. The floorboards complained under me. I gritted my teeth, took a few more creaky steps, and peeped through the peephole.
Anouk, Oscar Hobbs, and Eddie were standing there with big convex heads. I opened the door. They all hurried inside.
“OK. I’ve spoken to a friend in the federal police,” Oscar said. “I had a tip-off. They’re coming to arrest you tomorrow.”
“Morning or afternoon?” I asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe a little. I can get a lot done in five or six hours.” That was just bravado. The truth was, I’ve never been able to get anything done in five or six hours. I need eight.
“And what’s he doing here?” I asked, pointing at Eddie.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Eddie said.
“You mean- run?”
Eddie nodded with such energy he lifted up onto his toes.