Counting the bodies

In the wake of the chaos, for Peter Dutton, everything is still. Falling into the quiet expanse, the coolness, the darkness, the pure pure depth and its 360 degree dim-lit horizon, he can just make out the soft whisperings of Paul Murray: “you weren’t right-wing enough”. I know Paul, I know. Finally, Peter hits the floor.

The maps are full of poppies. The fields are quiet. The dead are angry. To count the bodies will be long and thankless, but unavoidable. Where did it all go so wrong?

Warringah, Wentworth, Bradfield, all gone green. Curtin, Kooyong, Indi, green. Dickson red. Where did it all go wrong?

“We didn’t go right enough.” Paul’s message travels over quiet plains. A battered figure, Tim Wilson, staggers on his crutches to receive it, stepping over bodies, the grey-skinned Keith Wolahan, and Luke Howarth, glassy-eyed. “We didn’t go right enough,” Tim whispers, “we didn’t go right enough.”

But the graves are red and green.