The House

by Tom Watson

  Phil throws down his pen. ‘Of course they will use it! The fact Lefiami investigating in the first place is all they need, me talking to her won’t make any difference. They’ll be briefing Peston and Kuenssberg over their “doubts” about me the second they think they can get away with it. The only way to do it is fight it publicly.’

  Ian sees he’s pushed him too far. He puts up his hands. ‘OK. Maybe you’re right. Such a ball-ache it’s happening right now. I’ll call her. And I’ll be here tonight.’

  He retreats, all but backs out of the door, and Phil inhales then exhales very slowly. Future leader. They’d said that about Jay once and look what happened to him. If Sabal and Lefiami hadn’t been in the gallery, he wouldn’t have made that mistake at the despatch box; if he hadn’t made that mistake he wouldn’t have left the Chamber angry and humiliated. Wouldn’t have spoken to that student as he had, wouldn’t be enjoying his hours in the sunshine of pundit approval now. Cause and effect, action and reaction. Luck. Chance.

  Chance did for Jay. He should have had a career, a shining future given that brain, his charm, his ambition. He could be on the front bench right now. But chance happened. Phil thinks about his wife embroidering at home, her favourite thing to do after a long day at work, one stitch leading to another: cut out one stitch and the whole thing might unravel. Is that how it was with Jay?

  He sighs and returns to the document. He will tell Lefiami the truth. He can stand by his actions. And the ones he can’t defend? There’s no way she knows anything about those.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday 20 September 2008

  Manchester Central Convention Complex

  Philip thanks his interviewee and takes off his lapel microphone to a smattering of not-really-even-trying-to-be-polite applause.

  He hands it back to the sound guy who has wandered onto the stage to reclaim it, and the projected image of his latest pamphlet disappears, replaced by a bright blue screen with AWAITING INPUT written on it. Phil’s co-author seems unbothered by the tiny audience and the bored, if not contemptuous, reception. But then, he’s a political science lecturer at Liverpool Uni, so probably used to small unengaged audiences.

  Phil gets up and steps off the low stage of meeting room seven. The lights come up and he notices Christine Armstrong sitting by herself in the second row. She stands as he comes forward, smiles.

  ‘That was interesting,’ she says, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her wide-legged trousers. They are bright red. She’s going to have to fake sincerity better than that if she’s to have a career in politics, Phil thinks.

  ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t get a bigger audience.’

  Owen had told him the start time of five-thirty was the only slot available in the secure zone, and he’d grabbed it. Stupid. He should have risked his luck in one of the fringe venues.

  ‘Or a more friendly one,’ Phil says, nodding towards a tight knot of staffers from the Public Sector and General Workers Union scarfing the free sandwiches at the back of the room. One, Coogan, looks over his shoulder at Phil and laughs.

  ‘Do you want to get a drink?’ he asks.

  Christine looks at her watch. ‘I’d better find Jasper. Later maybe? Are you leaving the zone?’

  Hope not Hate are holding their curry night near the Town Hall, but Phil doesn’t think he can face the fuss of leaving and coming back through security again, the queue of pissed-up delegates waiting for their takeaway kebabs to be X-rayed and their bags rustled through.

  He shakes his head and she offers him an encouraging smile, a touch on the arm. ‘Later then.’

  A few of the brutes watch her go. One says something, and Coogan guffaws so hard he almost chokes on his sandwich.

  Phil heads towards the table at the back of the room where the food and the neatly fanned copies of the pamphlets are laid out. The remaining sandwiches are beginning to curl and his pamphlets are already covered in crumbs.

  The arseholes are getting ready to go. Coogan saunters up to him, puts a meaty paw on his shoulder, breathes a day’s worth of free alcohol into his face.

  ‘Keir Hardie would spin in his grave listening to you. Like a top, he would. This is our party. We’re not doing Blairite-Tory-lite anymore, and if you think otherwise, you’ve got another thing coming.’

  He drains the dregs from his glass.

  ‘And your free wine tastes like piss.’

  He squeezes Phil’s shoulder too hard and lumbers off with his mates before Phil can think of anything to say. Idiots. Though he is right about the wine, and Coogan’s boss, Kieron Hyde, is famous for knowing his way around a wine list. Keir Hardie? Great – nineteenth-century solutions to twenty-first-century problems. He should have said that.

  ‘I have a question,’ a voice says. Phil turns round. It’s a journalist he vaguely recognises. Youngish woman. Well dressed with a no-nonsense air about her. She puts out her hand and Phil shakes it automatically. ‘Charlotte Cook, The Times. I’m doing the “colour” conference columns.’

  ‘Go on,’ Phil says.

  ‘I wanted to ask, who do you think would like your pamphlet more: Tony Blair or David Cameron?’ she asks.

  He brushes crumbs off the pamphlets that can be saved and abandons the grease-spotted ones. Starts loading them back into their box. She takes one off the top.

  ‘They are both welcome to read it. I wrote it to appeal to all market reformers.’

  She’s opening it, scanning the pages in front of her. ‘HEAD OF LABOUR THINK TANK APPEALS DIRECTLY TO CAMERON,’ she says. ‘Nice headline.’

  ‘Is that what I’m going to read in your column?’ Phil asks bitterly.

  She glances up. ‘Sorry, my love. You’re no use to me – not colourful enough. Yet. But I’m going to give your pamphlet to one of Cameron’s team. You’ll get more of an audience from them than you will from the meatheads here.’

  She smiles, it seems genuine, and then she walks off. It’s getting noisy out there. Delegates are deciding which fringe meetings to go to, which invitation-only parties they can gate-crash on the first floor of the Midland.

  Phil feels a bubble of excitement in his blood and wonders why. He realises, horrified, it’s excitement at a pathetic little scenario playing out in his head. One of Cameron’s people handing him the pamphlet. ‘Some interesting stuff in here, Dave.’ Dave reads, looking interested. Christ, the idea of Cameron reading his stuff actually makes Phil happy. His ideas falling on fertile ground. The new future of the centre ground of British politics. He swallows and tries to fold the lid of his box so it won’t spring open. If Owen ever suspected a thought like that had crossed Phil’s mind, he’d kill him. Then skin him.

  Phil dumps the pamphlets in his room, changes into his jeans and heads down to the bar. He spots Jay immediately. Georgina is sitting next to him, her hand on his shoulder, and at first Phil thinks it might be best to leave them to it; it looks pretty intense. But then Jay looks up, sees him and beckons him over.

  So Phil gets a round in, a bottle of white wine actually, and a random assortment of nuts in little ceramic pots as it looks like that’s the only dinner he’ll be getting this evening. He scoots into the booth.

  ‘Have you heard the latest stupid rumour about me?’ It’s the first thing out of Jay’s mouth. Phil catches Georgina’s eye over his shoulder. A sympathetic if slightly pained twitch of her mouth. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear with a free hand, then reaches for the fresh glass of wine like a woman who really needs a drink. Phil’s been told the story. It was the pre-event chatter while he was laying out his poor hopeful pamphlets.

  ‘Why aren’t you working on Alistair’s speech?’ Phil asks. ‘I heard it wasn’t finished yet.’

  Jay takes hold of his glass with two hands. ‘You have heard, then. Who told you? Was it Owen?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Phil lies. ‘And Owen is your friend. He wouldn’t spread stories about you.’

  ‘He res
ents me.’

  Phil snorts. ‘No, he doesn’t. He can be a bit rough around the edges, but he’s where he wants to be. Right in the thick of the fight. He’s having way too much fun at the moment to spend any time resenting you.’ That might not be entirely true. He adds in an exaggerated drawl, ‘Though it does take a while for him to forgive one for going to Oxford.’

  ‘So he does resent me.’

  Phil drops the posh voice. ‘Swear to God, Jay, I don’t believe he’s thinking much about you at all this week. He’s too bloody busy.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t anyone in the team who started the story. At least, I don’t think it was Simon or even Melissa.’

  ‘Why aren’t you working on the speech?’ Phil tries again. Three weeks ago the Chancellor’s conference speech was all that Jay could talk about. He thought he’d get a couple of lines in it and was ready to get them embossed and framed if he did.

  ‘I’m going for a piss,’ he says instead of answering, and gets up unsteadily. Georgina saves the wine bottle and Phil manages to stop the little bowl of cashews spilling onto the floor. They watch him wander off.

  Georgina sighs and takes another long pull at her wine. ‘He says they sent him out to “cool down” a bit. Honestly, I don’t know what’s up with him. It’s just a stupid story.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Phil asks quietly, like he thinks Jay might storm back and berate him for even asking. Georgina gives him a twisted half-smile.

  ‘I think he shoved a note about something totally unimportant onto Alistair’s desk when he was demanding the Icelandic banks stop pulling their assets out of the UK and got his nose spanked. That’s what I heard, anyway. I mean, I can imagine him breaking in like that when he gets excited. He says it didn’t happen and now he thinks there is a campaign against him.’

  Phil leans back against the banquette. ‘He’s his own worst enemy.’ He chews a handful of nuts. Salt and fat and booze. All major food groups covered.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Then she holds up her hand. ‘No, actually. Don’t. I’m sick of the subject. Tell me about your pamphlet. How did it go?’

  He tells her, and her immediate sympathy feels like a blessing.

  ‘Those guys! They can hardly tie their own shoelaces. Coogan only has his job because his dad is a big hitter in our North West branches. His father is a sort of an old-world chivalrous gangster type.’

  ‘Really?’ Phil says, eating more cashews.

  She wide-eyes him. ‘Oh, yeah. He saw me getting hassle from a drunk shop steward in the pub after a meeting and offered to have his crew leave a dead dog on the bloke’s doorstep.’

  ‘Wow.’ Phil likes to think he knows the world. Not like he grew up in the Ritz, but some of Georgina’s stories still shock him.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ Georgina exclaims.

  He twists round to follow her gaze and spots Jay by the bar. He is waving his hands at two men who have their elbows on the polished wood. They look a mix of baffled and disgusted.

  ‘What now?’ Phil says.

  ‘The guy on the right is a new policy guy at Number 10,’ Georgina mutters and downs the rest of the wine in her glass. ‘I have to get Jay away before he says something … ’

  People are turning to look and Jay raises his voice so they can all hear, even with the slight slur in his voice.

  ‘This is my career, and you dare just laugh at me … ’

  Georgina has half stood up. It’s not just the Union hard cases who can be chivalrous.

  ‘No, you smooth things over with them.’ Phil necks the rest of his glass and casts a regretful glance at the crisps. ‘You’ve done your stint. I’ll deal with Jay.’

  He’s rewarded with a grateful smile. He walks across the bar and puts his hand on Jay’s arm.

  ‘Come on, Jay.’

  Jay shakes him off. ‘I need to know who’s spreading the crap, man. I’m sick of it!’

  ‘Your friend’s being very rude. Please take him away,’ Policy Guy says with a sneer. ‘And he’s drunk.’

  He lifts his hand to attract the barman’s attention. If he hadn’t done that, it would have been OK. It wasn’t.

  ‘Don’t you turn your back on me!’

  Jay shoots out a hand, grabbing Policy Guy by the shoulder. He swings his arm back, elbow raised, catching Jay on his chin just as Phil is yanking hard on Jay’s wrist.

  Jay recoils from the elbow blow and staggers backwards against the chairs of drinkers grouped round a table just behind him. His foot catches in the straps of a pile of tote bags someone’s snaffled from the exhibition space. Phil lets go instinctively and Jay goes over backwards, arms flailing. Glasses fly off the table as it overturns. Chairs tip over as delegates try and get out of the way and Jay is on his back on the floor, pulling himself onto his elbows. Policy Guy is staring at the wreckage. Smash and clatter, curses and gasps … then a moment of silence.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Phil takes Jay’s hand, hauls him to his feet then shoves him towards the door. He hears scattered laughter and cat calls.

  ‘We’re leaving, Jay. Now!’

  Jay half-resists, then throws his hands in the air and strides off.

  ‘I barely touched the stupid boy!’

  Phil glances back. Policy Guy is proclaiming his innocence at the bar. Delegates are setting the table right, examining their clothes for red-wine stains. Staff appear with cloths and dust-pans and expressions of concern.

  Georgina is in the thick of it, hand on the shoulder of a woman dabbing at her ruined blouse. As Phil watches, she turns from her to the Policy Guy offering apologies, contrition, absolution. Damn it! Kieron Hyde and Coogan are off on one side. Not helping, of course, just smirking and watching Georgina deal with the mess.

  Thank God for her. Phil hurries off after Jay before he loses him in the crowd.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday 8 March 2022

  Owen feels like he drank the whole bottle of Talisker when he wakes up in his flat. He hauls himself out of bed and moves through his usual routine. The Today programme on, scanning the news sites and marking up stories with his Apple Pencil; shower, shave, coffee.

  All the time he’s aware of Jay’s file squatting where he left it on the side table late last night. It keeps snagging on his vision as he moves around the flat. Does he just leave it there? Glowing radioactively between the armchairs? It feels wrong with it out in the open like this.

  He picks it up and carries it to the bedroom, puts it in the bottom of his chest of drawers. He still has the poster from his first campaign at university up on the wall, alongside one from his first parliamentary campaign. They stare down at him. He feels a fool hiding the file, but leaving it out doesn’t seem possible either.

  He is so close. Twelve years out of government while the world goes to hell, but he’s rising in the party again – and the party is ahead in the polls. He could be in power. He could actually do something more than hold the government’s feet to the fire on the committee and send letters on House of Commons stationery. And now, just when it might be possible, his entire career, everything he’s worked for, waited for, is going to be snatched away. It’s zero tolerance on bullying in the Labour Party now, and he cheered when he heard that. Celebrated. Never thought they’d hang this on him. Never thought they could.

  He slams the drawer closed, making it stick so he has to shake the damn thing into place. What on earth has Christine got him into now? He reaches the hall and realises he’s forgotten his wallet. Goes back for it and sees he almost left his laptop bag too. He’s rattled.

  He leaves, jogs down the stairs and then heads towards parliament through the back streets to the river and along to Westminster Bridge. The file pulses in his mind, as if he can feel the heat of it, radiating out from the shirt drawer.

  The morning is warm already, one of those accidental spring days that feels like a blessing and promise after the dragging dark days of February. He hadn’t known Jay was going to therapy. Had Phil known? Had Georgina? Why hadn’t
Jay told them?

  But he’s read enough to know the answer to that one. The notes make it clear Jay was convinced Owen was out to get him. That he was racist, classist, homophobic. That he was trying to destroy Jay out of pure envy. That he was orchestrating some sort of campaign. A plot. Owen can’t stop hearing the words from the file, repeating in Jay’s voice: I thought he was my friend, but he’s destroying me, just for being who I am.

  He catches the fermented-seaweed-and-salt scent of the Thames at low tide on the air. Not many people on the bridge yet this morning. A tour group in matching face masks. Their guide in bright blue gloves is talking into his microphone; some of the group fiddle with their earpieces. Owen swerves round them, manages to nod his good mornings to the security staff at Portcullis House. He grabs a coffee from the modern, breezy barista area and pounds up to his office.

  The file is wrong. Owen has never bullied anyone, not even in school. And he hopes he’s not racist, classist or homophobic either. Well, maybe on the class side he hasn’t worked that hard at understanding the hurt felt by rich self-entitled arseholes. And sure, he hasn’t always been the most patient of men. He isn’t someone who invites his staff or colleagues to share their problems with him over hot chocolate and baking. Wait, why is he thinking of hot chocolate?

  Of course. The house in Lambeth. Coming in one evening and seeing Georgina feeding Jay with fat slices of cake and nursery drinks. Just like Nanny used to make.

  Stop it, Owen, they were neither of them that posh, he thinks, just a lot posher than me. The homely smell. The way they both went silent as he came in. A daggers look from Jay, a sympathetic grimace from Georgina. He’d grabbed something from the fridge and retreated to his room feeling oddly spurned.

  He hadn’t bullied Jay! The idea was nonsense. Jay had recovered a bit after making an arse of himself at conference. One of the special advisors had read him the riot act. Why wasn’t that in the bloody therapist’s report?

  ‘Owen?’

  ‘What?’ He re-emerges in 2022. Swimming up through years of loss, austerity, Brexit, the vicious feuding, the world tremor of the virus, and finds his researcher hovering in the door, hands crossed over the pad across her chest. She looks concerned.