October 2007
This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered a dead body.
Having grown up in inner Melbourne in the 1990s when heroin was at its peak, I’d passed the occasional overdosed junkie on the way to school. I couldn’t immediately see the man’s face, but this didn’t look like an overdosed stranger.
The bright white hair made him unmistakable—it was Mayor Dickie Ruffhead. His leering portrait hung in the foyer of the council’s chambers, and when I took a few more steps towards the body, I could see that even in death he had the same smile on his smarmy, perma-tanned face, although his dentures were now on the floor among a scattering of bulldog clips and I couldn’t help noticing that his pinstriped trousers were down around his ankles.
It was true that the mayor had been missing for several days, but no one seemed too concerned. Council gossip suggested his wife had sent him to rehab again for sex addiction—or gambling, drinking or possibly cocaine; the mayor was a man of varied interests. I took a closer look at his mottled face. Stroke or heart attack was my guess. On the plus side, the discovery explained the weird smell on the second floor of the council building, which had been a hot topic of discussion for several days. (It had been mooted that a disgruntled rate payer had hidden prawn heads in an aircon duct again.) Of course, no one had checked the archives storage. No one had checked anywhere. Council staff were sticklers for job descriptions and frowned on anyone who strayed outside of their strict parameters. Even cleaning out the office fridge was unthinkable.
I’d lived in Melbourne all my life. In 170 years the city had grown from a scrawny settlement founded by the syphilitic son of a convict on the banks of the Yarra River to an unwieldy metropolis. I’ve heard it said that John Batman was the only person in Australia’s colonial history to attempt a treaty with the Kulin people whose land he wanted. It was an unfair contract, of course, but that’s bureaucracy for you.
Recently, the city had become my employer and as far I could see, Batman’s act set the tone for Melbourne and the ongoing management of its boroughs. I had a PR job and I hated it, but the money was good and it was nine to five, which meant I could keep working nights for my Uncle Baz.
He owned a pub in Fitzroy, an inner suburb just north of Melbourne city known for its live music, coffee culture and a football team that had moved to Brisbane in the 1990s due to money troubles…
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