We don’t have to think any more, or imagine how things will play out; the death rites have revealed themselves to us over the longest decade. We who chronicle these eruptions can sense the inchoate rituals of encirclement and execution even before they become evident.

Malcolm Turnbull’s last stand was in his courtyard. The stone courtyard at the rear of the prime ministerial suite has become the designated place of final farewells. The courtyard is monumental in scale. It’s exposed, yet enclosed, surrounded by walls of fortress height and bulk. It radiates heat in the summer and the wind whips through it in the winter, when prime ministers stand at their lecterns, minus their coats and comforts, willing themselves not to shiver. Julia Gillard’s hands were always tinged blue in that courtyard during the winter, but the prime ministerial flesh refused to flail.