Bill ‘ Chicken’ English
Steve Braunias’ Secret Diary of ...
MONDAY
I said, “Before we begin, has anyone seen Todd?” No one had. We went through my appointments diary for the coming week, and I said, “Okay. Got it. Is there anything else?” “There is just one more thing, Prime Minister.” “Yes?” “It’s about the challenge from Herald journalist Steve Braunias for you to play him at table tennis. He’s challenged all the party leaders, and most of them have said yes.” “Who’s he played so far?” “Seymour and Shaw.” “They beat him?” “No. He beat both of them. Thrashed them, in fact. He’s writing up a report of each match every Saturday.” I walked over to the window and looked out over the harbour. I said, “I could beat him with one hand behind my back.” No one said anything. The water looked cold. A shiver looked for my spine to run down. “But I’m busy,” I said. “Tell him no.” They left, and I could hear them talking as they walked down the hallway. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but I definitely heard someone clucking like a chicken.
TUESDAY
The Greens and New Zealand First are at each other’s throats again. I pity Labour and the Greens having to deal with Winston. You’d have to be mad to want to work with him.
WEDNESDAY
I worked late and had just got to my car in the basement carpark when I heard a voice behind me say in a ragged whisper, “Bill.”
I turned and saw a homeless man in rags.
“Five councils will be the first to receive support through the government’s housing infrastructure fund to build 60,000 new homes,” I said. “So stay warm till then.” “Bill,” he said. “Bill. It’s me.” I looked closer. His hair was filthy and so was his long, black beard, which smelled of cigarette smoke. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “I know, right,” he said. I said, “Where have you been? No one’s seen you.”
He said, “I’ve been laying low. Listen. I might not come back to work for a while, but I want you to know I’m here for you. Anything you need. I’ve got your back. Okay?” “Thanks,” I said. I smiled, and said, “Hell of a disguise you’ve got there.” He said, “What disguise?” Just then my phone rang. The noise startled him, and he turned and fled through a stairwell. “Todd,” I called. It echoed in the dark, empty carpark. “Todd . . . Todd . . . Todd . . . ”
THURSDAY
The latest poll suggests the only chance National has of leading a new Government after the election is to form a coalition with New Zealand First. God almighty.
FRIDAY
I worked late and then made a few calls, and met him in the Parliament gym. The diplomatic protection squad had set up a table and net, and got all the gear.
“This’ll be good for you,” I said to him. “Help get you back on your feet.”
“And it’ll be good practice for you if you change your mind,” he said.
I wondered how the hell he knew about that, but didn’t press it, and we started playing. It felt good to have the bat in my hand. I served the ball like a rocket, and my backspin was wicked. I played the angles. I played it long and played it short.
But he was pretty good for a shambling wreck whose political career had ended in a smoking ruin, and he got lucky here and there, and won 21- 7. “Rematch,” he said. “I’d love to,” I said, “but no time.” As I walked through the door, I could hear Barclay talking with the diplomatic protection squad. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but I definitely heard someone clucking like a chicken.