The Butterfly and the Brothel
Canberra, 1975 – 8:42 AM
Charlie Whitaker woke up in his dressing gown, which would not have been a problem had he gone to sleep in it. Instead, he had apparently spent the night in his suit, and at some point, perhaps while pouring himself that last, ill-advised whisky, had swapped out his trousers for nothing at all.
He staggered into the kitchen, scratching at his three-day stubble, and poured himself a coffee that was more bourbon than caffeine. The radio was on, and a dull ABC newsreader was droning about interest rates, which only added to the persistent throb behind Charlie’s left eye.
He looked at the day ahead and sighed.
By rights, Charlie should have been a respectable man. His father had been a judge, his mother a woman who hosted charity luncheons. His brother was in Parliament, and his sister had once dated Bob Hawke long enough to make the family photo albums. But Charlie?
Charlie had walked away from all of it. Or maybe he’d been pushed. A disbarred lawyer, a journalist who mostly worked for whoever had the best bottle of Scotch, a man who had once been brilliant and was now just… here.
Which is why, as he sat there in his dressing gown, contemplating the uphill battle of sobriety, his phone rang.
A Labour mate had a job for him—an envelope to be delivered to a “trusted party.” “It’s simple,” they assured him. “Just take it straight there.”
Charlie agreed. And of course, he did not take it straight there.
The Stopover
Canberra, for all its pomp and politics, was a small town at heart. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone had dirt on someone. Which is partly why, on his way to deliver the envelope, Charlie made a quick stop at his favourite establishment—The Velvet Lounge, a brothel tucked discreetly on the outskirts of Kingston.
He told himself he was just stopping in to say hello. But the moment he saw Veronica, with her long red nails and laugh like a glass breaking in slow motion, he knew he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
“I’m in a rush,” he told her, already taking a seat and accepting a whisky.
“Sure you are,” she said, passing him a cigarette.
An hour later, there was more whisky, then cocaine, then that dangerous haze where time stretched and words slurred and everything felt both brilliant and deeply stupid. By 3:00 PM, Charlie was slumped on Veronica’s couch, snoring softly.
And that’s when she found the envelope.
The Photograph
Veronica had never cared for politics but she understood leverage. The envelope had been easy to find—Charlie was as careful as a man playing blackjack blindfolded. When she slid it open, she wasn’t expecting much. A few dirty secrets. A politician’s name scrawled somewhere.
Jackpot. Government stamps. Handwritten figures. A few middle eastern names. A signature she recognised from the papers.
She didn’t understand it, but it looked like the kind of thing a smart girl held on to.
She took it to the manager, a wiry man named Ray who had a habit of showing up at the worst possible times. Ray took one look, snapped a few photos, and carefully placed the envelope back where Charlie had dropped it.
Then he made a call.
The Spiral
By midnight, photocopies of the documents were circulating in Canberra’s underground. By dawn, they had made their way to the office of a particularly gleeful Liberal Party strategist, who promptly walked them over to Malcolm Fraser.
Malcolm Fraser read the papers slowly, carefully, his face unreadable. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and a sharp little smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.
This wasn’t just useful. This was everything.
He folded the papers, set them down, and tapped his fingers against the desk.
“Time to finish this.”
The Morning After
Charlie woke up on Veronica’s couch, his head pounding, his shirt missing, and his sense of time completely obliterated.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
“Wednesday,” Veronica said.
Charlie blinked.
“What the hell happened to Tuesday?”
She just shrugged.
Charlie groaned, pulled himself upright, and patted his pockets. The envelope was still there. Thank God.
He stumbled out into the morning light, utterly unaware that its contents had already gone on a journey of their own.
Two weeks later, on the steps of Parliament House, Gough Whitlam stood before the nation, while Charlie sat in the dim light of a Canberra bar, the whisky slow-burning down his throat. On the television, Whitlam’s voice rang out, sharp and furious:
“Well may we say ‘God Save the Queen,’ because nothing will save the Governor-General.”
The bar was silent for a beat, then erupted—cheers, curses, arguments flying.
Charlie just stared at the screen. At Whitlam’s face. At history breaking apart in real-time.
The envelope. Veronica. The missing Tuesday.
Christ.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and took another sip, slower this time.
“...Shit, shit shit….”
FSF