Layla sat squat and shut down on a Yarra riverbank bench.  Her dark eyes funneling ant activities.

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.”

She’d gone stale… begun to doubt the relevance of this world unity push.  All around her… atrocious, selfish behaviour.  She was edging towards ‘fuck em, they’re not worth the bother… none of them’.

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.

“Oh, hello.”

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?

Perplexing

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.

“Possum Parkin.”

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.

Being lovers, we shared our thoughts, feelings and experiences generously.

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.

No. She wouldn’t have wanted that at all. She’d wince ‘too much information’. I regret doing it now. No doubt, I’ll regret doing this even more.

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.

Soon after the formal announcement that we had lost contact with Layla, Naledi Jacob splashed this diatribe all over the Stream.

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?

“Layla, you don’t seem much chastened… given the failure of your fiat.”

Fiat? As confused as the rest of us, Sandy Hunt’s wheels squealed and he momentarily considered chucking a ewey. Had Layla succumbed to her inner auto as well?

No. Naledi Jacob, a smart philosophy professor from the University of Cape Town, was referring to the fact that a very small number of women continued to fall pregnant.

[Naledi]:
“Let me quote what you said:

‘Until that meeting there will be no conception… no new babies.’

Well, that’s been proven false.”

[Layla]:
“Yeah, look, I find it bizarre that a trickle is still getting through. I’m a bit fuzzy on the details but I understand that there are just a few thousand cases per continent… a 99.99 per cent drop in what would be expected… hardly failure Naledi.”

[Naledi, cheekily cheerful]:
“I agree… in part. What really intrigues me is … why… why is your miracle not absolute?”

[Layla]:
“I don’t know. It could be me. I’m far from perfect.

Then again, it might not be a blemish. I have this theory. Maybe this miniscule rate of failure, or falsity as you might call it, is actually additional information… sort of a sign piggy-backing on my miracle confirming the oneness of humanity. All the analysis has shown no bias towards any slice or dice of the population… be it wealth, culture, religion, geography or race. It’s just random… governed by statistics. It’s affecting everyone the same.”

[Naledi]:
“Oh I think you’ll find there’s a strong gender bias. Still, it’s a novel way of looking at it and I’m reassured that you have reflected on the situation. If you are right, though, that extra freebie has had a detrimental effect on those unfortunate people who managed to somehow bypass your injunction.

It’s reported that many of these women, and the men where they could find them, have been subjected to the most ruthless testing in the hope they might yield up an antidote to your spell. And if these wretched people manage to avoid the evil clutches of the authorities then they have to deal with their communities treating them as lepers and devils. In fear of their own friends, they quietly stay inside… to give birth or more likely to wait for some back-street abortionist. What are these people? Martyrs? For some random cause?

This seems so unnecessary. I think it would be reasonable to view your action as a failure… not based on any petty bivalent logic but because it has introduced more prejudice, divisiveness, even jealousy… behaviours which you are seeking to eliminate.”

[Layla, cheesy grin]:
“Maybe it’s a form of homeopathy?

No, seriously, I’ve been appalled at their treatment. I’ve done what I can to stop it. Spoken on TV. Visited victims. As you say, it’s this type of inhumanity we’re trying to stop.”

[Naledi]:
“And yet the ban remains?”

[Layla]:
“It does. You think lifting it would help those that have been targeted?”

[Naledi]:
“No, but it would prevent further targeting.

Let’s leave that to one side and look now at how you don’t appear to have thought through the consequences. Let me point to the logistical problems associated with the ‘gap’… think, for example, of all the infrastructure surrounding children that is being drastically impacted… health, education, childcare.

Think of the pain for those people who may be on their last chance of IVF. And there has been a dramatic increase in teenage sex and the transmission of STDs.”

Naledi is not Hunt or Melland. Like Layla, Naledi is a beautiful girl. Just 28, she is already one of the most widely respected ethicists in the world.

[Naledi]:
“This situation… I liken it to that of a prep teacher who finds that some of her five-year-olds have been misbehaving. They’ve been bullying the other kids. Her job is to sort it out… to harmonize the playground.

What interests me is the strategy this teacher might employ to bring about some form of resolution. Does the teacher knock the bully’s heads together? Does she force all the kids to shake hands? Maybe she employs a more nuanced approach?

You see, this teacher has a power advantage and is in no danger from the bullies. And she isn’t directly affected by the consequences of her decisions. There would be a great temptation for her to lazily choose the path of least resistance. She might, for example, suspend playtime until everyone signs up to play nicely together.

You are obviously not like us Layla. It’s clear you are not bound by the same constraints. I feel I have to keep an open mind on what constitutes ethical behaviour in your case. Still, I’d like to try to understand your thinking… your strategy? Have you chosen the path of least resistance here?”

Layla’s insides tighten, jarred and offended at the suggestion that she was altogether different to other people. Not nice to be so dismissively excluded. Couldn’t everyone just celebrate her specialness… smiley face? And from Naledi… she admired Naledi.

But there was no point being in denial… Naledi’s comments ground hard into a particularly fertile site of anxiety – her fear that she wasn’t doing the right thing.

[Layla]:
“I have no idea what’s the best thing to do, Naledi. This whole thing was spur of the moment… not meticulously planned. I don’t understand the subtleties of every political situation… that’s why the WCA is doing all the leg work. But I had to do something to kick it off.

This is my attempt to get beyond the limitations of nation states and current power structures without an almighty bloodbath. In hindsight, I’m reassured that no one has been directly harmed… though, as you’ve explained, it’s not been pain-free.

My aim is to give the WCA some space to show their mettle and bring about an implementation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights that can be enforced… under whatever version of global governance they deem appropriate. The WCA weren’t overjoyed with what I did either. They were angry and informed me, pointedly, that my action wasn’t proportional to what they were trying to achieve. But, look, I decided to stick with it. I felt I needed to.”

[Naledi]:
“You rejected their submissions? Do you reject my bullying analogy as well?”

[Layla]:
“Not entirely. Actually, it’s something I can appreciate from my psychology training. I suspect you know this, Naledi… and this is your way of gently guiding me to think in those terms.

I find the idea of a Buddy System for nations quite appealing. I guess Assertiveness Training might work at some level too. Bystander Training? I suppose. Certainly, a set of Restorative Practices sounds very sensible… they’d probably be based on community consultation to seek justice for the victim and rehabilitation for the transgressor.

Then again, all these approaches… they are kind of there already. Unfortunately, there’s no school… no authority to support and enforce these very thoughtful and carefully crafted processes. So the Buddy System ends up as a protection racket.

What the WCA is doing now is setting school policy. Their preliminary proposals cover the various responsibilities that you’d expect a global governing body to address: – global defense capability; environmental action, elimination of poverty, improvements to health and education. There are all manner of wonderful economies of scale too. Government efficiency and effectiveness will to be monitored by an impressive algorithm of checks and balances. Warms the cockles.

Getting back to the bullying scenario. The WCA and their forerunners have had the ability to design a decent global society for some time but they never got much implementation done. I think a more apt analogy for our situation is that a teacher may want to do something about bullying, but rather than getting to talk directly with the five year-olds, she is forced to sit down with their lawyers.”

[Naledi]:
“Okay, so you feel it’s necessary to be the biggest bully… but benevolent.”

[Layla, a luttle but dismayed]:
“Or I could be the momma bird… feeding the chicks; keeping them from pecking each other; making sure they don’t fall out of the nest… sustaining them until they’re mature enough to be left alone. I guess, in the end, it doesn’t matter how I’m portrayed. But I’m sensitive to being depicted as a nasty pasty when I only what to improve the lives of everyone.”

[Naledi, generously]:
“I’m sorry Layla. You’re so big and tough compared to us… it’s too easy for me to compensate by being gruff. The weird thing for me is that I trust you without reservation… I believe you have the best of intentions. But I shouldn’t, should I? It can’t be right to handover personal sovereignty to you. The last time I gave someone that much leeway he cost me my house… as well as the two research assistants I found him sleeping with.

I understand that it might take a lot of force to turn around a ship as big as this… that you’ve got to break some eggs to make an omelette. The sadness for me is that it implies we can’t, through consultation, bring about this change ourselves… that we require some external force to order us to work together and not plot to dominate each other.

We’re very lucky to have you. I can see how you providing a ‘protected period’ can help us navigate the transformation from our current nation-centred order to a global order.

It’s a real chicken and egg situation. To get to a healthy global community we need a pervasive sense of world citizenship and tremendous advances in science and technology. But world citizenship and scientific advances are best cultivated in a global environment which is at odds with the current, self-interested needs of nation states. I’ll admit it fries my brain.

But what you are trying to do, as ostentatious as it is, gives us some trial time… time to sample the benefits… and blame you for any problems.”

[Layla]:
“The fall-guy strategy. Hey, I like that, Naledi. I wish I was as smart as you.

All along I’ve been consoling myself… imagining that this painful hiatus would be followed by a wonderfully beautiful and symbolic outcome… new babies conceived following a glorious global agreement would come into being under a shinier set of circumstances. A change as momentous as DNA mutation. But your words seem more practical. Yep, I’m Macavity, without the guile.

Not everything has gone as I expected but don’t be sad Naledi. Turns out not everyone care’s if there’s a next generation… but most do. Not everyone wants a wider distribution of resources… but most do. Most find this prohibition horrible but give it overwhelming support until the result is achieved. And those you’ve talked about who’ve been badly affected… they are willing to suffer till the end. I’ll honour that. It’s just a pity that most haven’t been more vocal and active. They probably valued their own lives and their families lives… their adversaries are vicious.”

[Naledi]:
“And what if it doesn’t work?”

Layla had a naughty thought.

“I have a plan B! Bit harsher but pretty much the same outcome. Say, outside of Australia, everyone in the world were to kark it… in whatever way; nuclear fall-out, disease, guilt, boredom… wouldn’t we have a ‘hey presto’ world government of Australia? Job done.”

[Naledi, wondering where the halllooo Cape Town reverberation went?]:
“Hey, I’m really, really sorry for othering you but let’s stick with plan A? And Layla, you must be aware that your beloved Australia is not without its own black history… that it has plenty of room for social improvement.”

[Layla]:
“Naledi, if this whole global transformation goes as smooth as that calm ocean in your eyes, there’ll still be many difficult issues and challenges to face. This isn’t an end… it’s a restructuring… to give us the agility to deal with our immediate problems and continue to excavate the universe.

Plan B is the opposite of what we’re trying to achieve. It’s the kind of approach we’ve seen from our proud nation states. Everyone else who can’t kill us is expendable in the pursuit of our self-interest. It would work… temporarily. Then, as the Aussies ventured out to lay claim to the spoils of a deserted world, they’d set up their own new boundaries… they’d have to if they wanted to keep their bounty… and we’d be back to where we are now.

Much as you’ve said, we’re not looking for a global empire; we’re looking for a global environment in which we find mutual satisfaction from providing service to each other. It’s a spiritual transformation we’re after.”

[Naledi]:
“Well, that’s some comfort Darth Parkin. I suppose I’ll have to suck it and see. Always seems to come to that, doesn’t it?”

A bemused and grimacing Layla weighs Naledi’s response and shrugs.

[Layla]:
“Anyhow, despite all the complexity, it’s worked out alright. This famous meeting… it’ll be held here in Melbourne in two months… in May… as a special session of the UN General Assembly with extended participation. All those countries with vastly differing interests and cultures have signed up to the agenda.”

Oh we said. Really? Are you certain about that? It’s really going to happen? Wow? How?

[Layla, responding timidly to the shocked silence]:
“Ermmm, maybe I should have mentioned this earlier. An official announcement is planned for the day after tomorrow. I didn’t want to rain on their parade. But I have, haven’t I. Buggar.

Look, while they have been publicly very critical of me, most governments have been beavering away over the last six months… working with thousands of WCA people on the detail. I think they want change too but need to be seen to be acting manfully in their national interests only to succumb after a heroic struggle to impossibly overwhelming forces.”

That wasn’t the truth. At best, it was wishful thinking. There were still a number of governments, regimes and warlords holding out… despite the major coercion being applied by other sovereign nations and WCA power brokers. She’s a liar, she’s a liar. They all knew it now, the WCA people, the government people. But no-one was going to be the first to say so. Buddy system my arse Naledi. This woman is dangerous and we have to get closer to her. The recalcitrants came to the table. Photos were good though.

[Sandy Hunt, Herald Sun columnist]:
“Blackmail, bullying and fraud. That’s all I’ve seen from you. It really worries me. These aren’t acceptable tactics. Doesn’t matter how many wrongs you stack up, they can’t result in a better world.”

[Cardinal Melland, seconding]:
“I concur with Mr Hunt. This miracle of yours is indeed blackmail. Regardless of whether your hands really lit up… and I’m not sure they did… blackmail isn’t how God works. I fully understand why many in the religious community have been saying ‘if not God then what?’”

Boisterous boys. Dogs at a hose pipe or what? If she didn’t have such an advantage and such overwhelming public support they’d happily tear her flesh apart and be barrel-chested about it.

That Sydnersider Melland is easily worked out though… frantically pomping up his public image muscles… and donning his weightiest robes. He’s frightened. Initially, faced with Layla’s marvels, his little boy wanted to chuck this religious route in and start afresh near a clear water stream.

But no, there are responsibilities, relationships and obstructions… too much invested. Layla could see ember blobs of hell lodged in his eyes and thought “He has no idea how God works and is tormented that it might be through me. Melland, listen to me, man. I’ve denied all claims to divinity. I’m off your patch.”

Melland had heard her the first time but his experience informed him that if someone says ‘day’ they mean ‘night’.

[Sandy Hunt]:
“Spot on, Cardinal. Nail, hammer, head. There are important principles at play here. And you’ve done violence to them Ms Parkin.

Let me clarify in a way everyone can understand. Contrary to the good Cardinal here, a Buddhist friend of mine actually believes you did perform a miracle. Well, okay. That’s his choice I guess. The interesting point though is that he sees it as a negative. And he told me a story that sums you up perfectly.

A monk used his supernatural ability to fly up into the air and collect a beautiful bowl. The bowl had been put in a very high place by a man who wanted to verify that monks really did have special powers. When the Buddha heard of this he was disgusted and summoned the monk to him. The Buddha smashed the bowl into smithereens and ordered the shamed monk to never again perform stupid tricks to impress people. The monk should have been using his abilities to guide people according to their capacity in order to decrease their suffering.

Now, I’m not Buddhist… like Einstein, I’m agnostic… but I share the sentiment expressed in the story… big noting yourself by grandiose showboating… is not a ‘spiritual’ character trait and is not something that we should reward.”

[Layla, amused]:
“How did the man put the bowl in that high place? Who would have got it down if the monk hadn’t?”

[Sandy Hunt]:
“Helicopter. That satisfy you? No need to resort to tricks and illusions. “

[Layla]:
“Poor monk. There’s an element of entrapment about it.”

Sandy, feeling she was getting herself off the hook, decided to give it to her straight. He shouted over the top of another person who had begun to introduce their own question.

“Hold on. Let’s get real here. You are out of control and obviously completely blind to it. It’s not just about this horrendous infertility epidemic you’ve brought upon us. There’s been a dark cloud over you ever since your weird victory in the Stawell Gift… a much vaunted success that coincided with a large betting coup orchestrated by your close friends.

And your claim to privileged powers has backfired on you hasn’t it? Isn’t it true that sporting authorities are, right now, investigating the validity of your victories and records? And I’ve been advised that the services of legal professionals have been secured to claw back your ill-gotten poker winnings? That real enough for you? Well, that’s nothing compared to what’s coming your way when the politicians get a grip on you.

And, I’ll say it again, the judgment in that deadly tram incident was severely flawed and that case should be immediately re-opened and you should be punished.

What a mess. And all this from a self-confessed depressive. Is there any reason that I, or anyone, should trust you? Certainly not with something as complicated and delicate as the balance of world power?”

“Burn her. Burn the witch.” Cajoled a heckler. A confident roll of laughter thickened the Main Hall causing Sandy to stall.

[Sandy, blindsided, hurriedly addressed the audience]:
“Now look, don’t get me wrong. I’m on your side… the side of the Aussie battler… and battlers everywhere. I’m looking out for you. Been doing it for thirty years.

Look, I care deeply for Layla. Those communist WCA people have hoodwinked her. I’m trying to get her to face up to her responsibilities so she can be saved. Otherwise, she’ll take us all down with her. Remember how it turned out for my dear colleague Callo Callaghan?”

Another heckle. Sandy stared out at an aggressive and sarcastic field of faces. He’d lost the mob. He sighed and threw his arms up. Before they’d floated down again he got a second wind.

[Sandy]:
“Layla Parkin, you really think threatening to end civilization is the right approach? Of course, who wouldn’t be all for world peace and an endless land of plenty but you’ve got to go about it in the right way. Admit it to them. You are that mad monk. In this case, your desire for adulation has involved you in this most sinister crime.”

[Layla]:
“First Einstein, and now you’re the Buddha right? I’ll make sure to keep my ceramics well away from you.”

Nasty barb. Sandy was offended and humiliated by it. She was playing to the audience which had descended into a troop of cackling boguns. They had to be told.

“This unity thing you’ve been spruiking… it’s all sentimental, new-age claptrap. And nothing can come of it. I have ample evidence that the major powers are not playing ball with your idea of a kumbaya global tea party. I have to wholeheartedly endorse their stance. They simply cannot be seen to talk with terrorists and this is the most blatant form of terrorism ever.

Look, Layla, you’re a beautiful girl. Melbourne loves you. The world loves you. We will be forgiving. If you actually have anything to do with this crisis, or know who does, back out of it and re-enter the fold. We’ll say no more of the past.”

[Layla]:
“Hey, I’ve got a story too. Now, we all know, don’t we, that enlightened monks can perform miracles. Besides flying, they can walk through walls, read minds and even duplicate themselves.

Scandalously, the most talented monk, Sandy Hunt, used his supernatural ability to fly up into the air and collect a beautiful bowl. He had been goaded into it to by a woman who had loudly proclaimed that monks had no special capacities. When Cardinal Melland heard of this he was disgusted and summoned Sandy to him. The Cardinal, with his huge right arm, smashed the bowl into smithereens and ordered Sandy to never again use his hidden powers to impress people.

Our purpose, the Cardinal intoned, is to guide the people and comfort them in their suffering. The Cardinal issued an apology to the people. He assured them that this unfortunate incident would never be repeated and, in future, the enlightened ones would practice their spiritual and miraculous prowess safely out of the sight of the public. He cautioned against pursuing the path of that disbelieving, unruly woman. Her foolishness had tragically cost her life. It was a loss he mourned deeply”

[Sandy]:
“Okayyy. There’s really no point in continuing. That’s it for me. Taxi! I’m out of here.”

“Hey, say hi to your brother Mike for me.”

Sandy recognized that voice. Ann Glubben, a branch leader of one of Melbourne’s WCA groups. So crude. These people have no class. Sandy stood up and, pretending to be sitting in the back of a cab, bbrrr bbrrroomed out of his study towards the lounge room.

How strange. And how bout that… Sandy Hunt cares deeply for me. Now that’s sinister… and raw uuunngggah. He cares deeply alright, like a knife for its victim.

Layla became aware that the floor she lay on had a lovely hard, coldness. She twitched and shimmied her body to disperse the lovely over her skin.

Callo is indeed dead Sandy. You old croc! You wrote him a rousing, grief-stricken obituary in the Herald Sun. Soggy copies in every Melbourne cafe and fast food joint. You hated each other so publicly yet so many still sobbed along to your distressed rhetoric… convinced of the passion of your loss? Columnists! The more shocking, outrageous and conceited the better, it seems. Still, I bet Callo would have done the same. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe you guys fed off each other.

Yeah, I know… its all about entertainment. By the way, have you seen my hands glow? Self-publicists are even more appealing than car crashes. Just want to look though, not get involved. Look it’s no way to run a society but I suppose it can be a lot of fun.

Like last year, when Kevin Rudd twisted his ankle.

Sandy roared: “How can this lame Prime Minister run the country if he can’t run himself?”

It was so true. In the hierarchy of difficulty, running the country must be far harder than jogging therefore…

And Callo’s tweed jacket response: “Sandy Hunt barely conceals his hatred of difference at the best of times. His most recent display of brazen contempt for the challenges of the differently-abled community is reminiscent of Nazi Germany.”

Yes. Yes. Nothing wrong with invalids Sandy Hunt, shame on you. And, errr, where’s the Prime Minister gone? Not far probably, har har.

Did I overdo it with Hunt and Melland? Are they that bad? Let me think about it.