The House

by Tom Watson

  I bet Emily is having a nightmare of a morning, Owen thinks.

  ‘If anyone can manage, Georgie can.’

  And she does. Trending on Twitter within twenty minutes of standing up. Gets the Chancellor on the back foot on Universal Credit. The way she raises an eyebrow when he’s claiming transparency on the recruitment of new contact tracers and customs officials becomes a meme. Mid-afternoon, the Daily Mail publishes a story online about her for tomorrow’s edition with flattering quotes from friends and pictures from a shoot she did with Hello! last month. Owen is glad the pundits have turned away from Phil. Tries to be happy for Georgina. She is still in the Chamber when Owen leaves Westminster to meet Charlotte Cook.

  The pub is huge. Wooden floorboards and a mix of booths, tables and beat-up leather armchairs. Twenty different beers advertised on a chalkboard and menus for pies, or pies with mash and mushy peas, are scattered round the flat surfaces.

  The two bar staff break off their conversation as Owen approaches the bar. His basic parliamentary uniform, charcoal suit and tie, makes him feel conspicuous and over-dressed. The back half of the pub is busy with men crouched over boardgames. All in T-shirts, most with beards. Dungeons and Dragons maybe? The quiet is punctuated by the regular rattle of dice.

  ‘Are you Charlotte’s friend?’ the woman behind the bar says. She has diamonds in her ears and studding in her nose.

  ‘Yep,’ Owen admits.

  ‘She’ll be back in a tick. Just nipped out to take a call. She said you should try the Kernel Pale Ale.’

  ‘Great. Pint, then.’

  One of the bearded boardgame players wanders up and her colleague takes his order for various pies.

  ‘This place been here long? I used to live near here. Don’t remember it.’

  She sets down his pint. ‘Yeah, well, since 2012. It’s our tenth anniversary this year. Bloody hell, did we pick the wrong decade to go into business.’

  ‘You’ve made it, though? What’s Charlotte drinking?’

  ‘By the skin of our teeth. One more lockdown and we are done. For now, we get to struggle on a bit longer. She’s drinking mineral water.’

  ‘Let’s get one ready for her, then.’

  She is setting it down on the bar when Charlotte returns. Her hair is tied back and she’s wearing jeans and a loose scarlet sweater. Owen prefers it to her usual Westminster wear. She catches him looking.

  ‘At home writing up my column today,’ she says. ‘How are you, Owen?’

  ‘You tell me, Charlotte.’

  They carry their drinks to a table in the evening sun away from the bar and the boardgames. Owen wipes the table and his hands.

  ‘So this isn’t just a social call?’ she says as she sits down. ‘I admit, I didn’t think it was, after seeing you and your friend being chased out of church. But what do I get for confiding in you about whispers I may or may not have heard?’

  ‘My sincere gratitude.’

  ‘Oh, aren’t I a lucky girl?’ She pokes at the ice in her drink with a straw. The breeze through the window pulls at her hair. ‘If it was a reporter I liked, or a colleague, I wouldn’t tell you anything. But I think this Barns man is a malicious hack. He’s been calling everyone. I would say you are in a fair amount of trouble.’

  He sips his pint. ‘You know, you could stop all this by just telling Chloe Lefiami who leaked the minutes of that meeting to you, Charlotte.’

  ‘Such ancient history. Anyway, I heard you say at the time Jay leaked it, Owen.’

  Owen is startled to hear her say it, then he remembers a night in the Red Lion after Glastonbury. She had sought him out to ask what had happened, and he had told her. Perhaps he had wanted to make her feel it was her fault, that she should have rejected the leak. Unreasonable of him, but then he had been in an unreasonable mood.

  ‘I was sure it was Jay. The draft version of the minutes only existed on his computer. But I’ve been thinking about him, the house, and now I’m not so sure.’

  She keeps poking at the ice. ‘About what, Owen?’

  ‘Before the leak, Jay was pretty casual with his laptop. He’d leave it all the time in the dining room if he was working there, or on the kitchen table. We’d all just grab it if we wanted to google something. No lock or code on it. Treated it like communal property. Then, after the leak, when he got his new one, that changed. Never let it out of his sight and he had to type in a passcode every time he opened it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Maybe that means it wasn’t him who leaked the report? Changing his security habits like that … why bother if he leaked it himself? But it sounds like what a man might do if he’d been burned. Did he send those minutes to you?’

  She looks up, weary and amused. ‘Owen, I’ve been reporting on this snake pit since you were in short trousers. If you seriously think you’re going to bat your eyelids and get a source out of me, you have another thing coming. Perhaps some clever pumpkin sent them to me anonymously. It was possible to set up a gmail account even in those dim and distant days.’

  ‘Is that how they sent the minutes to you?’

  She crosses her legs and leans against the wall, facing the game players on the other side of the room.

  ‘You know, I can still remember that ear-bashing you gave me over that report. I think if I hadn’t included Kieron’s line you’d have come straight over to the office, shaking your little fists.’

  ‘You didn’t feel bullied, then?’

  She laughs, a sharp bark. ‘Bless you, dear boy. You were just doing your job. Remember, I had reported through the Alastair Campbell years. You had nothing on him.’ Then she looks at him sideways. ‘If I tell you something, Owen, will you promise not to repeat it round Westminster? I do not want my reputation damaged.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘I do feel sorry for you. Actual human sympathy! From what I hear, the story is designed to do maximum damage to you personally, and I honestly don’t think you deserve it. Believe it or not, I felt sorry for Jay too.’

  ‘Not the revelation I was hoping for, Charlotte, but thank you.’

  ‘So do you want to hear how our friend Edward Barns is spinning his story to the Chronicle?

  Owen’s been trying not to think about it, doesn’t want to hear it all said into the quiet, slightly sour-smelling pub to the distant tumble of dice, the easy whoosh of the beer pulled into a glass. He has to know.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘They can’t decide between the class hatred, racist or homophobic angle. But the story is that you systematically bullied Jay into a breakdown, destroyed his reputation and career, then threw him to the wolves at Glastonbury.’

  Owen closes his eyes. And this is before they’ve seen Jay’s file.

  ‘There aren’t any wolves at Glastonbury.’

  ‘That’s not what the average Chronicle reader thinks,’ she says. ‘And then the editors love the idea of the houseshare. You and Phil Bickford and Georgina in the house with Jay. A sort of “where are they now?” Or a political Big Brother house. Wild parties. Georgina’s the survivor, Phil’s the guy who saw the light, Jay is the victim and you are the villain.’

  A good story. And just enough truth in it. He wishes he could go back, grab his former self by the collar and tell him to talk to his boss, to talk to Jay, to stop thinking he was so bloody clever he could just sort things out on the quiet. Perhaps his success managing the floor votes at the conference had made him cocky.

  ‘Christ! It’s such bullshit, Charlotte! We were so fucking square in that house. I didn’t bully Jay. He was my friend.’

  He can feel guilt beginning to corrode his thoughts, though.

  ‘Like I said, Owen. I’m sorry. Also happy to put your side of the story, should you wish to confide in me.’

  He shakes his head. If he just withdraws the question, this will all go away. But Charlotte is a proper journalist. If he says anything to her it will be reported.

  The hanging basket outside the window s
wings as a pigeon lands on it then flies away. The Number 1 bus glimmers by on the main road, just visible through the urban landscape, the Victorian townhouses, the yellow-brick council flats, the multi-coloured postmodern blocks with their tiny balconies.

  Owen is silent. He is thinking through those pages of notes again.

  ‘You should talk to Phil.’

  ‘What?’ Owen has an edge of disgust in his voice.

  ‘I said,’ Charlotte repeats with exaggerated patience, ‘you should talk to Phil. Compare notes. Isn’t it time to get over your issues? You were good friends and it’s been twelve years.’

  ‘Thirteen and he betrayed us.’

  ‘Come along, Owen. I’ve seen you chewing the fat with Tory MPs.’

  She is looking at him with her eyebrows raised. The ‘it’s all just a game, isn’t it?’ expression which drives him mad. Politics is not just a game. People protect themselves pretending it is, but what happens in Westminster makes and destroys lives.

  ‘They don’t know any better. But Phil stabbed us in the back, Charlotte. We knew that Cameron was just another Tory bastard who thought the poor were suffering on purpose to annoy him. But Phil went trotting over there anyway because the cool kids in the Labour Party didn’t want to read his bloody pamphlets. And he—’

  ‘And that’s why you beat him up?’

  Owen slams down his pint. What’s left of it. A couple of the dice players turn round.

  ‘I didn’t beat him up, Charlotte. I landed one punch and he fell over. He bloody deserved it, too.’

  ‘I was told Georgina had to pull you off him.’

  ‘Not true.’

  She finishes her drink. ‘I’m rather inclined to believe you. Shame we are on background – that line about Cameron is quite amusing. But honestly, Owen, Phil is a better fit in the Conservatives than he ever was going to be in the Labour Party after Blair.’

  Owen rubs his thumb down the side of his pint glass. A yell goes up from the other side of the room. Some dark enemy defeated. She waits for him to speak, but he feels as if he has run out of words.

  She stands up. ‘Thank you for the drink and if you do ever want to speak on the record, you know where I am. And I am sorry, Owen. Good luck.’

  She leaves him staring into the dregs of his beer.

  Chapter 22

  Friday 22 May 2009

  Owen is still up, reading at the kitchen table so as not to disturb Christine when Jay comes in and announces he’s been fired.

  ‘Or let go, as they call it! They said they were restructuring the team, but I think it’s all been done to get rid of me. I can’t fight it anymore, Owen. I can’t … ’

  He sits at the table and drops his head between his hands. Owen puts down his book and moves his chair round the table and drops his arm around Jay’s shaking shoulders.

  ‘Jay, I’m so sorry. That’s fucking awful.’

  ‘This year has just been a nightmare. I’ve never been fired before, never failed.’

  For once Owen isn’t irritated by a statement like that. He feels for him.

  ‘I got fired from a call centre once.’ He searches for something better, funnier, to say. ‘And did I ever tell you how I got fired from my first job? I tried to get a better staff discount at the newsagent’s when I was delivering papers.’

  Jay snorts. ‘That’s very you.’

  ‘It’s the same shop my mum works in now. She has a bet with herself about how often in a week she can mention my job title to the guy who fired me. If I’ve had a meeting in Downing Street, she awards herself double points every time she gets that in too.’

  He lifts his head. ‘Your mum rocks.’

  ‘Yeah, she does.’

  Jay tries to wipe away his tears, then he gives up and starts crying again. Owen finally realises he is messy drunk. He fetches him a pint of water and kitchen towel to wipe his face, stands over him until he’s got all the water down him.

  ‘It’ll all turn out right in the end, Jay. I swear it will.’

  ‘Kieron’s got it in for me … Someone said at the bar it’s down to him I’m getting blocked for seats. The utter bastard.’

  ‘You’ve been working too hard, Jay. Look, it’s Glastonbury in a month. Can you afford to just take the time off? Or take a couple of weeks before you start looking for a new job, at least. You’ve got to rest, get away from Westminster. Forget Kieron.’

  Jay lifts his head again. His eyes are darkly shadowed. ‘You don’t understand, Owen. Westminster is the only place I’ve ever wanted to be, and this didn’t just happen – someone has done this to me. It’s a campaign, a campaign against me. How can I fight it if I don’t know where it’s coming from? And you and Phil never listen. You just roll your eyes like I’m insane or something. Only Georgie listens. I can’t … I just can’t anymore. God, I want to get out of my own head!’

  Owen rubs Jay’s back. ‘Didn’t I just tell you? Glastonbury in a month!’

  He half-laughs. ‘Yeah, I’ll get out of my head there. Fuck it, now I’m sacked I might as well get out of my head all the time.’

  ‘All right, mate, come on. Let’s get you to bed.’

  Owen leads him upstairs and gets him into his room then fetches another glass of water to put by his bed. Jay is asleep by the time he gets back.

  Fired. God, that’s cold. Surely Kieron will back off now. He turns off the light and closes the door as quietly as he can.

  Chapter 23

  Thursday 10 March 2022

  Owen finds he is walking round the back of Elephant and Castle and tries to slow his pace. Relax his shoulders, lift his head. It takes effort. He turns left and twenty minutes later, the fumes of beer and anger dissipating a little, discovers that muscle memory has led him to the end of the street where he had lived with Jay and Phil and Georgina.

  The corner shop has become a Costcutter, though the posters in the window advertising deals on washing-up liquid and canned tomatoes don’t look much different. The street itself has smartened up. The town houses which had been converted into flats are, by and large, single-family homes again. The windows and doors are freshly painted and in the narrow front gardens the bins are surrounded by purplish shale or gravel, box hedges and spiky palms. The paths have been repaired.

  He finds himself outside the house itself and stops. It isn’t just Phil who knows what it was really like in this house. Georgina knows too. And this is Georgina’s house now. Georgina and Kieron’s. They bought it after Phil left and the market was low. Let Owen carry on living there through his break-up with Christine and through the 2010 election.

  He glances up and down the street. No photographers – though Owen saw photographs on the news sites of Georgina leaving home this morning, before her triumph holding the government’s feet to the fire. Her children, a boy and a girl both under ten, had come down the steps to say goodbye and the picture showed her crouching to hug them. FIGHTING FOR OUR CHILDREN’S FUTURE, the headline above it had said on the Mirror website, and in the background at the door was the out-of-focus frame of Kieron Hyde.

  Owen is ringing the doorbell before he’s even made the decision to drop by. He’s been to parties at the house since Georgina and Kieron remodelled, but didn’t pay much attention to what they had changed. He remembers pale walls and a tasteful mix of modern and classic art on the walls. Their boy had taken him upstairs to show him his old room. The wall where Owen had his junk-shop dresser with framed pictures of Jarvis Cocker and Clement Attlee and a cluster of iPod wires and orphaned chargers was now painted with a blue whale mid-dive through a cartoonish ocean. Owen and the boy agreed, solemnly, it was an excellent room with many advantages over the larger one his sister had, then Owen had returned to the party.

  When was that? Three, four years ago? Just before the 2019 election. A good evening. The conversation rich with gallows humour and despair about the leadership and the grip the mop-haired Prime Minister had, against all logic, acquired over the British people. That was back i
n the days when Brexit was their tragedy. Happy times, even though they hadn’t known it. Perhaps a dozen of those guests, Christine included, lost their seats as Johnson romped home and the leadership insisted they had won the argument. Like a guy left bloody in the car park after a bar fight who insists he’s made his point.

  ‘Owen?’ Kieron Hyde opens the door. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  Good question. ‘Sorry, Kieron, was just passing by and couldn’t resist the temptation. I guess this investigation is making me nostalgic.’

  ‘Come in and have a drink. Georgina’s still at the House, but the kids are fed and staring at computer screens in their rooms and I wouldn’t mind the company.’

  Owen accepts and follows him through the hallway. Same but different. All lighter colours, spotless. None of the usual detritus in the hall you’d expect in a house with young children. The kitchen has changed a lot. The back wall is now a solid sheet of glass, with a huge rustic kitchen table sitting between it and the kitchen proper. Oak cabinets, an oversized range, copper pans hanging from hooks on a sort of rack, and over the table a chandelier, but made in metal and shaped like a mass of oak leaves. Beyond, the glass uplighter highlights different plants and bits of statuary in the gathering dark.

  ‘Nice,’ Owen says.

  ‘Red or white?’

  Owen opts for red and watches Kieron as he lifts down the correct glasses and gets to work on a bottle of something French with a waiter’s corkscrew. Owen hasn’t seen Kieron for years. Not to talk to at least. He must be pushing sixty now and looks thin rather than trim. His hair is still thick, but almost completely white, and his jeans hang loosely on his hips.

  Owen remembers how bloody scary he seemed in 2008, when it looked like he was certain to be the next general secretary of the PSGWU, surrounded by his hometown minions, a pint in his hand, loud in his approval and disapproval. The sort of man who could send you flying across the room with a pat on the back. An eye for the ladies … who had said that about him? Not Georgina.

  Owen had first heard rumours they were ‘seeing’ each other shortly after Christmas from a pissed-up MP who had noticed Georgina coming out of the office looking flustered and found Kieron red-faced and smug.