9

KNOCKING ON HEAVEN’S DOOR

Sex without love is a meaningless experience, but as far as
meaningless experiences go it’s pretty damn good.

– Woody Allen

Although Grafton Everest was accustomed to journalists and commentators dissecting political statements down to the finest detail, he could never have anticipated the reaction to his maiden speech. If commentators treated each individual word as if it was a unique snowflake of meaning, he had delivered them an avalanche.

‘Totally inexplicable … Staggeringly, almost supernaturally, irrelevant’, were the types of epithets applied across the media. ‘What was he thinking?’ exclaimed one national daily.

‘From Circus to Petting Zoo,’ said a Melbourne paper. ‘In his maiden speech, Senator Everest has attempted to steer the Senate away from the economic and environmental challenges facing Australia towards a new political agenda – respect for our furry friends.’ Some commentators wondered whether Grafton was seeking to amend the Racial Discrimination Act to include speech offensive to animals. The general feeling, however, was that he was simply mad.

‘Everest seems to believe in free association as a legitimate basis for political discourse.’

Perhaps the most astute comment was simply: ‘Grafton Everest is now Dr Dolittle in both senses of the word.’

It took no more than half a day, however, for the more astute – that is to say, pretentious – analysts to respond that it was obvious upon closer examination that there was method in Grafton’s madness. His speech, they cannily pointed out, was not to be taken at face value. It was, in fact, a cleverly constructed critique of the Australian social and political landscape. ‘The greatest political metaphor since Orwell’s Animal Farm,’ they proclaimed, thus precipitating another avalanche of opinion and counter-opinion about the meaning of his words.

While the opinionazis argued over the allegorical interpretation of what was emerging as the twenty-first century’s Australian version of The Sermon on the Mount, the animal liberationists were only too happy to embrace its meaning literally. Overnight, Grafton became the darling of the conservationist, vegetarian, vegan, animal rights enthusiast, dog-lover, cat-lover groups, along with bird and whale-watching brigades. The newspapers were flooded with letters enumerating pejorative animal references he had omitted: prawns, sharks, parrots, monkeys, rats, drongos and countless other species had all been defamed in metaphor and simile for years.

Grafton’s parliamentary inbox was soon inundated with invitations to speak at morning teas all over the country, many of which, to his dismay, his staff recommended he attend. He managed to avoid most by pleading, which is to say inventing, prior engagements, but he reluctantly accepted a few that were not too far from home. At them, Grafton found himself lionised – a metaphor he did not feel was zoologically prejudicial – by roomfuls of breathless middle-aged women, some clutching overweight cats whose louring expressions suggested they were as happy to be there as he was.

It soon turned out, however, that the animal rights movement was as fragmented and volatile as every other political persuasion. At a coffee and cake meeting with the West Pembrook Animal Protection League, Grafton was almost caught up in a riot when a member from the aligned Pembrook District Conservation Society stood up to plead for more culling of feral animals to protect native species. A member from the South Eastern Animal Rights Association, florid with indignation, leapt up protesting that to kill one animal to save another was an absurd moral contradiction. ‘Would you shoot a lion to protect a zebra?’ she challenged.

‘They are both natives to Africa. Cats, dogs and pigs are not native to this country!’ responded the conservationist.

‘Neither are we!’ shouted another Animal Rightist. ‘Firstgeneration human immigrants are regarded as citizens of Australia. A feral cat might be one hundredth-generation Australian. Feral camels are fifty-generations Australian. They have as much right to be here as we have!’

Grafton sank down into his seat on the podium and ate a scone with jam as the argument raged. Eventually shouting turned to pushing and then pushing to throwing chairs. Fighting like cats and dogs, thought Grafton, then realised he had fallen into the very trap he had denounced. Indeed, the cats and dogs who had been brought to the meeting were cowering on the sidelines, unperturbed by each other but terrified by the ruckus perpetrated by their owners. Fighting like people, he corrected himself.

Perhaps the most positive result of his speech was the reaction of his daughter. Lee-Anne could not believe that her father had come out so strongly for animal rights.

‘All my friends want to meet you,’ she said at the breakfast table. ‘Especially Andrew. He’s a Reversionist.’

Grafton looked up from buttering toast and asked a question he knew he would regret asking. ‘What’s a Reversionist?’

‘They’re the environmentalists who want human beings removed from the planet.’

‘What? All of them?’

‘Yes. If we could do that, the planet would revert to its natural ecology, the way it was before people evolved.’

‘And,’ asked Grafton, dreading the answer to this even more, ‘how would they hope to achieve this?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lee-Anne, wistfully taking a sip of her spinach, kale, flax seed and Somalian yoghurt health shake. ‘Maybe some sort of plague. Obviously not nuclear war because that would leave everything radioactive. I guess we just have to hope that they develop some sort of virus that kills people and doesn’t harm anything else.’

‘We can only hope,’ said Grafton. He tried to concentrate on eating his toast but could not stop himself from asking the obvious question.

‘So, the Reversionists … does it worry them that the plan means that they die too?’

‘Oh yeah. I mean they realise that,’ said Lee-Anne, scooping some grey pulp from the bottom of her tall glass. ‘But they’d be willing to make the sacrifice – as long as they were sure that everyone else was going to die as well. I mean, you’d feel pretty stupid if you killed yourself and no one else did.’

‘Yes,’ said Grafton, ‘and they certainly wouldn’t want to feel stupid.’

‘Of course not,’ said Lee-Anne.

Grafton was now wondering how far he could push it. ‘Of course, if you really wanted the world to revert to the way it was three million years ago, you’d have to eradicate all the animals that humans have created through breeding. Cows, pigs, sheep, and labradoodles are really all human creations.’

Lee-Anne frowned with what Grafton took to be an attempt to think. ‘Yes. That does raise ethical problems. I mean it’s one thing to kill humans but killing animals is morally problematic. I’ll have to talk to Andrew about that.’

Although it was mischievous, Grafton thought it was worth going just one bit further. ‘And of course,’ he said taking a sip of tea. ‘If you did eradicate humans, you’d also have to eradicate all the other primates otherwise humans would just re-evolve all over again a few million years later.’

‘Ah,’ said Lee-Anne, delighted. ‘Andrew’s got a great solution for that. You’ve seen the movie 2001?’

‘Yes,’ said Grafton, not at all surprised that this philosophy might be in some way derived from films.

‘He’s got this great idea of burying, like, a secret time capsule on the Moon, just like the monolith in 2001. When humans evolve to the point where they’ve got space travel, like us, they’ll discover it and it will have a container in it with the virus and instructions on how to use it.’

‘Which of course they will do.’

‘Of course. Because, like us, they will realise it’s the only way to save the Earth.’

‘Right,’ said Grafton. ‘And so the cycle will continue indefinitely. Every time people reach a certain level of technological development, they will commit mass suicide and go back to the Pliocene.’

‘Yes. That’s the plan.’

‘Who knows?’ mused Grafton. ‘Maybe it’s already happened a couple of times before.’

‘That’s just what Andrew says!’ cried Lee-Anne, her eyes ablaze with excitement.

‘Really? Well I’d like to meet this Andrew some time,’ said Grafton pleasantly, not adding the codicil he silently appended: ‘and kill him.’

Discussion and debate about Grafton’s speech, and his state of mind, blazed away in the media for about a week, an unusually long time in an industry whose normal attention span was about two days – four for a major catastrophe. Another invitation came in from the ABC to appear on QED and explain his speech, which Horton and Petra, luckily, advised him not to accept. Their reasoning was that his speech, like all great works of art, was better left unexplained. Grafton was surprised that his not even off-the-cuff speech had now attained a literary status akin to Finnegans Wake.

‘They’ll be busy for weeks analysing it,’ said Horton, delightedly. ‘It was a stroke of genius. You managed to align yourself with the Animal Left and at the same time totally wedge them.’ In the end Grafton stopped trying to understand why his speech had created such a furore. His greater concern was the increasing voluptuousness of his body and the certainty that his wife was planning to have him put to sleep.

Women, he reflected, could be very matter-of-fact about such things. He recalled that when Tao, their previous dog, had become very old and infirm, Janet had been quite stoic about taking him to the vet for a farewell injection. Grafton had been a sobbing mess.

‘It’s much better this way,’ she had said. ‘It’s much kinder than letting him suffer.’

There were now substantial grounds to believe that he was soon to become a beneficiary of that same kindness. The only question was when and how it was to be administered. Accordingly, he kept a close watch on the unmarked van which was still parked outside his house day and night.

The one blessing that was bestowed on Grafton in the month of November was that Lee-Anne and her black-clad sponsors relocated to the Glasshouse Mountains to start setting up the Stop The Slide Festival. According to Lee-Anne, estimates were that at least half a million people would be attending.

‘That’s not bad,’ said Grafton, trying to sound positive. ‘Bigger than Woodstock.’

‘What’s Woodstock?’ said Lee-Anne.

Grafton did not try to explain. The main thing was that they were going, leaving the house peaceful and mostly undamaged except for a couple of rings on the living room ceiling where the poles had been. The only disconcerting thing about Lee-Anne’s departure was that he was now alone in the house with Janet. There would be no witnesses to raise awkward questions should he have a sudden, fatal heart attack in his sleep.

In his confused mind, Grafton saw the problem of sexual potency and life expectancy as inextricably connected. He was certain his uselessness as a sexual partner was the deciding factor that prompted Janet to seek advice on euthanasia – voluntary or otherwise. The question of whether Horton’s medicinal compound could cure his impotence was now not simply a matter of masculine identity or matrimonial satisfaction, but of life or death.

Grafton had always believed that he had, on some ethereal plane, a guardian angel. He knew in his logical mind, such as it was, that this was probably just yearning for the loving, nurturing, female figure his mother had never been. At the same time, he had always had a sense of someone or something watching out for him. How else, he reasoned, had he been able to survive and even prosper without talent, commitment or morals?

But if he had such a guardian angel, where was she now? Had he in his profligacy finally used up all the credit on the account? Had his angel been called into the office and been carpeted for being too indulgent and then reassigned to some other section? Had the guardian angel service been forced to combine with other divisions because of cutbacks? He seemed to be surrounded by angels, but were they guardian angels or avenging angels? Or was one of them even Azrael, the Angel of Death?

This pall of gloom was pierced by a ray of hope when Mr Horton contacted him to say that the Agent Blue had been obtained and arrangements had been put in place for the trial. The plan was that, in a week’s time, Grafton would attend the Parliamentary Christmas Party at the Hyatt Hotel in Canberra. A room would be booked upstairs to which Grafton would retire at the end of the evening. There, Petra would be waiting. She would administer the drug by injection and his erectile capacity would then be tested. Grafton felt a sudden tightening in his chest, knowing what the testing would consist of.

This news elevated Grafton’s mood so much that for the next few days he was almost skittish. He cheerfully turned up for his weekly chat on the radio and even read some of his own blogs to find out what he was saying about things. He was pleased to find that he agreed with most of the things he said. I’d vote for me, he thought.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ observed Janet, hearing Grafton singing under the shower.

Grafton stopped immediately, realising that he had been singing, ‘Lay lady lay, lay across my big brass bed.’

‘Well, darling,’ he said, turning off the taps and stepping out onto the bathmat like a shiny pink walrus, ‘it’s such a relief to have the house to ourselves.’

‘Do you think so?’ said Janet. ‘I miss having Lee-Anne around.’

‘Oh, me too,’ said Grafton hastily, realising he had almost fallen into the trap of seeming like an uncaring father. ‘But, I don’t miss her associates.’

‘Oh, they were alright,’ said Janet, rather too magnanimously, Grafton thought.

‘As far as psychopaths go, I suppose they were okay,’ said Grafton noting that his breasts jiggled alarmingly from side to side when he towelled his back.

‘You should be kind to those who are unkind,’ said Janet. ‘They need it more.’

‘That presumes that I give a rat’s arse about what they need,’ said Grafton, wondering if he should put talc under his breasts to stop chafing. ‘And if I were to be honest, I would have to admit I don’t.’

‘You’re a hard man,’ said Janet, departing the bedroom and leaving Grafton to mentally complete her unspoken addendum: ‘in every way except the one that counts.’

If only she knew, thought Grafton. With a bit of luck, in a few days he would soon be an even harder man – perhaps harder than he had ever been. In the meantime, however, it would be wise to moderate his ebullience. Nothing was more likely to arouse a wife’s suspicion than a husband who is happy.

As the night of the Christmas party drew near, Grafton’s eager anticipation was marred by two slight problems. The first was realising he would have to contrive a reason for Janet not to accompany him. While it was most likely that she would not wish to go (and she would certainly see no need to be there to prevent any casual dalliance on his part), there was a slim chance she might attend just out of curiosity. That problem was solved when Janet told him she would not be available for the party as the following morning she had an interview with the Arts Council in Sydney about a proposed Knitathon at the Stop The Slide Festival. This was undoubtedly Horton’s doing. The second problem arose from the discovery that the Christmas party was a costume affair.

Anything along the lines of a costume ball or themed party was anathema to Grafton. Many friends, especially girlfriends, had said to him: ‘Grafton, you’re no fun.’ And indeed he was no fun. He hated fun. He had so successfully managed to rid his life of fun that it was only when occasions like this arose that he remembered just how much fun he wasn’t. In his youth he had always been the guy at the party slumped in a corner, drinking an entire bottle of Southern Comfort by himself. In fact, his aversion to fun led to him having a drinking problem. He did not drink as others did to loosen up and have fun, but rather drank because he hated fun so much he needed to blot out even the sight of other people having it. He was only saved from chronic alcoholism by realising that it was fun that was the root of the problem: once he resolved never to go to another party, never to don a funny hat and yank on a Christmas cracker or to tell a joke or sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and, most especially, never to dance, he found he had no further need to drink.

Now, forty years later, just thinking about the Christmas party evoked faint hankerings for the Stone’s Green Ginger Wine of his youth.

The first thing he decided was that he was definitely not going in costume, even though, given his current physique, a pantomime dame would have been a cinch. It was equally clear, however, that he could not go in his shabby suit. The solution occurred to him when Delia arrived one morning for another sitting. Again, Grafton found himself sitting regally in the dining chair wearing his Collingwood pyjamas while the artist swiped away at the canvas, unselfconsciously naked.

By this time, Grafton was so used to the sight of his naked portraitist that he actually started to think about other things. It was when he was speculating on what the finished portrait might look like that he realised that this was how he should go to the party – not in costume but in uniform. He would wear his father’s old black-andwhite striped footy jumper with its big number 1 – the number of his dad’s favourite player Murray Weideman – on the back. That also meant that he could wear his elasticised tracksuit pants on the bottom half, a huge bonus.

With Delia’s permission he read the morning papers as he sat and was, as often happened, simultaneously pleased and disappointed to see no mention of him. Reaction to his speech had now been eclipsed by another tale from the cross benches: The Orgasm Party had decided to merge with the Involuntary Euthanasia Party thereby, according to their press release, joining the campaign for the little death with the campaign for the big death. Further into the paper he noticed that there had been another incident where police apprehended someone behaving like a wolf, this time in Brisbane. They must not have recovered all the samples yet, thought Grafton, though there was no mention of Eataholics Anonymous.

On the afternoon of the party, Grafton flew to Canberra with a tingle of excitement. He went straight to his parliamentary offices to meet with Horton. The building was virtually deserted because the pollies were all off getting ready for the party. As he passed offices, he saw political staffers sitting down enjoying a rare cup of coffee and relaxing.

Horton, however, was still busy, sitting in the conference room, dictating silently onto his custom-made laptop.

‘Ah, my boy. Now, arrangements,’ said Horton closing a document on screen which Grafton briefly glimpsed as headed ‘Top Secret’.

‘You are booked into room 626,’ said Horton. ‘Petra will leave the party around ten-thirty and go to the room. You will leave twenty minutes later and meet her there at around eleven. She will have the medication and the equipment.’

‘Right,’ said Grafton, feeling that he was now in some sort of spy movie. ‘Do I need a secret knock or anything?’

‘No. No one else will be going to the room.’

‘What do I do while I’m waiting?’ said Grafton.

‘You’re at a party. Have fun,’ said Horton.

Grafton blanched at the sound of the word. He was already dreading the prospect of a social event but, if it was the price he had to pay for resurrecting his erection, he supposed he could endure it. ‘I saw there was another case of someone thinking they’re a werewolf,’ he said. Horton’s face darkened.

‘Yes. In fact there have been several. We managed to keep the others quiet.’

‘The one I read about was in Queensland.’

Horton rose and started to pace the room. ‘Yes. All the recent ones have been. It’s a worry.’

‘Is it because people still have the pills?’ said Grafton.

‘No. These outbreaks have nothing to do with eataholics. We think they’re bat-borne.’

‘Bat-borne?’ Grafton was confused.

‘It turns out,’ said Horton with unsuppressed annoyance, ‘that when we gave instructions for the stocks of Agent Violet to be destroyed, some UniMang intern at Chimera complied by tipping them down an old mineshaft. It seems likely that the chemical entered the water table as a result and contaminated a local mango crop, possibly several. Since bats eat mangoes, it is possible their urine contains traces of Agent Violet and since they urinate as they fly …’

‘If you get pissed on by a bat, you can suffer lycanthropy,’ said Grafton.

‘Yes,’ said Horton.

‘What about from eating mangoes?’

‘Apparently the compound degrades in the mangoes before it can reach a fruit shop but it is somehow preserved and even strengthened in the bat’s urinary system.’

Like a schoolmaster of old, Mr Horton paused. ‘Did you know that, although there were few sailors there, cancer rates were high in RAN personnel in Vietnam? This was because ships took on water which had been exposed to Agent Orange. The point is, laddie,’ he said with some satisfaction, ‘that the chemical did not dissolve in the water tanks and was present when the ships returned to Australia.’

Grafton grunted as if interested but was really musing on how much bats turning people into werewolves sounded like some old Hammer horror film. He was jolted from this reverie when Horton reverted to the main topic to say, ‘My concern is that the source of the contamination may be in the vicinity of the Stop The Slide Festival. If so, we have only one week to find it before half a million people arrive.’

Grafton was suddenly struck with concern that Lee-Anne might be at risk from biological attack from the air but persuaded himself that the risk was small and that Horton and his mysterious organisation would almost certainly be able to prevent such an occurrence. His most immediate concern was his own vitally important drug test, and to prepare himself for that he repaired to the sparsely populated Parliamentary Dining Room for a substantial meal.

After lingering over dinner to fill in the time, Grafton went back to his office to change. Here an unexpected problem emerged. When he pulled his father’s Collingwood jumper out of the sports bag and put it on, it became immediately obvious that he had become thicker in the torso than his father, particularly in the pectoral area. The tight jumper accentuated his breasts dramatically. This was a catastrophe. He cast around looking for something to disguise his figure but saw nothing. Hoping against hope, he rummaged in the bag and found, miraculously among the footy boots and socks, a long black and white woollen scarf – indispensable for barracking in the cold Melbourne winter. His guardian angel must have been a Collingwood fan.

Thus it was that Grafton arrived in his stretch limo at the main entrance of the Hyatt Hotel, feeling a little anonymous without his trademark white Panama, but still very conspicuous in his Collingwood jumper with the long woollen scarf round his neck and looped generously at the front. He made his way through the foyer and up the sweeping staircase to the Grand Ballroom. A wall of sound met him even before he reached the doors, at which he paused, took a deep breath and steeled himself.

On entering he saw a sea of parliamentarians in outlandish costumes, talking, drinking, flirting, dancing, joking, gesticulating and braying with laughter. If ordinary people having fun was disturbing, politicians having fun was ten times worse. Some of the costumes had apparently been chosen to display characteristics opposite to those of the wearer, others seemed consciously or unconsciously to reflect them. The Federal Treasurer swaggered past in the striped suit and grey fedora of a Chicago gangster, complete with cigar and a couple of floozies; the somewhat timid Minister for Defence was dressed as a rabbit; the Minister for Communications was dressed as a Russian Tsar. The shadow minister for Communications was wearing a pair of red underpants on his head, something Grafton assumed was a private joke. A member of the Australian Brownies was dressed as what looked like a diseased kidney but turned out to be a lentil.

An anonymous politician dressed as a parrot swerved drunkenly up to Grafton and shouted, ‘Do you get it? Do you get it? I’m a pollie.’ Grafton got it and got away as quickly as possible, only to be approached by a man bandaged from head to toe like a mummy. The creature extended a linen-swathed hand.

‘Peter Stephenson,’ he said through a tiny gap in the gauze. ‘Good to see you again.’

Grafton shook the hand, wondering where he’d heard that name before, then recalled that the apparition was the Leader of the Opposition.

‘You too,’ replied Grafton. ‘And you’ve come as …’

‘The invisible man,’ mumbled Stephenson through the cotton.

You could have come in your ordinary clothes for that, thought Grafton.

‘How’s the Tectonic Change Committee coming along?’ mumbled The Mummy through gauze.

‘Well …’ said Grafton, ‘I think we’re hammering out some very pragmatic strategies,’ and was then struck with apprehension that ‘hammering’ was possibly a politically incorrect term for an anti-impact body. Luckily the talking cocoon in front of him did not seem to notice.

‘Good, good,’ said Stephenson. ‘You know we will be relying on you to help us pass the ETS legislation.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Grafton, ready to say anything to end this encounter.

‘And if there are any other committees or boards you’d like to be on …’

‘I think my workload is just about right,’ said Grafton.

‘Well, just let us know,’ said the swaddled one and limped stiff-legged away.

Grafton scanned the room and saw Nina some distance away, surrounded by a group of flunkies. She was unmissable, being dressed as a gigantic Santa Claus. A few more inches, thought Grafton, and she could pass as one of those balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.

As Grafton made his way over towards her, Nina turned, saw him and flung her arms wide, sprinkling nearby partygoers with champagne.

‘Grafton! I didn’t think you’d come. I thought you hated parties.’

‘I do but I felt I should,’ he lied.

Nina drew close to him. ‘You remember I need your vote in the Senate to pass the DRACUL legislation, don’t you?’ Then, seeing from his expression that he did not remember what that was, she added, ‘The anti-bikie laws.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Grafton. ‘There’s no problem.’

‘I was worried since you recently seem to have become good mates with the motorcycle fraternity,’ she said.

‘Me, bikies? No. What?’ said Grafton.

‘Well, I noticed you donated a shitload of money to their Festival.’

Grafton frowned and thought about it. ‘I suppose I did,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t mean to.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Nina. ‘The weirdest thing about this job is you end up supporting things you know are a load of crap. Anyway, I suppose I’ll see you there.’

‘Why would you be there?’ said Grafton.

‘Didn’t they tell you? The ABC is doing a special edition of QED at the Festival. I have to be on stage with all these other wankers and explain our position on sustainable growth.’

That, thought Grafton, was certainly going to be a difficult topic for Nina.

‘I know it’s probably going to be the most hostile audience I’ve ever faced, but what the hell, I love a good stoush!’ said Nina flamboyantly and drained her glass. ‘Whoa! I’m empty,’ she cried and headed off to get a refill. Grafton turned and saw that her paramour Jenny remained standing near him. Jenny was dressed as a cowboy in jeans and vest with a pearl-handed six-shooter on each hip and a sombrero tilted back. She even had a small moustache glued to her upper lip.

She smiled an inscrutable oriental lesbian cowpoke smile at him.

‘Well, howdy, Ma’am,’ she said in a bad western drawl. ‘What have you come as?’

‘An AFL footballer,’ said Grafton, slightly unnerved.

‘Strange game, that,’ she said, maintaining the accent. ‘Their balls are a funny shape.’

‘Makes the game more interesting,’ said Grafton.

‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to give it a try.’

Jesus Christ, she’s flirting with me, thought Grafton.

‘If you get the chance, you should. Excuse me … I just have to get a drink …’ and he rapidly exited stage right.

Grafton wended his way through the crowd until he was a safe distance away and then stopped, wondering where the food was. As he scanned the room, the crowd suddenly parted and through its midst came a slender figure clad all in white. It was Petra, elegant and luminous, dressed as an angel in a dazzling white silk gown that fell all the way to the floor yet still somehow seemed to reveal every contour of her limbs. Behind her, rising high above her shoulders, were two enormous white wings which seemed to be made of real feathers. She smiled at Grafton, who stood transfixed both in wonder and terror.

‘Hello, Senator,’ she purred and Grafton’s legs seemed suddenly weak. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Just water,’ said Grafton in a voice that was oddly squeaky.

‘This way,’ she said and led him to the bar where a large glass of sparkling mineral water was provided.

‘Mr Horton has told you about the arrangements?’ she said as he gulped water like a Death Valley mule skinner.

‘Yes,’ said Grafton.

‘Then I’ll see you later. Upstairs,’ she said and glided away.

Grafton took another sip and wondered how he was going to fill in, and bear, the next couple of hours. Those hours, as it turned out, were nigh on unbearable. Soon after Petra’s departure a member of the Animal Rights group pounced on him to tell him how much they appreciated his speech. This led into a long spiel about the possibility of amending the Marriage Act to allow people to marry their pets – platonically of course – and with the pet’s permission. Grafton had to fake a phone call, even though he was not carrying his mobile phone, to get away.

For much of the evening, He found himself a magnet for Imps eager to express their feelings of solidarity with him. He felt slightly insulted that these people regarded him as one of their number, even though he was.

The last hour of waiting was particularly agonising, not just because Grafton’s anticipation of what was to come was so piqued, but because of the general degeneration of the partygoers. By ten-thirty, alcohol and the anonymity afforded by masks saw the party descend into something resembling a remake of Caligula. On one side a centurion was mauling a Cleopatra, on another a pirate was harassing a mermaid, and the giant lentil was dancing lewdly with a hamburger. The parrot was screeching and a drunken vampire had hold of one end of the Invisible Man’s bandages and was hauling them off him, making him spin round like a top.

The time had come, Grafton decided, to make his move. He had only just started to make his way towards the exit when out of the throng came Cowboy Jenny, beer in hand, smiling the smile of the half-pissed.

‘Wow, getting noisy now!’ she said, shouting over the din. Grafton noted she had abandoned the accent.

‘Yes!’ shouted back Grafton.

‘Well, if you’re going to get off with anyone this is the night to do it,’ said Jenny and took another swig of her beer.

‘Is it? I didn’t read that in the Parliamentary Handbook,’ said Grafton.

‘You’re funny,’ she said and playfully punched him in the paunch. ‘How long are you planning on staying?’

‘I’ll probably make it an early night,’ said Grafton with a pretend yawn which, oddly, turned into a real one.

‘Me too. Are you staying at the hotel?’

Grafton realised this was critical tactical moment.

‘Um … yes.’

‘Which floor are you on?’

Oh shit, thought Grafton. She’s picked me out of the herd for roping and branding tonight. ‘Not sure. I’ll have to check with the concierge.’

‘Well, I don’t know where I’m going to end up. Nina’s gone off with some bunch of lobbyists to drink slammers till dawn. She won’t be back,’ said Jenny, sighing and shrugging in mock despair, then smiling broadly at him. This, he realised, was supposed to be his cue to make an offer. It was five minutes to eleven and he had to get away.

‘I’ve just got to go to the men’s,’ he said, and walked the fastest walk he could manage while still trying to appear casual, towards the door. When he reached the foyer he feinted right as if he were going to the toilets but then hung a sharp left towards the lift lobby. There he pressed a button and waited for the longest minute of his life, continually looking around to make sure he was not seen. His greatest fear was that Jenny would mosey drunkenly into the foyer, spot him and want to accompany him up to the room.

Indeed, the lift came only just in time, as a group of revellers spilled out into the foyer right as he was stepping in. He pounded the door-close button frantically until the doors, in their own sweet time, decided to close, then leaned back against the wall, exhaling with relief.

When the lift doors opened on the sixth floor, Grafton emerged and followed the signs to Room 626. Walking down the wide, soft carpeted corridor, he again had the feeling of being in The Shining, but this time it was augmented by a breathless sense of excitement. In only a few seconds he would be knocking on Heaven’s door. When he reached the door, which was disguised as an ordinary hotel room door, he knocked lightly, still glancing right and left. There was a click and the door opened.

Grafton entered the room which was dimly, dare he say, romantically, lit and there stood Petra in her long gown, the white wings rising high above her back.

‘Senator,’ she said, ‘did you enjoy the party?’

‘I don’t enjoy any party, social or political,’ said Grafton. ‘And I think under the circumstances you have to call me Grafton.’

‘I’ll try,’ said Petra, ‘but I feel it feels like a breach of protocol.’

And having sex with me isn’t? thought Grafton.

‘It’s good of you to … assist … like this,’ said Grafton, not sure how to get the whole thing started.

‘It’s my pleasure,’ said Petra. ‘Would you like a drink first or …?’

‘I’m awash with mineral water,’ said Grafton. ‘I think we should just start. If that’s okay.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you lie down on the bed and I’ll get the medication,’ and she disappeared into the bathroom. Grafton ambled around nervously. He could not decide whether the situation felt like a romantic rendezvous or a medical consultation. He took off his shoes and lay down on the bed. Then he rose again, quickly and unwound the scarf, threw it in a corner and lay down again trying to look nonchalant. A moment later Petra returned with a syringe in her hand. She knelt down on the bed beside him.

‘Can you slide your pants down?’ she said.

Grafton pushed his elasticised pants down, exposing his white cotton underpants, his eyes never leaving the syringe. It was filled with about a centimetre of iridescent blue liquid, a tiny drop of which was poised at the tip of the needle. Somewhere in the backroom of his memory he seemed to recall that the word syringe came from the Greek word for reed or tube. The nymph Syrinx had turned herself into a reed to escape the attentions of Pan who then used the reed to make his Pan pipes. Now, a nymph was using a syringe to cure an aging Pan who had lost his priapic power.

‘And the underpants too,’ she added.

‘Of course,’ said Grafton and with virginal modesty he pushed them down to his thighs.

She bent over and studied his cock. Grafton watched her face closely for a reaction but her expression betrayed neither disappointment nor contempt. She took the organ between her thumb and forefinger and delicately turned it over looking for a vein.

‘This won’t hurt,’ she said and Grafton immediately shut his eyes tight in anticipation that it would. In fact, he felt almost nothing as the feeling in his penis was substantially reduced. There was the slight pressure of her thumb and then there was just, ‘There.’

He opened his eyes and looked down to see that the syringe was empty. A slight tingle spread through his limbs. Petra stood up.

‘Now we just have to wait a few minutes,’ she said. She took the syringe back to the bathroom and then returned. She stood by the bed for a moment then smiled, reached down to her thighs and with one deft movement pulled the white gown over her head and dropped it, wings included, onto a chair. Grafton’s heart almost stopped on the spot. She was a Greek goddess, an Artemis, olive-skinned, long-limbed, high-breasted, the Rokeby Venus standing erect. Still smiling serenely, she lay down beside him and began to trace small circles with her nails on his exposed patch of thigh.

‘You need to relax now and just think of pleasant things,’ she whispered.

In fact, Grafton could not have conjured up an unpleasant thing for a million quid. As the caresses continued for several minutes, however, with no perceptible reaction in his groin, anxiety began to creep over him. He was drowning in the big brown eyes that were gazing directly into his, and the touch of her nails was sending small electric shocks up his spine, but it was all quiet on the pubic front.

‘I think … I should just nip into the bathroom,’ he gasped.

Petra suspended her ministrations. He rolled off the bed and shuffled into the bathroom, clutching his half-mast pants. Inside, he shut the door and sank down on the toilet. He needed to pee badly but he also needed to inspect his equipment and see what was or was not happening down there. Standing on tip-toe he looked at it in the mirror. He handled it and found it was, as ever, soft and pliable as playdough. George Burns’ line, ‘Having sex at ninety is like trying to shoot pool with a rope’, came to mind.

This was a disaster. Not only was this his one chance to have sex with the most beautiful woman he had ever met, but it was his last hope to save his marriage and, consequently, his life. Then his eyes fell on the syringe lying next to the washbasin. Next to it was a small bottle that contained more of the blue liquid – quite a bit more. Grafton bit his lip and made, for one of the few times in his life, perhaps the first time, a decision. He picked up the syringe and thrust it through the rubber cap into the bottle. Holding it upside down, as he had seen done in countless TV medical shows although having not the slightest clue why, he slowly drew the plunger down, filling the chamber as far as he could with the blue liquid – at least three times the dosage Petra had administered.

He then cast around and saw Petra’s toiletries bag on the vanity unit. A quick search revealed a small mirror which he took out. Next, he picked up a small hotel hand towel and rolled it into a tube. With everything prepared, he sat on the edge of the toilet, put the rolled up towel between his teeth, took the syringe in his right hand, held the mirror in his left hand, angled so he could see his cock, and slowly steered the needle towards it. Now Grafton had hated injections since he was a child but somehow, given the urgency of the situation, he found enough courage to bite the bullet, or to be more exact, the towel. Biting down as hard as he could to prevent himself from crying out involuntarily, he pressed the needle into a vein and slowly pushed the plunger all the way down.

Almost immediately he felt the same tingle as before, except twenty times greater. A wave of heat seemed to wash over him. His skull started to vibrate like a tuning fork and his breath seemed to catch in his chest. Suddenly he found that none of his muscles responded to his commands and the room was starting to slowly rotate. Then vision failed and he felt himself sliding slowly and limply down into the cool hard embrace of the tiles.