“Of course, it would be lovely wouldn’t it to wave a magic wand, such as this pseudo scientific vanity project we’re being force-fed right now.  But it’s not useful to… in fact, it’s downright damaging to go down that path.  Showering money indiscriminately at every crackpot inventor?  No, resources are too scarce to squander on some wild goose chase… especially not now.  Look, we’ll get to all that in good time.  Market forces have proven to be the best way forward in these matters.”

And Archy again last month:

“I’m always amazed at how we, as a species, rise to the occasion when we most need to.  Would that we had greater belief in ourselves.  I wouldn’t, for a moment downplay the significance of science and technology as a factor in the resolution of our very recent and very challenging issues – you’d expect that… I am a scientist after all.

But even more important was the manner in which we navigated the changing political landscape. It was hard, hard negotiation.  It was herding cats.  It was putting arms around shoulders.  It was bruising.  I was … I am… extremely proud to be part of it.  And I have to say it’s been very successful… so far… there’s much more to be done.

And no, no, you can’t write this remarkable story without Layla.  She certainly provided the colour.  Right?  Certainly… certainly… no, maybe uncertainty is the more fitting ‘ingredient’.  With her, we never knew what was around the next corner… but no matter, we love her, and on some level, we probably need each other.

But the takeaway point from the last few years is that the… sensible amongst us were right. There was no need to panic.  We were not ‘deniers’, that derogatory label flung about by those free range chicken littles.  And they still fling!  They can’t handle the reality that the ideological solution of their choice… solar, wind, thermal… is no longer in vogue.  In whose interests were they working?  Well, I don’t really care now.  Mine is an inclusive approach… this world is for all of us, including them, and I say let bygones be bygones.

I’ve always found it more productive to keep it simple.  Truth is found in simplicity.  More haste less speed. Too many cooks.  In the end of the day, get the right man for the job and leave him alone to do it.  We stuck to our principles.  We were rewarded.”

Expletive.  That Archy Carson.  How do we fall for him popping his head up when the bullets are long gone?

Confidence Sapping Journey

It’s been a big six years.  Layla’s outrageous “Munich moon wager” garnered enormous, Kool-Aid support amongst the marginal seat masses.  Many liked the “fix it now” spotlight being shone on climate change work… most were giddy at the prospect of extraterrestrial reality TV.

The coffers of the multitudes opened… and funded a number of Layla’s girly, girly global collaboration adventures centering mainly on Open Source Science and Technology.

Unwilling to cede relevancy, governments and corporations made great show of handing over 100 million or a billion or some other set of zeroes to Layla on TV.  To them, this was a tax paid to keep her busy and at bay.

Riding this wave of fevered enthusiasm, thousands of diverse projects sprung up within this cashed-up Open Source infrastructure.  Many thrived.  And cool advancements proliferated.  “Apple Glass”, the eye-driven holographic technology, was a great favourite.

Hmmm, smaller, faster, prettier.  Unfortunately, these were incremental and derivative improvements.  Some of them kinda could argue they helped with the CO2 numbers… kinda.

There was great hope when the “Layla stable” announced they were to begin production of a machine that ate up CO2.  Unfortunately, it would have taken a wind farm the size of Canada to provide enough energy to suck up 5% of the yearly increase in emissions.  Of course, no-one dared to suggest fossil fuel based energy be its driving force.  Still… it did something… and much more than the various market-based Carbon pricing schemes.

In short, the moon remained red.

Three years in and it became safe to say to a crowd that there “is blessed little to show for these expensive initiatives ineptly managed by the…  ‘unelected friends’ in the WCA”.

Taunts from the global politic towards the iconic one-world-warrior increased.  Plans to consult on implementing more empowered global structures for security and finance… turned into “dangerous adventures to eradicate hard-fought-for sovereignty”.

Yes, they were circling.  A suffocating cacophony of circling.  Layla wasn’t used to losing.  And this felt like losing.  It was a losing streak.  Every time she played a hand… she came up against a bigger one.

Like, even the welcoming inclusive nature of her Open Source institute was being taken advantage of.  Fruitful wins, such as the science behind holographic technology and the try-hard CO2 eater, were being sucked dry by so-called lurkers.  These parasites joined a project, waited for breakthroughs and then siphoned them off to their paying corporates.  Open Source collaboration was becoming no more than a cheap sand-box for established opolies.

Layla had almost become used to the constant physical assailments made on her from every side.  But the increasing intensity of the mental battering weakened her defenses.  Pippy seemed powerless to help and, for the first time since her drinking days, she woke daily to incapacitating nausea.

Oh Please

“Nothing’s working Pippy.  Will you help me?  Please!”

Pippy said he couldn’t help her.  He said it downcast… as if his hands were tied.  And, one more thing.  The Pearl Planets prize was not his to offer.   It had been turned down.  He had over-promised in an attempt to win back her trust, her love, her respect.  But maybe, no harm no foul?  It doesn’t look like they’ll reach the target anyway and the natural consequence of that is no prize.  Isn’t it?

What a game of soldiers.  Layla decided not to hope for a default but to put this bad news out there.

The next day, an ashen Layla announced the annulment to so many people broken with disappointment.  There would be no alien audiences to perform for or glimpses of heavenly bodies to revel in.  “We can still try”, she said “to reach for the target”.

Of course, we can try Layla. We always try.  But we were hoping for some sugar for a change.  Looks like you’ve dried up alright.

Picking Up Pieces

Fallibility.  Fallen idol.  Fantastic for some.

With the waters now well-tested, the powers-that-be decided it was time to put a bit of a wiggle on.  Time to put this Layla myth back in its box.  There was a need to secure the future for their people you know. And we could start by removing funding from this ridiculous Open Source Empire she’d built… and concentrate on education, hospitals, jobs and transport.  As you were!  It felt good.  It was all coming back to them effortlessly.  Better than ever.

LEoNaRdo

In the midst of Layla’s bad luck, something very unlikely happened.  Cold fusion.  Or Low Energy Nuclear Reaction (LENR) as it was termed.  Its story as badly-planned as any game-changing event.

Black Cat Energy, a team of nuclear physicists led by Italian engineer, entrepreneur, inventor and all-round scientific bad boy Leonardo Russo was not part of Layla’s Open Source initiative.  In fact, when Russo submitted the pro-forma web-based application for admission to the program it was refused.

Russo had a history of hare-brained inventions that he’d over-sold to naïve investors.  He’d had several runs-in with the legal system including a period of incarceration for fraud.  And, in his current incarnation as spruiker of a commercially-viable cold fusion device, he was the laughing stock of the scientific community.  Cold fusion was a pathological science.  It had been proven false… completely impossible within the laws of physics.

Cold fusion had ruined the reputations of far more credentialed scientists than Russo.  Yet, Russo, the alchemist, dared to say his device converted nickel into copper producing self-sustaining energy.  There was a magical secret catalyst but how it happened was a mystery even to him.  He adamantly refused to submit his device to independent evaluation citing commercial confidences and past betrayals.  Yes, I’ll buy ten of those off you Leonardo.  Wouldn’t you?

Regardless, Russo managed to attract to his circus a small but vocal fan base of pumped-up idealists.  They dreamt of the limitless, free energy.  And they drooled over the democratization of “power” that this invention would inevitably deliver.  The corporations and regimes that currently maneuvered the energy lever for their own enrichment would hoard it no more.

He carried this fan base along for a year or so by having so-called public demonstrations of his LENR device.  Russo always declared these demonstrations successful.  His committed followers were spell-bound at the results but others pointed out the woeful lack of transparency and scientific methodology employed… a kettle would have done the job better and, for all they knew, it had.

Russo declared that he would demonstrate, in Bologna, a much larger one megawatt version for a secret customer. Notable persons would be invited to attend this auspicious occasion.  It would be all good.

Not more secrets Leonardo!  Many of Russo’s rusted-on backers began to tone down their hyperbole and move into the “cautiously optimistic” camp.

So it was, on a fresh October morning, in the city of Marconi and Maserati, twinned with Coventry and Portland, that a rag-tag bunch of thirty invitees, devotees and dour-dressed introverts bobbled slowly and independently over cobblestones to congregate at an industrial looking building.

They were received by Russo and ushered into an untidy shed-like enclosure where the one megawatt game-changer was hosted in a shipping container.

They stood around shifting their weight and rubbing their arms to keep warm.  Shortly before the scheduled test time, the assembled audience were astonished when the inimitable Layla, herself with arms folded and braced against the cold, joined them.  She nodded respectfully to the group at large before approaching each with a more intimate greeting.  Wow, nice one Leonardo.  He knew how to throw a party.  So, Layla was his secret customer.  And those independent testers… must be WCA people.  This must be real.

Fizzle

Russo, in his Italian manner, addressed the group deferentially but with passion before taking Layla aside.  Way too close to her ear, he confided something.  Layla listened awkwardly before shrugging and nodding optionless approval.  For technical reasons, the target of the days testing was to be halved… half a megawatt of self-sustaining energy.  It was as if Russo cried “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp Shtick, right?”  His wide smile desperate and panicked.  Nodding and then nodding faster, Layla returned to the fold without the kind of enthusiasm you’d expect at this pivotal moment.

The WCA testers began.  The small crowd watched as Russo hopped around chicken style inspecting pipes and annoying the testers before being escorted under duress to a safe distance.

Not much went to plan.  Some gaskets leaked.  How was it possible that people who claim to have made the most amazing discovery in history could get the gaskets so wrong?  In plain sight another unaccounted for power source remained attached to the device throughout.  “To heat this area” Russo disclaimed, waving animatedly.

Well, if so it wasn’t working.  Still very chilly.  It was an amateurish production.  Not slick.  You could just about see the strings and wires holding the act together.   Layla looked uncomfortable.

And it was boring.  Time passed slowly as there wasn’t much to see.  If Russo was a scam artist surely he could provide some pizzazz.

After about 5 hours, Russo announced that enough time has passed and the test must end.  The testers turned off the device and without any high fives moved away to combine and finalise their data.  Russo thanked everyone for being there but insisted they should go now because the time had come to talk with Layla.  He would post the results as soon as he could.  The glum, sore and mostly disappointed guests sidled off… hopefully to sample some of Bologna’s more tangible wares.

What Next?

Layla went to an adjoining room with Russo.  A tester soon joined them.  She made a signal for the tester to state the outcome.  The tester self-consciously steadied his self.

“Well, yes, there was a lot of excess heat measured.  About the level of the amended target.”

And, losing his steadiness, he darted a look to Russo before fixing again on Layla.

“I’d have to say conditions weren’t perfect… for conclusive results.  There was quite a lot outside our control… so… question marks remain.  That other generator being there was… unfortunate.”

Layla thanked and excused the man. Russo hastily jumped in before she could address him.

“It does work.  Really!  Believe me.  But there are, aahmmm, instabilities.   We haven’t perfected the continuity of input energy for example.  Minor things Layla.  Minutiae. But we can’t say these things openly.  People don’t understand.”

After a pause.

“And the catalyst can be temperamental.  Sometimes we need to replace it with more conventional means… but it is only a matter of adjusting its consistency.  No problem really.”

And then Russo beseeched.

“What do you think Layla?”

Was this man a genius or deluded?  Both?  Very little added up.  Russo waited child-like.  So difficult.  Layla looked like she was analyzing the situation but really she didn’t have the smarts to begin to untangle the technicalities of this.  You’d have to say no and wish him well wouldn’t you? Come back a bit later mate when you’re a bit further on.  But she knew that was not going to happen.  She felt she had to bring him in under her tent despite this unconvincing performance.

Unbeknownst to Russo, there had been a wall of WCA security surrounding him for the past 6 months.  This was a response to intelligence received.  His brazen claim had roused a number of entities that saw danger in the man and his invention… true or not.  They wanted to eliminate this danger.

“Leonardo, God bless you.  This is a momentous moment.  An astounding achievement.  Let’s get this out there.”

She hugged him hard.  Russo reciprocated.

There was plenty of reaction when word got out that Layla was in league with Russo.  Politicians and lobbyists questioned her judgment and state of mind.

“Pitiful.  Is this the best she can do to distract us from the abject failure of her white elephants and her back-flip on ETs?  Fall into the arms of a recognized con-man? “

Those involved with alternative energy solutions were furious.  Why had she been taken in by this impossible gimmick?  Investment in reputable, clean energy sources would be decimated.  And what about the livelihoods of the people who had already invested so much in it?

Black Cat Production

Layla brought hundreds of the top Open Source scientists to Melbourne to polish up the LENR machine.  The large WCA manufacturing center in Leongatha just outside Melbourne was to focus completely on its production.  They named the machines “Black Cats”.

Within 3 months, there were enough large units to supply the Wonthaggi desalination plant.  A further 3 months and 2 product iterations later, Black Cat installations were providing the energy for Melbourne’s entire power grid.

The Melbourne trial, though miraculous, was roundly condemned by numerous unions and politicians due to the accompanying job losses and share price decimation of energy related companies, many of whom were a large component of people’s pension portfolios.

“The secret catalyst is obviously Pippy dust.  And we all know how unreliable Pippy is.”

But the cat was out of the bag and a number of WCA manufacturing centers around the globe went into production.  The designs to produce the Black Cats were released to all allowing some hope for the big energy companies to get into a vastly reduced energy market.  Russo and the WCA remained sole provider of the secret catalyst for long enough to become super rich.

Now just 3 years on, because of amazingly accelerated production and adoption, there are billions of the things in every shape, size and colour.  Even the world’s newly-clean centralized grids had to be decommissioned as smaller decentralized plants took over.  Wherever power was needed – residential, commercial, industrial, road, rail, air or sea – products built around Russo’s initial Black Cat design found a way to provide it.

We use much more energy now but it is bountiful and mobile – not scarce.  Energy is easy.  Cities are being built in deserts, on oceans, under oceans.

As swift and sudden as this transition was, the corporate old order didn’t take it lying down.   Armies, assassins and lobbyists were engaged.  But the most powerful military countries such as the US and China organized to ensure that disruptive opposition was snuffed out.

There was, after all, a net gain for them in an energy security that was so cheap and plentiful.  The equilibrium had changed such that some previously powerful structures could be removed from their decision making process.  Yes, a lot of dominoes are falling in this shifting balance of power.

Sadly, more than this scientific silver bullet was fired.  Last year, just before the opposition petered out, Russo’s private plane was brought down en route to Italy.  He joined many other people who were maliciously lost during the Black Cat rollout.

Following Russo’s State Funeral, a saddened Layla nudged Pippy and murmured

“He never fully knew how it worked you know.  No-one knows.”

Snuggled Pippy, a spirit on a high replied

“They’ll figure it out sometime.  But for now, I’m glad to have been of service.  This one, this one I could do.”

In an hour she’d flashed past the sandy Australian interior; glistened through the humid Asian tropics and baked her clay skin along the Indian subcontinent.  Another hour and she’d navigated icy Russian crevices, the iron mountains of Iran and Afghanistan and followed an autobahn into the brash smiley-faced Munich… the host of the years Climate Change conference.

Her palms gently cushioned the push and shove of the oops police and protesters who discontinued and parted giving her a route to tread softly.

Nine stunned and starstruck SWATs watched her cross the courtyard with beatific buoyancy.  Having entered the convention centre uncontested, six moody door bitches, skittled by her sudden and massive appearance in the foyer, wobbled for their holsters in fright then stepped aside pinching their sides or curtseying or saying “Hi”.

Layla meandered through the huge corridor on some search and came into view of BBC correspondent Livinia Rogers.  Livinia, conducting an eye-furrowing interview with the developing nation’s lead negotiator Peter Paul, was completely distracted. “Thank fuck for that.” her exhale sighed “Bored out of my tits.”

Livinia abandoned Peter and, dragging her technical crew along, intercepted this unexpected curiosity.

“Ahhh… Livinia Rogers BBC.  Welcome.  Welcome Layla Parkin.” gulped Livinia moving into tandem.  ”We were lead to believe you wouldn’t be attending.”

“It’s been a rough few weeks alright but I decided to make the effort.  I’d have been here sooner except I got caught up in a mire of politicians at the airport.  All stuck to their spots in a race to get here last.  Eventually pushed through but, as you’d know Livinia, some of them are deceptively sturdy.”

Livinia’s eyelashes flapped furiously but tired before taking flight.

“Just a joke Livinia.  No pollies blocked my passage.”

Livinia’s freefalling inner person screamed aargh, aargh, stop the incongruity, can’t handle the incongruity.  She manfully stiffened her resolve.

“Quite. Quite. And what then is your impression of the proceedings thus far?”

“Wonderful.  Wonderful is the world that springs to mind.”

Surely, it could not be so.  And… surely she meant to say ‘word’.

“In what way?  There’s been overwhelmingly negative criticism directed towards all players here.  Overly theatrical contributions from island and developing countries… token gestures from industrialized economies.”

[Layla]:
“French President for example… last Friday… espoused a tremendously warm and inclusive view of humankind.  Cited how the scientific evidence compelled each country to act now in the best interests of the planet.  Rousing.  Don’t wish to gush but I don’t think I’ve heard such magnanimous sentiments since Copenhagen.  Is he married?”

“Hah, you’re joking again.  Are you criticizing world leaders for not matching their lofty words with deeds?”

“They are not world leaders.  They are national leaders.  With a duty to act in their nation’s self-interest.  I’m impressed that they’ve come so far given their mandate and the constraints it imposes on them.”

[Cometh the time, Livinia]
“Some might say this jeering at the tentative initiatives of your opponents is an attempt to gain credibility for the kumbaya one world government that you and your WCA friends seem so fond of.”

[Layla, enjoying the taunt]:
“Livinia, if you tried to give my kumbaya global community a good hip and shoulder you’d bounce right off it.

No, I’m simply acknowledging the difficulty they have.  Is it man’s fault?  Is it as bad as they say?  Given the vastly different time and place circumstances who pays how much to fix it?

The French President, the US President, the Chinese President… most of the heads of state… are well capable of articulating a compelling vision of world peace and prosperity… and they know what the obstacles to it are… they’ve all pointed out the need for increased trust.  And yet.”

[Livinia]:
“What will you do at this conference?  Do you have a specific aim? “

[Layla]:
“I do.  I’m here to encourage global cooperation.  I think if we try it we’ll like it.”

Global cooperation.  Those words again.  They’d become a cue for Livinia to despise the utterer… but the other utterers… not udderly gorgeous Layla… another free pass for her.

[Layla, pulling up]:
“Livinia, so many signs… but I can’t tell… how do you find out… where these talks are?”

[Livinia]:
“You think you’re supposed to?”

A blinking Layla appreciated the opportunistic riposte.

“Very good.  Yeah, very good.  When things get complicated there’s usually misdirection involved.”

[Livinia]:
“Do you have a specific solution.”

[Layla]:
“A solution?  Well, I have a proposal to tackle the climate deterioration now and strengthen future international action.  It’s based…”

Mid sentence, cast-off interviewee Peter Paul re-appeared with two mates.

“Follow me, Ms Parkin.  I can take you to where the action is.  An… invitation… has been… extended… to you to meet the chief negotiators and… observe… some of the discussions.”

OMG Peter, she won’t understand your diplomatic twang.  Livinia, feeling guilty for her own incivility to the man, decided to mediate Layla’s interpretation of… what the uninitiated might feel was… an overly assertive interruption.

“This is Mr Paul.  He heads a negotiating team here.”

[Layla, offering her wrists]:
“Follow you?  Do you want to put chains on too?”

[Mr Paul]:
“Madam, that is wholly inappropriate. I might be white but I’ve spent my whole life in service to African nations and, besides, at any level, comedic or intellectual, it doesn’t work in the slightest.  You’re not black.”

[Layla]:
“Really, Mr Paul.  You should see my arse.”

Livinia panic-attacked until she realized she could hardly be held responsible for something she hadn’t said herself.  A racist Layla!  Exciting.  And Peter Paul… shame on you Peter Paul!  Might be White?  He’s ethnically Indian!  Thank God for sensible old England.

The crowd of a couple of hundred let Layla know that “three doors down on the left” was the knowledge Mr Paul had proffered like a tray of caviar.

As Livinia fought to keep herself, her crew and their wires physically abreast of the situation, she wondered if Layla’s crudeness was intentional.  In diplomatic negotiations, all forms of sneaky ploys and inhumanities were made digestible by a polite front.  Rudeness, though, was unacceptable.  It automatically resulted in your concession.  And yet… this buzz… suggested… suggested… the protocol might be irrelevant here.

The plenary hall participants had followed Layla’s customary unnerving method of arrival with mixed emotions.  The smaller threatened nations felt boosted, she’d certainly come down on their side wouldn’t she.  The new BRIC powers worried and rathered she wasn’t there but found solace in their belief that the big old boys had most to fear in any change of direction that might come about.

The American lead negotiator, Archy Carson was a great fretter and had taken Layla’s intrusion as a personal, existential threat.  His nemesis had penetrated the perimeter at a crucial negotiation stage; was casually and confidently using foul language; and was heroically dropping new proposal bombs.  His boss was scheduled to do all that in an hour’s time.

He’d got the call that, unless the situation could be brought back under control, it would be Air Force One cleared for take off back to Washington.  His visible terror lifted spirits in the hall.

He had decided to invite her before she gatecrashed.  He sent two envoys to prompt Mr Paul to bring her in under his terms.  Mr Paul, though, couldn’t keep his ego under wraps and had fucked it up… resulting in her imminent arrival… now… along with media and half of the conference grunts.

The thunderous standing ovation from negotiators and heads of small states bemused even Layla who waved meekly and said “Hi… do I need a guitar?”

“Layla, honey.”

A regal looking lady stepped forward.

“I, and many of my colleagues, are so glad you have come to the table.  The way forward is impenetrable for us but perfect for you.  Imagine the scope for wondrous fixes!”

Several contributed suggestions.

“You could adjust the earth’s tilt a bit.”

“Or bring some devastating floods and winds to THOSE people.”

“I… I suggest to create fifteen… no twenty eight… identical earths.  One for each climate change ideology.  Next time we wake up… the rest of the planet would be emptied of those with a different approach.”

“Unlimited energy balls” – “A space umbrella” – “Change our DNA”

Archy Carson lunged forward in an effort to put his arms around the situation.

“Okay, everybody.  Layla is here as an observer.  Let her observe… in peace.”

So far, so good.

“The main THRUST of her argument has been for countries to come together and forge forward via NEGOTIATION with each other and civil society.  That’s exactly what we’re doing, isn’t it?  Let’s HONOUR that and STICK to TASK.  Agreed?”

But Archy’s authority had been usurped.  A number of people took advantage; they hissed and booed.  It rattled him.

[Livinia]:
“You mentioned a proposal, Layla”

[Layla]:
“I did Livinia.

First, I’m not happy with this negotiating situation.  It doesn’t lend itself to the result most people want.  That’s kind of evil.  You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

Everyone should know from my background that I love healthy competition.  This is competition but it’s not healthy.  It acknowledges the reality of our worst characteristics but treats contemptuously those human characteristics we tell our children are so important… trust… reliability… the equality of humans… service.  Fill in your own list of virtues.  That’s why it’s failing technically and failing all of us.

I know force is the negotiating trump card.  I can imagine the salivating when a negotiator dangles it over some wimp.  And I recognize the irony… that the only reason I’m here… and not out there… is because they’re not sure how to stop me.

The job of the powerful is to help those less powerful.  Isn’t it?  Can any of you say you’ve done that?  Good on you, if you have.

From what I’ve seen though, you are cleverer than that… you’ve realized that the powerful can do what they want and that it would be rude not to take your full measure because it’ll only go to someone less deserving.  Pecking order strategy?  Best you can do?

I believe in our ability to deal with this issue.  There must be a million solutions.  I want us to back ourselves, our curiosity, our science, our wish to help and trust each other.

We have to get off the carbon track soon anyhow right? And, my self-interest is in seeing more and more global cooperation because I believe it will lead to better and better outcomes for everyone.  So, consider this a practice run.”

Livinia stealthily docked her pompous English head into the frame behind Layla’s.

[Layla]:
“Here’s my proposal.  If we can get the atmospheric CO2 to 300ppm in 5 years and it turns out to be the wrong tactic I will do everything I can to help.

And we’ll burn all the scientists for misleading us.”

Livinia glumly noted some sheepish looking scientists.  She turned an evil eye on them before refocusing her efforts on maintaining a marvelously, supportive profile.

[Layla]:
“No.  We won’t be burning anyone.

Regardless of its rightness or wrongness… if we can achieve the target… Pippy has agreed to a fantastic prize… we’ll gain entry to what he’s called… the Pearl Planets.  We’ll be able to observe, wonder at and be entertained by the inhabitants of another planet and, as it happens, some other planet will be doing the same to us.

Feedback on how we are going will be accessible to everyone, everywhere on the planet.  The moon, to the naked eye, will start off red.  As the concentration of CO2 decreases,  it will get less red.  When it hits 300,  it will turn blue.  Then, it’s first contact… well first sight at least.”

Oh shit.  It’s all a bit risky and crazy.  Baby ban mark two.

“Layla?” piped up one of the negotiators “what about our negotiations?  Years worth.  The money to help smaller and developing nations adapt.  All that nitty gritty.”

Archy Carson boiled back to the center of the hall.

“No-one can, for ONE moment, accept that proposal.  It is SIMPLY pie in the sky ridiculous.  RESPECTFULLY, we decline.”

[Layla]:
“It wasn’t addressed to you.  There are other forms of government… other groups, organizations, family units and individuals… that might want to make a difference.  They don’t need your permission to have a go.”

As Layla left the hall, she turned again to Archy.

“I know you Archy.  How did a man like you… who received a Nobel prize for his contribution to the Climate Change issue… end up defending the indefensible?”

She was way down the corridor before Archy came careering out of the hall shouting:

“It’s no good bitch.  Your attempts to bully us into a 400ppm compromise have gone nowhere.  Nowhere.  Badly played.”

Distantly, he added.

“Where’s the money going to come from? Hey?  The trees?  Fucking idiot.  What about my family?”

But the moon did appear various shades of red.  Carping on about the inequalities of seeing it from various locations didn’t change the embarrassment caused in certain circles.  And it prompted a lot of ‘what would they look like’ drawing competitions.

Gurgling apologetically at her shoulder, Uncle Pippy good-naturedly attempted to prod a response out of her.

You’re not a happy bunny then?

In her own time, she dealt curtly with the low priority question.

“Pippy.  I’m not even a bunny.”

His steel was sliced.  Just like that… the boundaries had shifted.  Top-heavy and dizzy, Pippy teetered.  He felt the relationship twist and buckle under the burden.  What a jaded old shining he was.  He’d been too heavy handed with the beautiful girl.

How uncivil of me.  But let there be no doubt that I always have your best interests in mind.  It’s just… I’ve gotten a little… comfortable recently.  Comfortable, self-absorbed and… unproductive.

Un what?  Unfortunate choice of words, Pippy.  She did, she winced.  Aargh.  Having gone as low as he could go, Pippy gave up the ghost, turned into a blanket and hid beneath himself.

Irritating.  Her dreams of motherhood obliterated, Layla desperately needed this time to work on nailing down new purpose, new meaning, new values.  But Pippy, contributor to her calamitous change of circumstance, was behaving bizarrely and getting in her way.

This was Callo all over again.  It had been easier to accept Pippy’s will when she perceived him as all-wise and aloof.  His current childish need for forgiveness and reassurance made her episode seem meaningless… it amplified her hardship.  But bite your lip… there’s no choice but to soldier on, is there?

That may be… but surely you’re worth an explanation.

Layla stood up wearily and looked back towards Pippy… still stupidly bunkered.

“I’ve got to make sense of all this.  Tell me the whole story.”

I can’t.

Wryght.  Well go…  No wait.  Not yet.

“You can’t?  Because you don’t know or because you don’t want to?”

Pippy’s silence was sorrowful and tight-lipped until.

Because it would affect the outcome.

Momentarily, she felt so much contempt for him.  Then, her poker instincts kicked in.  In reality, Pippy was in a weak position.  She could move all-in on his ass.  But what would she win by doing that?  He needs me, she thought.  He needs me and now I’m am in position.  Time to try a different tack.  She sang this lightly:

“Come on Pippy.  You can come out.  I can only hear your muffles.”

Pippy emerged, glowing with shame.

“Look Pippy, how are we going to proceed?”

How would you like to proceed?

“Yeah, go on, I can live with that.”

But not any more apparently.  Not after that morning’s experience at the Royal Women’s.

[Layla]:
“Nally, you were right all along.”

Ah vindication, that massaged my muscles and improved my posture.  If she could just leave it at that.  Reaching the correct conclusion was gratifying enough.  From experience, I wasn’t keen for her to elaborate on the specifics of how she got there.

[Layla]:
“Do you know that… even though I love you immeasurably… if I suspected you had any involvement in my children’s demise… I’d squeeze you till you burst and your entrails oozed out?”

Chilling and uncalled for.  Panic-stricken, I backtracked over my life… checking if I could have been an accessory.  Silly, but I did it.

[Layla, agitatedly preparing to restate that sentiment]:
“No, no.  What I mean is… I’m no moral role model.  I’m as much a hostage to base instincts as any politician or dictator.  The Bahai’s are right.  This whole thing is about spiritual transformation.  Mine, not someone else’s.  It’s a pity they only gave me a diagram.

I’ve been pampered too much, Nally.  I respect that you’ve never pampered me.”

She could have said that the first time.  My immediate reaction was to say:

That’s simply not true Layla.  You’re much better than us.  You are… better than me.  It’s why I’m so harsh on you.  I’m jealous, I feel inferior.

But I held back and went with a more considered thought instead.

“You welcome Layls.  But get real.  There’s no way you would actually harm anyone.”

[Layla]:
“Yes way.”

The Insight Story
When the doctors hunched in and revealed the need for a hysterectomy… “I felt I’d swallowed sorrow.  I fizzled to a pinhead”

Then, a detonation… a real big bang.

[Layla]:
“My mind was blown into millions of smithereen me’s that rocketed off in all directions.  As if on a string, they halted abruptly at a two metre radius making a  speckled sphere around me… in sight but untouchable… like a hologram.”

They hung there glimmering, these shattered Layla pieces… observing the suffering central Layla.  They debated points and took notes.

[Layla]:
“Despite the hubbub I could make out every sound. One exclaimed how proud she was of the pain I was in.  Another, sniffing like a petrol head, delighted in her craving for that pure, cleansing pain.  It was very disconcerting.

Oh Nally, they were every thing imaginable… bitchy and circumspect… comforting and controlling… protective and absent.  But I hearkened to a raucous section that were baiting and sneering… swaggering and drooling.  ‘what a hottie… real ripe… what will barren you do with all that sexy skin now… how about  wear dowdy clobber and not lead them on.’

That was too much for me.  Exploding into a whirling furnace of rage, I set off… scuttling hospital staff and smashing hospital property.  Some of them shards gulped ‘that is not good… very unattractive’.  I didn’t care.

I barged into a toilet, swung open a cubicle and slammed the latch shut.  Still in my bubble… I couldn’t shake them.”

“But you’re here now Layls.  You’re safe.  A strong reaction is to be expected after such a massive shock.  ”

Layla steadied me and bade me listen on.  In torment, she’d yelled ‘Pippy, fix me… now’.  Pippy, maddeningly monotone, asked how important it was.

She’d growled “What’s the problem Pippy?  Do you need to prioritize your time?”

All the millions, even the disrespectful ones, wrinkled their noses at Pippy’s response “You can have your fertility back but, as a consequence, every plane will drop from the sky”.

“How ridiculous!  Loathsome.  Ludicrous.” the little Layla s huffed to each other.

[Layla]:
“I stopped sobbing and snapped ‘Do it.  Get it back to the way it was.’”

“That’s interesting” said Pippy… and evaporated.

An uncomfortable eternity.  There was a lull in the little Layla s.  Losing  their tight structure they went to ground, flapping down onto any surface that would support them.

[Layla]:
“I wouldn’t look them in the eyes… I kept averting.  I was deeply ashamed but I wouldn’t budge.”

She felt them roll their eyes contemptuously as, on cue, the battling engine of a light aircraft rattled by.  All tracked its buzzing… imagining at every moment a kamikaze swoop.  Eventually, the realization that its flight hadn’t faltered.  Pippy hadn’t delivered.

[Layla]:
“I was hysterical.  Some of the little Layla s swarmed over me… soothing me till I calmed down.”

Then, one by one, they came forward and articulated their version of this event.  Numb, I listened.  Finally, one handed me a bound summary of their thoughts and recommendations.  I thanked her and timidly accepted it.

After a while I got myself back together again and thought ‘Nally.  I must say sorry to dear Nally right away’.”

I clucked comfortingly at her “there’s no need to apologise to me.  If it helps though… I wholeheartedly accept.  Don’t blame yourself sister.  Don’t let the bastards get you down eh?”

[Layla, radiantly]:
“I’m not overwhelmed… I’m in love again.  Yeah, still in the depths of desolation… but I gained great oomph from this experience.  Those little Layla s fortified me in so many ways.  Look, here are the notes.”

Layla pulled a pad from her pants and turned a page towards me.  There, in the middle of a mind map, and surrounded by squiggles and doodles were a number of bullet points.

• This is how powerlessness feels!  Most important life concern subject to someone’s whim.  And cast aside.  Having nowhere to turn.  No choice but to get on with it.
• Willing to kill to bring back children.  Know it’s a biological instinct but… tut tut… never thought myself capable of that.
• Having done the dirty, understand the impulse to cling onto power and advantage at all costs.  Some just have a job to do.  Find ways to unburden them… redirect their energies.
• ‘Oneness of Humanity’ mantra goes deeper than I’d thought.  Maybe when I put an unknown German bus driver on a par with my children… when I name him Fritz and cajole him… I’ll preach again.
• Hey, there’s a funny side.  Kids weren’t even real.  No children murdered, no planes fell from the sky.  No harm done.
• Like sport, need safe ways to contain destructive inclinations.
• Pippy is amazing. But don’t hold him to it.

[Layla]:
“My head was too far up my arse Nally… but this has helped.  As I said, I feel a much stronger commitment to reality… even if that reality is fuzzier than ever.

Passionately dispassionate.  That’s my go now.  Aim high and have minimal expectations.  Do my best for its own sake.  I feel revitalized.”

Tempting but No
I have to say I didn’t really get it.  However, I prayed her new insights might sustain her for at least a few nights… get her over the hump.  And despite the schizophrenic mumbo jumbo, I had an inkling there was some cause for optimism.  I sensed a hint of Pippy skepticism.

I suggested she might now focus on more natural routes to advance civilization.  Consensus forming options… evolutionary options.  You know… damn hard work.  After all that spiritual spiel I admit being underwhelmed with her irresponsible retort.

[Layla, mischievously]:
“God no, that’s all been tried before.  Haven’t you been listening?  I was prepared to authorize mass slaughter to reset my biological clock for heaven’s sake.  You think you can wrest power and resources away by appealing to rationality?

Rationality, nationality.  Nah.  Miracles.  Really absurd miracles.  And outstanding sporting prowess.  That’s what’ll get the job done.  I just need to find common purpose with that blasted Pippy… twist his arm… get him to crack a few good ones.”

I capitulated.  Reason no was good here.  Anyway, impudent Layla was my favourite.  I’d missed her.

“Yeah, well, it’s a bewildering time for you, Layls.  Stay with me.  Convalesce at my place.  It’d be like old times.”

[Layla, hey now]:
“I’d really like that!  Let me call Joel and Cath.”

“Oh.  Hasn’t Joel had outlived his usefulness?”

[Layla, quizzically]:
“Noooo.  He’s an idiot but I’ll always love him.  I’ve decided to talk to him and Cath about adoption.  My kids don’t have to have my DNA… I’d love any child I had responsibility for.  One of theirs, someone else’s.  One of yours?  Nally, do you think you could…?”

I couldn’t.  No, no.

[Layla]:
“Okay.  Look, I understand.  You know, I should really go back to Horsham.”

“Yes, your mom… she’ll get you back up and running in no time.”

Gay Abandon
History records she went crazy after that…  unleashing a flurry of bizarre phenomena that had the herd trotting tamely towards today.  I know.  I was the one who stood sternly in ‘Halt!” as they sauntered past me in their stupor. 

“I’ll take my informed and concerned facial furrows over their vapid marshmallow moo-iness any day. “

I quoted that quite often.  I needed to re-use it… it had taken an all-nighter to construct.

What was I doing?  Negotiating with my best beloved?  Depriving myself in an attempt to gain some undetermined upper hand?  You have to laugh, don’t you?  No doubt, having borne the brunt of it, grandma’s wrought iron stubbornness is familiar to you all.

No, it’s no laughing matter.  How abhorrent was I?  I didn’t help her and I could have.  I was well aware of her fragile mental health… her tendency to depression.  That tragic day, it was obvious to me she was declining as much as refining.

If you ever get a chance like I had… no… I’m done lecturing you. I. I. I.  I have made mistakes and I am broken-hearted.  Maybe, my loved ones, this story reveals some capacity for love and adventure hidden under my crusty layers.

Today, of course, is Layla Day.  It’s right that World Fed celebrates it. But how distant, mythical and infallible is the creature they present compared to my rendition!  I would love you to be able to judge for yourselves one day.

I have some exciting news.  My dear children and grandchildren, I am to embark on one more exhilarating adventure.  Till I return, let’s just say these next few words have taken a lifetime.

Large moon darknesses near her
Secretly severed from a shadow
Sssshhhh…
Somewhere else

Like
For example
In bank to bank

Leaning her long hair over
To the side of her face looked-down
The my lovely Layla
Dress thigh-clutched
Cold-footsoles the pebbles
Across the bbbbrrrrrr-freezing, rush-trickling, clear-water stream
Quick-splutter-and-splattering

Scurry-limb-climbing and clasping the grass
She falls down in front
Side-winding
To lie back love-laughing
Leg long, Leg bent
Silent Christ
Look!
That body skin is whisked
With brown topping

I am your gran Naledi.  No longer in denial.

Yet another majestic Melbourne morning.  Outside, the heat pleasantly stupefied the city but inside was uncomfortable and oppressive.  I was hot, bothered and ugly.

Did it matter that I’d left my office door open?  It was probably for the best.  Otherwise, I’d have been holed up with a difficult choice to make when that familiar knock came.

Heard it, and then sensed her solid, encompassing presence.  Turned to my right and looked up.  I recall thinking “my neck is exposed… I’m vulnerable”.

Layla.  After a year.

There was a boulder in my stomach.  I’d written some scathing commentary on the lack of progress of her planet project. I anticipated that she’d come to have it out with me.

“Look, I’m really… it’s not a good time, Layla.”

I followed up by torturously shaking my head.  I looked from her to the door and back again.  My shoulders pleaded.  She acknowledged with the saddest smirk.  No, she wasn’t going and no, this wasn’t to be a short-tempered meeting.

[Layla, softly]:
“I’m really sorry to interrupt your day, Nally… but I need to talk to you.”

Needed me?  Joel, Cath… that Sholeh woman… and, no doubt, a host of other players… unavailable?  Having said that, her story wobbled me.

The Inside Story
She’d wandered down from the Royal Women’s.  A clean up after a miscarriage.  Her fourth.  There wouldn’t be a fifth.

Boom.  I clasped my hands into my hair.  I rubbed my eyes, my nose and pressed on my sinuses.

Two miscarriages before we’d hooked up!  It would have been nice to know but I had to let it go.

“Layla” I whimpered.

Drowning with compassion, I stood up and hugged her.  I held on tight.  So did she.  In the clinch I became aware there was three of me.

One part was completely wrung out with worry and concern for this wonderful woman who’d been king hit.  Another was cynical: ‘now that idiot Joel is no good to her she comes skulking back to me’.  And another reveled in the power of my position.

My skull grated on her cheek bone.  Her hair pricked my lips and blocked my nose.  All three of me tried to engage her.

“My God, Layla.  Wasn’t this all prophesied?  All part of the grand plan?”

She’d thought so too.

“How then?”

It could have been the price extracted by the cosmos as payment for the baby ban.  Or the injuries sustained in the assassination attempt.  Or maybe those surgeons had taken out more than bullets.  It might even be down to her earlier harsh training regime.  Or the drugs.  Or the alcohol. Or maybe it’s like you told me Nally, she said, maybe I’m not the same as everybody else.

This was big.  She’d been so certain of her four children.  So many times she’d prattled on to me about her unnatural glimpses of them toddling about, growing up and… now nothing.  I absolutely comprehended her devastation.  Surely, she’d lost her bearings.

“What does Pippy have to say about it?”

A fidgety shrug.

“He might be able to make it right again.  A bit of Pippy magic?”

Painfully, she didn’t consider it likely.  Aaahhh, Pippy had already been consulted.  Yikes.  That must smart.

Magnanimously Overseeing Her Decline
We spent an hour or more leaning into each other.  Saying not much.  Internally though, my trio were in overdrive… each demanding the wheel.  Every now and then I’d regally and decisively wave on an excited passer-by.  I could have closed the door.  I didn’t.

“Is it time to give it away?” I whispered… (Aussie slang seemed appropriate).

I wasn’t expecting an immediate response and didn’t get one.

Yeah, my analysis was correct.  She’d run her course.  No longer potent, no longer feared.  Those powerful interests on all sides had absorbed the impact of her baby ban and figured out how she could be made to compromise…  how she could be harnessed.  Such a shame.  One part of me despised her in this weakened state.

She’d done nothing since I’d met her.  The world conference was good… I would always cherish that experience… but there were no more miracles.  No big hairy ones at any rate.  This latest incident was confirmation that her talents were exhausted.

“Passing the torch on now would be as impactful as anything you’ve done previously.”

I hadn’t been completely anti-Layla.  I’d argued that the unusual circumstances surrounding her coming to prominence had shaken us awake… allowed us to uncrumple some ideas we’d blindly tossed into the too-hard basket.  But I stood behind my judgment that we were better off getting to where we were going under our own steam.

Did I call her a hypocrite once?  I might have.  Can you use stand-over tactics to curtail stand-over tactics?

I’d certainly scoffed at her ‘spiritual dividend’ thesis.  She’d stolen the concept from my ‘Synergy and Momentum’ paper and then mangled it into that 5 or 7 syllable slogan… depending on how lazy her tongue was on any given day.  A syllable per continent.  That’s the right way to describe it.

What errant nonsense.  Someone asked why we should risk hastily ushering in a bland one world everything when we could get more measurable benefits by simply focusing our resources on improving our current systems.

Aaahhhhh, she wasn’t happy with ‘resources’… it implied scarcity… she thought ‘abundance’ was a more constructive basis to bounce from.  Yes bounce.

She recoiled at ‘bland’ anything… who wouldn’t? … did he miss the memo? … teeming diversity mate…  looking all directions… that’s what it’s all about.

And moreover, what really excited her was this ‘spiritual dividend’.  That immeasurable (read fanciful) present that awaited us when we relinquished our bad segregated ways and entered that pleasant fenceless pasture.  Baa.

But that poor man who’d questioned her one world rort… what could he do?  Stirred and offended, Layla had strained herself so femininely and had bulged her white marble eyes out at him with such wild, unbridled beauty that, tumescent, he sat back compliantly and tried to inhale her.

As I stood there gnawing bits of her fresh hair I understood that position.  I understood it as a fantasy that we all lap up.

[Layla]:
“I’ll go on.”

I grimaced.  That was the wrong answer and a cue to rehearse my public statement ‘I saw it coming… yes we were, we were once very close… without wanting to kick her whilst down… I did implore her to retire’.  It wouldn’t have been a lie.  I did sort of say that.

[Layla]:
“Nally, I came here… to say sorry.  I’m sorry I treated you so disdainfully.  I knew full well you wouldn’t accept my involvement with Joel and Cath but I continued on in secret regardless.  It was wrong of me.  I should have respected the conditions you placed on our relationship.”

Oh, now that was healthy.  I really did need to hear that.

“Don’t worry about it Layls.  And… for my part… the things I’ve written… they’re not personal… it’s just my job… to analyze an area where you are the key player.  I hope you can understand that.”

[Layla, affirming]:
“I read all your articles.  They’re brilliant.  So helpful.  I see them as your way of continuing to give me your wonderful guidance despite our… difficult parting.”

‘Why thank you’ implied my shy nod.  I feigned a partial sentence.

“If there’s ever anything I can do to help…”

Something’s Off
Eye to eye now.  She smiled and I was surrounded by her pleasure.  Curiously, though haggard, she wasn’t exhibiting anywhere near enough vulnerability.  Given the flattening circumstances, this journeyman superhero was projecting far too much self-assurance.  It begged the question.

“Layls, you’re coping far better than I would have thought.  Are you taking your meds?”

[Layla, the naughty girl]:
“Oops.  Not as regularly as I should.  Actually, I’ve been trying to cut back.  They affect me.  I’m really glad you put me on to them but I feel I’m strong enough now to pry myself away.”

Oh no.

[Layla, defending my raised eyebrows with faltering but defiant teenage daggers]:
“I’m fine.  My mood’s fine.  I’m exactly how I should be… obliterated with grief… but with a renewed commitment to reality.”

Oh yeah?

The purple veined clouds, moody and beautiful, prompted me to pop in.  What I saw through the perspex became even more purpled.

For months after our dissolution the sight of the Elizabeth Tower Hotel, on the corner of Elizabeth and Grattan, evoked anger in me.  I wonder if it’s still there.

I perched myself up high… on the stairwell… seventh floor… looking out upon the dull and drab stage.  I was right.  Nobody could question that… but I felt loss.  It was a colossal moment.  I wasn’t sure whether I loved her or myself the most.  I might say both… but.

I had seen her dally in this spot.  Now, I scanned slowly left to right… from the Royal Melbourne Hospital, past my office at Melbourne Uni and further on to the Royal Women’s Hospital.  These were sites of major trauma for her.  It defied all logic why she would have picked this place.  Why couldn’t she see that?

Strained

I had resolved to confront her at Tiba’s that night but had been distracted… for various reasons.  There was never a good time.

For example, Collingwood lost their next two fixtures so badly it was apparently beyond belief.  Outside Etihad Stadium… the din from the first debacle against St. Kilda still vexing her… she’d sworn off footy for good.  Still, the following Saturday, we found ourselves watching the catastrophe against Carlton from our couch.  She was mournful and distressed.  I was bursting to bring up my issue but wanted to do it when she wasn’t so volatile… to optimize the possibility of a constructive outcome.

Collingwood’s form wasn’t encouraging.  It exhausted me.  Thankfully, a comfortable win against a second string West Coast outfit broke the bad streak and returned her to a jauntier outlook.  As she bobbed and hummed along to the club song I decided this was the right time and readied myself.

Here, Take This

“Layla, do you think… I mean… am I in any danger?”

[Layla, mid-hum, reflected]:
“Ah yeah, there’s a bit of that alright, Nally.  Look, I’m sorry, I should have been much clearer at the start.  It was selfish of me.

[leaning to me reassuringly]  It’s not a guarantee… but hey, I’ve made efforts to keep you safe.”

That surprised me… nicely.

“Like what?”

[Layla, discretely]:
“Those toasted vegemite sandwiches I make you for breakfast… Pippy said the vegemite would thwart attacks… up to and including bomb blasts.  But don’t throw caution to the wind…  Pippy doesn’t always get it perfectly right.”

You’d have to agree that was a worrying statement… and not just because I’d been a bit hit and miss with the vegemite toasties of late [more a marmalade lady].  I searched her face intently.  Well, she seemed straight enough.  No hint of levity.  A bit jowly even.  Okay… been intent long enough.  Who knows… it may be that, like many Australians, she believes in vegemite’s restorative and protective properties.  I should semi-call her on it… to test her.

“Thanks Layls.  I appreciate it.  It’s just… I haven’t fully acquired a taste for vegemite.”

[Layla, slow nodding and with empathy]:
“You’re very welcome.  The vegemite… it takes time.”

Flashing Red Light

Buggar that.  This was ridiculous.  I’d been simmering and had to stretch and yawn to postpone boiling point.

“Did… umm… did Callo forget to eat his vegemite toasties? “

Aaah, that got a reaction.

[Layla, discernibly defensive]:
“Nally… that’s completely different.  Anyway, I never made breakfast for him.”

Of course you didn’t.  That was the epitome of a professional relationship, wasn’t it?  Try this for size.

“And your mates… Joel and Cath… do they munch down on your vegemite as part of their staple diet.”

That crudely brought her to a halt.

[Layla]:
“I… don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what I mean Miss Simmons.  Elizabeth Tower Hotel.”

Layla on mute.

“I mean, c’mon, it’s where I work.  I walk right past it… everyday.  You were shitting on my doorstep.  Who does that?”

Clandestination

Mid-afternoon, walking up Grattan Street on my way back to work, I noticed Joel Underwood, lanky streak of piss, on the other side of the road.  With his wife.  Ah Layla’s Horsham friends, I thought.  How unusual…  I’m sure they remember me.  I hailed them.  To no avail… they’d turned into a hotel.

Feeling foiled, I was about to focus my attention back onto my upcoming lecture when a strikingly attractive 1950’s Hollywood starlet in shades and scarf furtively approached and then entered the hotel from the Elizabeth Street direction.  Yes, it was Layla… superbly disguised… as herself.  I, and the rest of the people at the busy intersection, watched this magnetic siren as she coiled up and up the staircase.  It was a real kick in the guts.

[Layla, concerned, pleading face]:
“I thought you might take it like this.  I was hoping to avoid this situation.”

“Were you really?  A Miss Simmons… YOU… booked the same room five times in the last three months.  Five times since we’ve been together.  You’re a cheat, a hypocrite.”

I was hoping, guilty or not, she’d attempt some plausible explanation that demonstrated our relationship was sacrosanct to her.  Then, solaced, I could hug her and, sobbing, chastise her.  I’d scold that perception was tremendously important and she shouldn’t put herself in a position where dirty conclusions could be so easily drawn.

[Layla]:
“Nally, I love you… I do.   But Joel and Cath are very special to me too.  We’re trying to have a baby.”

A boybee.  Aaw, how sickening.

Flabbergasted

My intention was to put this ordeal behind us by bringing it out into the open, her apologizing and me establishing new ground rules.  Wasn’t going to happen but I felt myself, on autopilot, going through the motions.

“Nah.  Nah.  You can’t do that.  Look, if you can commit to breaking ties with the Underwood’s… and whomever else you share affections with… well we can take… little steps… to… you realize this is completely unacceptable behaviour?  You’re not treating me well.  Can you commit to what I said?”

[Layla]:
“I kinda suspected you wouldn’t happy.  But Nally, I’d love you to be part of bringing up a family with me.  Give it a try.  I’ll invite them over.”

“Oh no you won’t.  I won’t.  Now, can you commit or not?”

It was clear she couldn’t.  I mean… what kind of person is she?  I shook my head before her.

“What can I say?  Unbloodybeleevable… that’s how you put it, isn’t it?  Then again, Layls, you are not like us are you?”

It was like I laid waste to Layla.  Nalleeee, she moaned.  Not so happy now, eh?  Welcome to my world.

“Hey, I’m not being nasty to you.  It’s just a fact… you are different.  Even physiologically… you are incredibly dense.  150kg?  With your height and build?

It’s no stretch to suggest an emotional and moral difference too.  I wasn’t prepared, that’s all.

I mean… WE struggle… but YOU… how can I put this?  It’s a bit like you’ve volunteered to paint a prison cell… you agonize over the colours, poor you… but it’s we who are stuck there as you move on to the next cell… to the next project… a different design perhaps.

It’s not like some Callo’s going to come back from the dead to apologise to me.  See the difference?

And let’s pray for everyone’s sake that it’s Cath’s babies you miraculously have and not that buffoon Joel’s.”

We were finished.  I left right away brushing aside all her desperate, clutching appeals.

Nally Through The Looking Glass

Yes, it was a colossal moment for me on that Elizabeth Tower Hotel stairwell.  I was flooded with feelings.  I had entertained a thought where I’d book their room… lie on their bed and ponder the pungent hydraulics of the trio.  Hmm, the thought was too repulsive.

Why, with so many suburban nooks and crannies, did she hold the affair here in full view of her past, present and future?  Obviously, she didn’t understand what was in store for her.  She didn’t join the dots.

What a panoramic view.  Looking down on her life trials I felt tremendously dominant.  I felt bigger than her… felt my knowledge superseded hers. I relished being in this position where I could see the clear geographical line that pinpointed a great distress, then another and another.  I had recovered the agency she had extracted from me.  But I was talking to the wrong person… me.

I now realise that the line I drew on the stairwell wasn’t dead straight.  But it was so attractive I couldn’t shake it.  After her disappearance I quietly but assertively directed detectives to Ruffey Lake Park in Doncaster… she often walked her dog there and, extending my line to cater for the years that had passed, it matched.

When she wasn’t found there I’d said “Oh well, I’m glad we’ve ruled it out.”  but privately thought they hadn’t looked hard enough.

That finished it.  Layla, bewildered and exasperated, pressed her fists to her hips and snorted.  Shaking her head in disbelief, she continued:
“Nally… isn’t that about enough?  Insensitive.  Really insensitive.

Thank goodness… here comes the coffee.  Let’s just enjoy it.”

I’d given Layla’s horrific ‘flatlining’ story some thought and had mined an interesting insight.  Before overpowering the restaurant with the effulgence of my perceptiveness, I had decided to indulge in a little teasing.  To Layla’s horror and hurt, I spent a good five minutes performing antics that mocked her life and death saga.  The possum reference, blurted out and accompanied by my strangled face, was the coup de grâce.

[Me, with the most taunting mea culpa face I could muster]:
“Sorry Layla.  A wee bit mean, I know.  But admit it… there’s a funny side.”

No confession forthcoming.  Her turning body language emphatically repelled the notion there might be some comedic value in her ordeal.  Disengaged, she curled behind her coffee steam.

I’d demoralized her.  It was evil but I reveled in the surge of superiority.  Victorious, I could now be soothing.

“Hey you, I’ve got great news.  It’s not true.  They didn’t kill you.  Not even once.”

[Layla, rocked back then winding into an irked impatience]:
“Not permanently… obviously… but…”

I shooshed down her growing agitation.

“No, Layla, no.  It was all a sham.  They just needed you to believe they did it.”

I waited for a sign that my message had sunk in.  Ah, blanching… that was it.

“No, listen, I’ve thought it through.  It’s inconceivable that they could have risked you dying during some ghastly experiment.  If you died… then whatever the impact on the baby ban… whoever gained would be accused of skullduggery… there’d be a world war.

And even if they were prepared to take that gamble… they would never trust each other to cooperate honestly.  They’d be complicit in a fraud though.

Yes, they made it up to freak you out.  And I think it worked.  They planted the message that they had control of your life and death and that they were close to overturning your miracle.  It was a negotiation technique.”

[Layla]:
“Hmmm… the Estonian, the Russian… I’m certain they weren’t lying.”

“They weren’t.  They were scammed too.  Get a whistle-blowing type… the Estonian doctor… and someone who values process over people… the Russian… and let them tell their stories.  Absolute credibility.”

[Layla, contemplating]:
“Maybe.  Maybe.  I did give some ground.”

She returned to looking at me.  As we engaged I nodded knowingly.  Come on Layla… you must be miffed.  I sang to myself ‘Cos I figured it ow-at…  I figured it ow-at… be-fore youuuuu.’

[Layla, her cogs settled]:
“Bastards!  Wow, what a bluff.  Well, if you’re right [I am, I said], let’s hope that collaborative spirit can be channeled into tenacity… to build the world structures they’ve agreed to.  You’re so smart, Nally.”

Bask.  I am pretty smart.  How about we call it a draw, Layls.  Each of us brings something to this relationship.  Feeling worthy and pleased with myself, we got up to go and began to amble contentedly through the tables.

Suddenly, like a clap, Layla swung an abrupt ‘Boo!’ at a muscle man.  The young lad with the crew cut startled and spluttered in terror… his Lebanese sausage cushioning a gory clash between fork and cheek.  Layla, having only briefly broken stride and heedless to the consequences of her action, was already out of the dining area.  The owner was waving her away… ordering her to not even think about paying.

Tailing her, I remember being alarmed and shaken at the violence of her boo.  It was predatory.  It was mean.  I felt concern for the humiliated agent who was left to pat down his embarrassment. ‘Oh, be top bitch if you need to’ I scowled as we broke back into Sydney Road.

I guessed maintaining an aura of infallibility went with the unaccountable superhero territory.  How childish.  This wasn’t good for her.  Unchecked, it would be her undoing.  This was another thing I could help her with if she’d just let me.

“What was that about?”

[Layla]:
“That’s Gilberto.  He was one of my minders.  He killed Callo.”

Sure.  And he’s still walking the streets… and they put him on Layla duty.  Likely.  This is going to be for you own good.  You can’t get away with this preposterous recasting of reality.

“Callo?  He was your biographer right?  You must have been close.  You haven’t talked about him.  If you ever want to?”

[Layla]:
“Oh thank you, Nally.  Thanks for your concern.  But, look, I’m coping well.  I’ve squared away everything on the Callo front.

Sorry about the Gilberto thing.  It was misplaced anyway.  My beef isn’t with him.  He was ordered to do it.  But it’s kind of hard to foster a hearty friendship with someone who has attempted to kill you.  I look at him, Nally, and it’s not in his eyes.  He doesn’t understand that he did the wrong thing.”

Oh no.  I wasn’t going to let her shift the goal posts.  I had to ask.

“Did you have a relationship with Callo… like ours?”

Layla said a quiet, tired “No, Nally.”

“I didn’t.”  She lingered.

Former quarrels, fit and battle suited, surrounded us… ready to pounce at the merest beckon.

[Layla, wearily]:
“Never with Callo.  I liked him… as an uncle.  There were rumours about us… that’s what you’ve heard, right?  I think he started them.  Look… oh Nally… does it bother you that much?”

I felt like saying “not at all… a ball park count of your liaisons would help though”.  Instead, I shrugged noncommittally and we boarded the tram to Coburg.

Usually, I got immense enjoyment from the vicarious attention that Layla attracted on public transport.  That nights’ travel was dull and empty for me.  It seemed that way for her too.  Her acknowledgment of greetings and signing of autographs was flatter and less colourful than normal.  Eventually, we disembarked and tapped our way home over the suburban pavements.

[Layla, weighing while walking]:
“I met him in a Horsham pub.  He was under duress and I helped him out.  He was very grateful… groveling.  Sicko… fan… tic.  [sorry face]

I was never attracted to him physically but I did get off on his flattery.  And he was always around… part of my group.”

There.  That wasn’t so hard was it?

Turned out Layla had spoken to her closest friends about her shooting and subsequent abuse.  They were irate and many decided to keep watch on her.  Callo had been the first to step forward.

“Gilberto cut his throat, Nally.”

But not before he yelled out to warn of the imminent attack.  Layla had been evacuated.  Then, as Callo gargled, Gilberto doused him in petrol and set him on fire.  Driving off, she could see the flames rolling about on the ground.”

“I don’t understand, Layls.  Why isn’t Gilberto in jail?”

[Layla, shriveling up that nose]:
“Well, apparently, after being given water, Gilberto talked.  He revealed that he was acting on behalf of a faction within the East Timorese government.”

“East Timor?”

[Layla]:

“Yeah, it’d be a hard one to pick.  It was officially denied, of course.  Anyway, one of the many stupid agreements I made… to keep the WCA process rolling along… was not to pursue the matter as long as Gilberto was given the same free pass.”

“Surely Callo deserved justice?”

[Layla]:
“That was my initial reaction, Nally.  I wanted revenge.  What Gilberto did was gruesome.

But then, on the night of his funeral, before going to wherever we go, Callo came and spoke to me.  And after that… seeing him painless and carefree… well, Callo didn’t seem too bothered with Gilberto so my zeal for retribution waned.

Now, they rub my nose in it by having Gilberto stalk me.  If I had the time over I’d work harder to make sure Gilberto and the East Timorese government… and all the governments and dictators… faced their consequences.”

I noted that I could help her improve her decision making process.  She’d relate to flowcharts.  But first…

“So how was Callo?  Was his speech impaired by his injuries at all… or his lack of life?”

Layla stalled long enough to laugh.  Then, cheekily, she grabbed my arms.

“No, but seriously Nally… you’ve got to listen to this… I’ve never told anyone.”

Enter the spirit of brave Callo, unsullied by his recent physical trauma, with the beam of a hero.  Layla thanked him for his sacrifice.  Proud, his glow intensified.   Then, his demeanour turned to solemn embarrassment.

He confessed how “inappropriate… no… indecent… no… depraved” he had been towards her one night as she slept.  Yep, he spilled his guts on the whole semen smearing incident.  He had lived with the guilt that he had betrayed her friendship and trust.  Now, he felt, was a good time to clear the air.

“It’s pretty sordid isn’t it?  What’s worse is that I was awake and aware.  I squinted through my lashes.  I didn’t dare move; it was too awkward… and icky.

I told him this.  He was flabbergasted that I knew and blabbed that he’d felt terrible after.”

Don’t worry about it, Callo, she said.  She understood.  She wasn’t at risk.  Being a table-turner, she was the one with the power.  Of course, if he’d done it to some other girl it would have been worse.  We’ve all done things we’d like to take back.

Result.  With his beam back again Callo headed off.  We’re all square then, he said, clapping his hands.

“I called out to him. Oh Caaaalllooooo, should I pass on a message to your family?”

“Err, the family… yes, yes.  I love them always and can’t wait to meet them… at their right time of course.  I did good… right Layla?”

“Look, I didn’t answer, Nally.  I let it slide.”

“That’s disgusting.  Despicable.  What a pervert.  And what a selfish prick.  He had no thoughts for his grieving family.  Good on Gilberto for giving him his comeuppance.

Layla, you should have done something.  Who knows how many other women he performed his sick acts on?”

[Layla]:
“I wasn’t sure what to do.  If I opened my eyes we could never be friends again.  On the other hand, we were never the same again anyway.  Nally, I don’t think he was likely to menace other people.

No, I’m glad I didn’t dob him in.  All in all, we were good friends and hearing him make an honest confession was a relief to me but, yeah, I’m still dazed and disappointed at his blinkered self-concern.”

“I’m not convinced.  If you see that level of loathsome behaviour you have to do something… for everyone’s sake… even the perps’.“

[Layla, rolling her eyes]:
“Jeez, you sound just like Pippy.  Look, you’re probably right… you’re a lot smarter than me.

We’d come to a stop outside the door of her dump.

[Layla, sincerely sorry and concerned]:
“Nally, you are a wonderful person.  So clever, so beautiful.  I want you to know that I hang on your every word.  If I’ve given you the impression that I don’t value your knowledge and ideas… well I didn’t mean to.”

She’d figured out that I’d been narky all day.  Mismanaged, the situation would balloon out of control.  She was looking for a pin to prick it or, failing that, anything that would let the air out.  She’d tried sharing secrets; she’d tried looking for empathy.  Now, she was trying to butter me up.

“And I promise to clean up my mess.”

The mess… yes.  Now we were getting closer.  I very deliberately showed her my best perhaps face. She had a good idea what the real issue was but immediately clambered onto my olive branch.

[Layla, with a wink]:
“Eh, this is not a flat land but a bumpy country.”

That might not mean much to you but, to me,  it held out much promise.  I could do with a good bumpy ride in the country.  I put my baggage to one side till the morning.

However, Layla had buried some things way below the surface. Often a little prodding was needed to expose them. A few weeks after that special General Assembly meeting, I acquired a less romantic view of her global enterprise.

I’d gotten over my puppy awe enough to initiate an argument. In the morning I’d screamed at her for leaving her mess around everywhere. She wore a pained expression but didn’t retaliate. She said she’d clean up later but had to go now. Her meek reaction gave me no chance to discharge my anger. I left for work still fuming.

That day, I slaved away at the lecturing coalface as she swanned around fulfilling her superhero obligations. She texted me suggesting we hook up for dinner at Tiba’s. K.

We liked Tiba’s… a Lebanese restaurant on Sydney Road. Good food and, for me, an exempted fascination… observing the patrons disappear behind a partition for their compulsory prayer.

Layla had a perplexing habit of turning up to our baba ghanoush and tabbouleh feasts “in disguise”. That evening, her cunning camouflage consisted of over-sized sunglasses and a black beret that bulged with her squashed hair. How exhausting! What a joke. It was just like those idiot elephants who thought Tarzan wouldn’t recognize them with their ray-bans on.

As she dallied over the menu (which never changed Layla, it never changed… and neither did your order), she noted how busy the place had got and how fortunate it was that we came when we did. Paralyzing… the level of gullibility this woman could emit. Economic interests, natural curiosity and your pathetic attempt at anonymity… that’s why we got lucky sweetheart.

Tiba’s always kept a table available just in case their bonanza turned up. Away from the window too! This windfall wasn’t reliant on passing traffic catching a glimpse.

No, the remaining tables were swiftly occupied in pursed-lip stand-offs between hurriedly SMS’d staff acquaintances and those intense, harsh-looking young men in solid suits that inevitably materialized in Layla’s wake.

Wake? Layla? She bobbed about heedlessly in her dream world. Doesn’t everyone see that we’d all have been much better off if I had done the One World thing and not her?

Her masquerade was completely ineffective but at least people recognized it as a mangled appeal for privacy. We were rarely approached at Tiba’s. Except by children of middle-eastern appearance… and we loved that… they were fun.

Alright, I was still prickly from the morning. My intellectual indignation… maybe a touch exaggerated. A soft, kneading touch… that’s what I really had in mind. You see, it was easy to feel outshone by scorching La La. I wanted to bring more than my black booty to the relationship.

I was sometimes over-protective and over-compensated. Maybe applied my post-doctorate logic and reasoning powers a little forcefully… I nagged. A pity… because I cherished those Tiba times together.

Anyway, I was riled up and ready to prod. These secretive suits were a good stick to start with. Our place in Coburg was under continuous observation. Either that or a lot of business was conducted in parked cars on our street. Definitely, our phone was bugged… there were always delays and strange background noises. Between that and the dining experiences I was feeling edgy. I put it to her.

“Layla, you know they are always watching. Who are they? I want to know.”

[Layla, wryly]:
“They… are our protectors, Nally.”

Turned out Layla wasn’t nearly as green as I’d made out. Her shabby disguise and those stern men in suits who suffocated our meal times were elements of a tenuously adhered to compromise.

After numerous assassination attempts and a falling out with the WCA elites, she decided to impose some boundaries. Immediately after her appearance on “Up Close, It’s Personal”, she had summarily ditched her posse of bodyguards and moved back into the Coburg basement.

[Layla]:
“As soon as I saw you I decided to make the change.”

I could feel my anger diffusing but needed more than this morsel. Warily, she continued.

The heads of the numerous government and non-government agencies that had somehow assumed responsibility for her safety were alarmed at this turn of events. In response to their wailing, Layla had offered to work with them on minimizing her public conspicuousness as long as they kept their distance.

[Layla]:
“As you can see, they kind of comply. That incivility infuriates me. So I disguise myself alright… in the most blatant manner possible. It drives them mad. You watch… I’m going with a big red nose and a beard tomorrow.”

“Layla… they may be dickheads but doesn’t this game put you at risk?”

[Layla, astonished I didn’t already know]:
“They ARE the risk, Nally.”

Layla recounted how, early on in the piece, the WCA and a panicked Australian government had urged that she surround herself with teams of internationally selected “close protection officers”. She was moved out of Coburg and into a larger, more secure environment that could accommodate this growing contingent of international altruism.

She learned through the grapevine that a number of global powers were actively pondering “Hmmm, if she was killed”. Some, believing in that event “the spell could NEVER be lifted” sent their best security agents. Others, feeling that “her spell would be broken” had sent assassins.

It was a fluid situation. Powers changed their minds. It was impossible to know if a bodyguard’s current mission was to kill or keep alive. Made for a tense work-place. The WCA advised Layla to keep stumm about this strained situation until everyone had been coaxed to the table.

[Layla]:
“I did keep stumm… but not for their benefit. I was incensed. I wanted to look them in the eyes and dare them to try something. I was too smug… over-confident.”

After a series of botched efforts, an Australian born attacker finally caught her with her guard down. Hosting a poker master class for her minders, her radar had been distracted. Using the commotion that followed one chap filling a full house on the river, the hit man shot her in the back six times… before being taken out himself.

Only a select few people knew that, in a critical condition, our Layla was airlifted to a special section of the Royal Melbourne Hospital. For five weeks, she lay in an induced coma under the care of another international team… this time comprising surgeons, anaesthetists and various other theatrical roles. She pulled through.

Wow, gunshots… that caught my attention. I’d seen her back… I’d touched her back. The damage, though healing well, was extensive. Hah, so it wasn’t a particularly unlucky pole vaulting accident. I was beginning to reel from this newly discovered violent reality. Until.

[Layla]:
“Yeah, it certainly affected me negatively. And it puts a question mark over my ability to return to top class sports.”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

[Layla, admonished and shifty]:
“Look, I was deeply embarrassed at being got. There were more attempts, of course, but I’m a lot better prepared now. Really, I am.”

I re-raised that eyebrow. I couldn’t let her escape the gravity of this revelation.

“Oh Layls, it’s obvious you haven’t come to terms with the trauma yet. You need to unburden yourself. Talk to me.”

[Layla, emotionally]:
“I’m mad at them, Nally. All of them.

At first, I couldn’t understand why they let me survive. Three of the surgeons they’d flown in were from countries that had tried to kill me. It would have been so easy for them to finish the job off.”

“They love you, Layls. Rogue elements… that’s who wanted to kill you.”

[Layla, shaking her head with certainty]:
“Quite the opposite. They were all in on it. Probably the most collaborative action world leaders have ever willingly participated in. Yeah, all united to nullify me… their common threat.”

[Me, puzzled]:
“That can’t be right?”

During her recovery, she was approached by an Estonian doctor who’d been part of the team. He said they’d been ordered to instigate her controlled death. Then bring her back again. Over and over. Finally, there were told to fix her up.

[Layla]:
“Treated like meat. Nally, I have never felt so sunken worthless. I couldn’t grasp it. Where was Pippy?”

She had to get onto the front foot. She confronted the political leaders and suggested there would be consequences. They all denied responsibility and pointed her to the Brisbane office of a United Nations employee… a middle-aged Russian man. It was all his idea, they’d barked dismissively.

She was amazed at the Russian’s composure… at his matter-of-factness… with her, the disgruntled deathee, right there in the room with him. He set about describing ‘the project’ with a confident air of accomplishment.

As soon as it was learned Layla was in critical condition, an emergency meeting of the major nations had been hastily arranged. Here, they continued their heated dispute as to whether her imminent death would restart conception or prevent it completely. Certainly, her being in a coma hadn’t helped any.

The Russian, having bided his time, addressed the meeting. He acknowledged the importance of the question but felt there was no need for it to be a point of difference between nations. Rather than antagonize each other with ill-founded speculation, they should run a test that would provide the answer.

A Test? Was that possible? Miraculously, there was universal agreement. And a standing ovation… and back slapping. Because he’d been silly enough to step forward, the Russian was appointed project manager. His job… figure out if conception restarts on the decease of Layla Parkin.

This was tremendous pressure… he’d been given only one day to plan it all and ensure the resources were ready to roll. Same old story… they always want everything done right now. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end. It was pretty much a one man show… he even had to specify the success criteria all by himself. This wasn’t just a case of Yes/No you know… there had to be a back out option if conception didn’t kick in.

He gleefully explained the iterative and incremental approach he had developed despite oppressive constraints. A top-notch medical team would provide biological services… a controlled death and a controlled resuscitation. Hundreds of labs, all over the world, were filled with reproductive resources… couples and test-tubes. The scientists could observe the results and apply whatever theories they had been working on to help conception along.

It was a logistical nightmare. It took two days to get onto the starting grid. Naturally, this was viewed as overrun and he got a right royal dressing down. You can’t please these people.

When the flag fell, it was very exciting. Once the medical team had confirmed death… the labs went for it. They only had a twenty minute window. The first run was a practice to fine-tune procedures and get them into the swing of things.

In all, they executed this process eight times over a week and a half. No conception. He congratulated Layla on the robustness of her work. He assured her that he took his responsibility to stakeholders seriously… and he included her as one.

After six rounds, the medical team informed him that the risk of resuscitation failure had risen from 2 to 20%. He immediately informed the project board that the risk outweighed the potential reward. Against his advice, they insisted that the testing continued. They wanted to do a ninth too… but he pulled the plug… literally. It contaminated the controlled environment.

He used the down time to convince his superiors that results suggested it was highly probable that the answer was ‘conception could never restart’ and to continue any further with the test would likely drop them into that irrecoverable situation. That got through to them. It was all about risk management.

[Layla]:
“I felt very dirty, Nally. I was in shock. This man… I think he wanted me to praise him for his diligent work. He thought he saved my life.

Each country had full control of their labs. That Estonian doctor told me there was never a chance a lab would report actual results in case it helped other labs. He knew an Estonian lab that had managed a limited amount of conception after four rounds. That lab begged the Russian to halt testing. Of course, this was solely to prevent the other labs succeeding.”

“I’m sorry Layls. That was a terrible ordeal. But now that you lifted the baby ban… it’s back to normal right? There’s no more advantage in killing you?”

[Layla]:
“And there’s no reason not to either. See, they’re still hanging around. It’s better to be conspicuous.

Look, that episode really knocked me about, Nally. The sleeping in that you give out to me about? I’m not lazy, I’m not asleep. I’m just so stressed that it takes me a while to get myself together… to put my face on. I’ve never admitted that to anyone before.”

And I’d never thought of her as vulnerable before… or possessing anything but irrepressible confidence. I felt our relationship equalizing right before my eyes.

“Well, I think someone deserves the last falafel. Our little talk, Layls… I think it’s been helpful, yeah?”

[Layla, leaning forward with a wicked smirk]:

“This… this is all about you, isn’t it?”

That was only a little unfair. So, I smiled warmly and held the lady’s fingers as lovingly as I could. I made no mention at all of being on a ninth life. Yikes.

I looked around. Hey, it wasn’t that bad for her. The chefs; the waitresses; the praying and non-praying customers. It looked like we were going on with our business but we were watching keenly nonetheless. They were on notice. We outnumbered those suits and we had access to knives, forks and sharpened kebab sticks. I reckon we would have taken them if they’d make any advances.

But, BAM, what a debacle. I couldn’t believe it’d come to this. Was there foul play? I don’t know but I was sure we had let her down. Okay, I… had let her down.

In those desperate, angry moments I succumbed to my biggest character flaw; I lashed out at the world to shift focus from my own failings. It was plain to me she needed help. Despite all I’d gained from my experiences with her, I was negligent.

All of us striped, stray city cats happily clung on to her coattails during the turbulent time. When stability returned, we patronized the hell out of her. Oh, what a burdensome job we had. “In theory, should we trust her?” “Was she good?” “Was she bad?” “Did she want to take over the world?” “Who polices the police policers?” We favoured questions with a low barrier to entry. For a roaring trade, you need the mamas and poppas on board… block all the exits though.

That old saying ‘by their fruits shall ye know them’… it’s a good one. There were enough clues if we’d been of a mind to look for them. Intimidating, yes… threatening no. With all that power she didn’t engender fear, boys. Not in ordinary folk. Instead, she gave us hope. What a change from leaders of all… stripes.

Layla was contortingly radiant… even on her down days. The world changed when she was around. Plusher colours, sharper senses. Feelings would intensify. They’d be your own feelings, not hers. Selfishly or not, I used to love her melancholy. I’d snuggle into her and feel strangely powerful. On top of the world. There, I’ve said it.

But… it could be disconcerting. She appeared to displace the natural order. Situations and people would spontaneously turn odd… bizarre even. I found myself involved in absurd, dream-like scenarios. Once, I was surrounded by a brood of five-year-old girls. All these waifs doted on me, inanely clucking and chuckling at my every movement and utterance. They followed me around like a bridal train. That can’t be normal but that’s what it felt like.

My personality is such that I find comfort in my belief that the universe, and most of human behaviour, is governed by a set of rules… and that I’ve a basic awareness of them. Many times with Layla, I’d be trotting along on my comfort zone gee-gee, showing superb posture. I’d drive forward to jump the wall, when, all coiled and ready to spring, CZ would renege on me and skedaddle off to the side, leaving me to crash through the bricks and land on my backside. Propped up, I’d peer incredulously as CZ’s hefty rump, ungainly gallop and haughty snorting faded further and further into the back of my mind.

Layla was oblivious… no matter how crazy things got. That’s the way life was to her I suppose. In the end, I’d just surrender until programming returned to normal. I love remembering those times. Yes, that’s it. We looked at everything she did as NOT normal. A nice enough distraction before we’d drag ourselves back to reality. Especially that idea that world unity was useful and maybe even achievable. Today, I can’t for the life of me remember why we thought our calibration was the correct one. It’s a remarkable achievement that she shifted our idea of normal so far towards her own.

I’ll get to why my outburst let the cat out of the bag. First though, I have to tell you that I’m a fraud and I have to describe the episode connected to it.

My celebrated dissertation on ethics “Getting out of Bed is the Hardest Part”… it’s not, as my publisher touted, that “definitive victory of reason over impulse… enabling a coherent transition to a post-Layla order”.

It was, in fact, entirely inspired by Layla during an anarchic morning of awe. The graphic boldness that my peers gasped at… merely my eventual embrace of society’s cartoon character. I should have said that at the time but it didn’t align with the marketing message.

Way back then, as luck would have it, I was offered and accepted, an Associate Professorship at the University of Melbourne. Arriving in the city a week before the extended General Assembly meeting, I received an unexpected email from Layla saying she wanted to hook up.

“Melbourne is my alma mater you know. Wouldn’t mind if you took me on a tour though. Unfortunately, didn’t familiarize myself with it well enough when I had the opportunity Now that the eminent Naledi Jacob is here I might just sneek into a few lectures.”

So there I was. University of Melbourne’s South Lawn. Sat waiting on a bench. In the distance I saw her approach down the long path. Coming for me. A shimmering stick figure in the hot haze… progressively morphing into the full-strength confrontation that I was so nervous about. I hoped she wouldn’t see through me. With a complete absence of self-worth I gazed upon her. She’s tearfully beautiful.

“Hi Naledi. So great to meet you at last.”

It is? Phew. We hugged… which was lovely. After some acclimatizing on my part, we got on really well. I was in shared accommodation at a University apartment until I could arrange a more permanent place. Layla had a couple of months left on her Coburg basement lease. She demanded that I move in with her so we could keep each other company.

You know I kind of saved the world? Yeah, yeah. On the opening day of the Layla meeting, as it’s now known, my alarm went off at seven. I turned my neck to see slumbering Layla with her drowsy scowling skin. Funny. On this momentous morning… from this position… I felt privileged and swollen to the point of nausea. It didn’t compute… matching this picture of peaceful, if sullen, inertness beside me with the kind of authoritative power she would be expected to exhibit in the opening address to Presidents and Prime Ministers.

I kissed her lips and whispered “time to get up, Layls. Big day today, eh?” .

“Five more minutes. Gimme five more minutes.”

How cute. I had a shower. She was still in bed when I passed back for a bowl of cereal. ‘Getting up?’ I called out sharply. ‘I’m up.’ she immediately and curtly replied. ‘Alright then.’ I sighed.

I entered the little study and settled myself in front of the computer to read the news. Naturally, it was all about sleeping beauty next door. And it was all good (Yuck, I promised I’d never use that phrase). I heard the alarm yell out again and then get strangled. I assumed she must be up and getting ready. It was after eight when I emerged from my reading reverie… expecting to walk out the door with her. I was astonished to find her still in bed and heedless of how perilously late we were.

I shook her till I was sure she was listening. ‘We have to go right now, Layla. We’ll be late’. Note the ‘we’. Coattails even then. It was a few moments before her quizzical, hostile look quelled.

“Naledi. Hi. Do I have time for a shower?”

She didn’t but she needed one. Layla wasn’t stink… she had rose-tinted pores after all… but Melbourne was in the middle of an extraordinarily warm spell. Hadn’t got below 30C last night.

“Alright. Step in and step out again. Don’t do your hair.”

I had her at the No. 19 tram stop by eight thirty. We were late but, at least, making progress. Yes, absolutely. Friday morning rush hour and we were waiting on a tram to get us to the most important meeting in the history of the world. Trundle, trundle, stop. Trundle, trundle, stop. Ludicrous, a few leaves on the track could have scuppered world peace for months.

Goodo, we’re off. Security had evacuated large swathes of the CBD that day but, even here at the beginning of the line, we were lucky to get a seat.

Layla, on the wane? No, just a mite grumpy and trance-like initially. I suspected she was punishing me for severing her umbedical cord. Hah, she’d get over it.

Donato! Must be meds day at the Brunswick clinic. That explained the crush. Melbourne public transport was ten per cent insane at the best of times. Today, there would be no asylum from the battiness. Only protection was to maintain a steady look of bemusement. With Donato though, there was an upside.

A reality-challenged old man of unkempt and wild appearance, Donato reveled in his role as itinerant barista. Concealed about his person were a number of flasks… sufficient to service the diverse tastes of his clandestine commuting client base… Melbourne’s human beans. Superb line of crockery too.

“Bella ragazza, cappuccino for you this morning? For perfetto regina, an Expresso Americano, I think. What a charmer! He ornated a little chocolate flower on top of mine. Coffee! That did the trick. Perkier Parkin.

Seriously, it was pure slapstick all the way… as we shunted along Sydney Road, Royal Parade and Elizabeth Street. In retrospect, it was not surprising that the silliness began as we approached Batman Station stop. Yes, Batman. Batman is a very important figure in Melbourne history. I’m not making it up. Although, it’s never as simple as it sounds.

Helicopters tut-tutting overhead… news vans nuzzling our tram and poking cameras into it. They didn’t observe tram etiquette either. They pulled up beside us at stops and the driver had to remonstrate with them to maintain their distance behind… so that people could get off and on. No problem. They just got on. And then, to an unlikely applause, they got booked by the ticket police. (It was no joke either. I’d forgotten to get tickets too but, mercifully, they didn’t ask).

Each stop the driver had to ask the question: Anyone for Barkly Square? Or Melbourne Zoo? University anyone? Vic Market? Must be someone for Vic Market? No takers. Once a passenger became aware of the extraordinary circumstances they had stumbled upon, they were in for the long haul. The tram was like a bag of nails… riddled with interlocking limbs. The poor man couldn’t bring himself to look at the people, many of them regulars, who sought to get on the packed vehicle by clattering on its closed doors.

All we needed to top it off was Yusuf Islam to start up a round of “Peace Tram”. I know… corny word play… but that’s what went through my mind and that’s what happened! Yusuf, originally planning to spend his day at the legendary IISCA centre on Michael Street, had been keeping to himself on the seat opposite.

Suddenly, his demeanour changed and he reached for his back pack. Bodies hurriedly backed away giving him enough space to extract a miniature guitar and launch into the folk favourite. We shook our shoulders to the rhythm… and hummed. Yusuf pointed to each of us in turn, round-robin style, to belt out the vocals. I had private hopes she couldn’t sing… thems were dashed.

At the end of Elizabeth Street, this entanglement of humanity gingerly disembarked and headed for Flinders Street Station. There, we were motioned through the security perimeter. Our motley procession of rags and penguin suits swaggered along Flinders Street and turned right into Batman Avenue (honest guv’nor) till we attained our destination… the Rod Laver Arena.

As we entered the specially constructed auditorium, the tram load of us detached from diva Parkin and took possession of some pews on the periphery. An anxious UN Secretary, struggling to articulate yet another historic sounding sentence during the thirty minute overrun, was interrupted by our tumult. Relieved, he immediately and eagerly introduced the lady of the moment.

Afforded her customary rousing reception, Layla sauntered down the cat-walk to the podium, poised and delightful. Her bed head of tangled hair, menacingly alluring. Her MY mandarin blouse (open at the belly button) fashionably fetching.

That first sight of her was the signal for the tremendous anticipation that had built up around the world to be ecstatically released. Inside, we quickly quieted as the scary bellow from the city crowd outside reached us. On screens, we could see the hysterical reaction from venues through-out the globe.

In my heart, I cradled my family… far away in Cape Town… watching this unfold. Ostrich or ostracize… let bygones be bygones. I thought of the silent euphoria of those billions observing alone or in small groups. And I thought of you. As if consumed in a fiery crucifixion, my brain and body, overstrained with elation, dissolved. Whatever was left… spiritual me maybe… floated round a happy pole.

Not so transformed though… that I could avoid feeling responsible for that crumb of crusty sleep hanging from our darlings eye. As she shaped to make a very brief statement… aargh… I threw up my meaty spiritual palms and slapped my ethereal forehead in horror.

Minutes later, with the ruckus subsiding, she posed the following question to the distinguished assembly.
“Welcome to Melbourne. Hot enough for you?”

Beautiful. We’d paid to hear more but who cares? I was spinning. Now, whenever I see a ‘Welcome to Melbourne’ sign… I fall in a heap. I leaned over to Donato and whispered “Batman never achieved any of this, eh”.

[Donato, puzzled]:
“But Batman didn’t have superpowers. Did what he could. All any of us can do, right? It’s not a competition, young lady.”

Oops. Donato stealthily drew out his chequered flask followed by a ‘couple of cups, mate’. Awkwardly, and a magnet for suspicion, he checked the vicinity as he topped us up. “Not enough to go round”. The Chancellor of Germany pretended not to notice.

Aah, unsurpassable moments. But back to that cat.

In Reply to the Complaining Cats
Re: Can’t something be done about that clanging racket?

Striped, stray city cats
Bask for a tan
In a rubbish canned alley
Early

There’s a propped up sway in that alley-way
When lady lifts a lid
Discards and walks away

Yaaaawn, it’s invigorating
This damp tingling freshness
Hey, when it’s not -
You can put me on your guest list

Anyway,
The genes of him and Layla Simmons
Have nourished three generations of kittens

This is a dead and invalid issue

What was she on about? Who was she on about? Not us, we can tell you that. We’re quite smart; we figured she was livid and gave her some grieving space.

She was a close friend. This Participant seems to have moved into Laylap territory. Know what we mean? Is that what Layla would have wanted?