Immigration? That’s a portfolio?

Richie Cuskelly

Peter Dutton, Minister for Immigration …

Immigration? That’s a portfolio?

I thought you said irrigation. I’d be up for that. Crops need watering. That’s an important issue. Me and my brother used to swim in Lake Mungarra as youngsters. That’s where I met the wife. The water was filthy, Mum hated us swimming there. I remember it having a neon blue tinge to it. Mike would always end up sick from swallowing too much water.

I should call him. I wonder if he’s still dancing.

…

Two nights ago Dutton dreamt he was Lindy Chamberlain’s baby. The thing was: from the neck down he was a fully grown dingo – stringy, taut and muscular; ready to snap at a synapse’s notice. His coat was bristly and sparse; the colour of old sandstone. He sat on his hind legs in the middle of a desert, not sure of where exactly but knowing it was somewhere in Australia.

It was dusk and only just starting to cool down; a soft breeze strengthening. Dry red dust covered his coat, and he felt a deep contentment that he could not remember ever experiencing before. Nothing but flat red earth surrounded him: there was no other flora or fauna to be seen. Dutton felt alone absolutely, with no desire to procreate.

…

I remember Pete going though one season in the cane fields without wearing a hat once. It was a bit odd; I don’t think the thought not to wear a hat ever even occurred to any of us. I think he figured his long dark hair would keep the sun off his head and neck. He was mainly right, though not completely, which maintains him as a complete idiot in my mind. The sun battered the thin strip of bare scalp where his hair parted slightly to the left, like Labour still vaguely did.

I reckon if you were to look at the top of his bald head today you would see a faint cluster of freckles running in a thin straight line from back to front, looking like a distant galaxy or the point at which a small dorsal fin had been surgically removed many years ago.

…

The moment uncoiled very slowly. But, of course it passed – when his mother Lindy materialised directly in front of him, naked and hysterical, her eyes wide, glassy and completely black.

In them Dutton saw his fish-eyed form reflected back at him.

No longer the baby Chamberlain on the body of a dingo, he saw what he wanted to see: a well-dressed man with sway and a sense of almighty purpose. Somewhere between a preacher and a PM, he did not have a speck of red dust on his navy blue suit, even though the wind had continued to build.