Joh Trueman’s first visit to my adopted hometown of Gold Hills was unheralded. I had no idea who he was, and he couldn’t tell me apart from any other voter.

When I arrived at the small Gold Hills Hotel, dictaphone and pad in hand, I’d only planned to sit in on a meeting between local wheat growers and Trueman’s Farmers’ Party colleague, Senator Jason Brown. All I wanted to do was ask a few questions, take a picture and head back to the office to write it up before deadline.

Brown was red-faced and under-slept. He had a drinker’s nose and a wearied face. He was clearly a politician’s politician. But before I could reach him I was stopped by Trueman’s warm left hand.

“Are you the journalist?” he asked shyly.

“Yes, that’s me, but I’m I sorry to say I don’t recognise you.

“ I’m Joh, the Farmers’ Party’s candidate here in Wright. We’ll have to shake like boy scouts with the left hand, my right’s out of action at the moment.”

I looked down at his right hand, covered in bandages and a large cast, and we shook with our lefts. It was a warm, welcoming handshake - firm, but soft. He seemed terrified of making a bad impression and went on to tell me about his wife, children, time as a country councillor and his favourite football team. He said he broke his hand while playing football in the backyard with his 18-year-old son.

Wright was a new electorate, born out of the population boom mining had brought to the region, it covered an area in Western Australia one and a half time bigger than Victoria. It was full of miners, farmers, money and dust.

As Trueman and I spoke the layers came off, he was sheepish and embarrassed about his hand. He openly admitted he didn’t know much about politics. He spoke in platitudes and then admitted they were light on detail, openly saying all curly questions “should be directed to the Senator”.

During the meeting Barley spoke with passion and knowledge, he won all the growers over, telling them he’d be their voice in Canberra. They were eating out his hand and Trueman could do little but look on and nod. Afterwards he admitted there was a lot of learning to be done.
 
At that time there was more than half a year to prepare for the election, and I saw Trueman countless times again. His picture started going up all around town and the rest of the electorate. People began to recognise his name and anyone who followed politics said without fail he was “a pretty good, honest bloke”. And largely he was. A flawed man certainly, not a statesman, and not possessing the huge ego of the big achievers, but a local genuinely committed to helping people.
 
The Gold Hills Agricultural Show came to town a few months our first meeting, and Trueman had dragged the latest big name from the Farmers’ Party to town. I was taking pictures of Charolais studs in the bullpen when he noiselessly slid up behind me.
“Hello again, how’s things with you?”
Startled, I let out a laugh and made a joke about his hand, but before he had the chance to answer, I saw something that took my breath away. It flashed by so quickly I was unsure it was even there. Even until now I’ve refused to talk about for fear I would be promptly straight-jacketed and hauled off to jail. Everything slowed down and in the short second before Trueman spoke I had an experience that seemed to last hours. I couldn’t get a clear look, but through the blinding white Western Australian sun, a sun so intense and powerful it turns the rocks by the Gold Hills river white, I saw a disc.

It hovered in the sky, and while it must have been hundreds of kilometres away from us, from my perspective it sat just above Trueman’s head. Its circular shadow, no more than half a metre in diameter, sped across the ground at lightning pace and settled on Trueman. It pulsed hot red and vanished. I looked him in the eyes, and they were positively reptilian.

A pause.
“Look here’s someone I’d like to put you in contact with, this is the federal minister for agriculture, Ian Weeney.”

“Good morning, and how are you? I’d like to thank you for your help with the campaign,” he said, extending his hand.

He shook mine so hard I thought he would crush it. It was a power play, it said ‘I’ve always been here, and I always will be here.

“Well thanks,” I said recovering.

I reached for Trueman and he gave me the exact same shake.

“Were here at the agricultural show to talk about the issues that affect people here in Wright – mining, jobs and agriculture,” he said.

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<![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->“We really care about the people here and we’re meeting with them to ask them what they want from us.”

No I narrowed my eyes, in shock more than anything.

“Joh, you’re really talking like a politician now,” I said with scoff and a drop of horror.

“Well, the election’s not far off and it’s critical, critical we don’t let Labor get a hold here."

He flashed his teeth to smile, and they looked as if they had been stolen from a wolf.
For the rest of the afternoon Trueman and McMillan continued to campaign and became all things to all people. With the graziers they spoke of cattle, with the growers of wheat and cotton and with the drunks they shared a racist joke. They were for everything, against everything, sympathetic to everything and hateful of everything. Their faces and bodies changed with each person they spoke to and by the end of the day they were unrecognisable.
 
In the next few months I saw Trueman at countless events, each less sincere, more staged and more expensive than the last. His billboards got bigger, his name better known and his stocks continued to grow and grow. He played his opponents out of the game, and off the record they all said they had no hope given the amount of money and resources the party had poured into Wright. Trueman was a real rising star, and owed it all to the party. I saw him at football games, one week wearing a Gold Hills scarf and a Borilla Grove the next. He told teachers they were the most valuable people in the community and businesses that they were his first priority. He told some farmers he wanted a single desk, and others that it was outdated. Each time I saw him he wore a different face.
 
The final time I ever saw Trueman was on election night in Gold Hills. He had been out campaigning all day his face was on every telephone post in town. Letters from his office peeked out of every letterbox and he and his teeth had even infiltrated my dreams.
The night before I had a dream where he dropped his silver hair on the ground, shed his tanned skin and stepped forward a hulking red monster covered in scales and trailing a forked tail. He proceeded to run through the business district, pulling off heads and sucking out votes.
 
When I spotted him in the flesh that final time he was standing in his campaign office in half-light cackling with his team and cracking champagne. Voting had only been running for two hours and he was already confirmed the winner. As soon as he saw me a calm came over him, he parted the sea of yes men and extended his right hand. His shake was crippling, and his skin as cool as the metal of a hospital gurney.

“I’d like to thank you for all your help in this campaign. I know as a journalist you had to remain impartial, but I really grew to trusssst you.”

I backed away. His head tilted to the side and his mouth fell open, I could hear the disc hovering above the building.

“I’d like to thank you for all your help in this campaign,” he said.
“I’d like to thank you for all your help in this campaign,” he said.
“I’d like to thank you for all your help in this campaign,” he said.
“I’d like to thank you for all your help in this campaign,” he said.
“I’d like to thank you for all your help in this campaign,” he said.

He was stuck in a loop. I ran from the building as quick as I could and sped back to my house with car tyres squealing. I boarded the windows and door and hid in my bathroom until morning.
 
The radio news bulletins said he won his seat with the biggest majority in the state, and he may even be offered a portfolio in his first term. I’ve never seen him in person since, and when I see him on television I can’t recognise him from any other candidate.