by Tom Watson
‘The stuff about Christine causing problems is interesting. Did you check it out at all?’
There’s a reason she’s got this rich. She doesn’t miss much. Phil looked it up in the car: the question about medical data lying unanswered on the order paper, then withdrawn just before Owen sent him the email.
‘That’s the only thing I can see out of the ordinary.’
‘Go and talk to him again. This weekend, while you are both out of London. Talk about what happened to Jay, about why you left. Confess.’
He stabs at his dinner. ‘It would be good to actually see something of my family.’
She snorts. ‘Breakfast with the twins at the weekend and you’ll change your mind pretty fast. Go up after your surgery. Honestly, there’s a football match and a birthday party during the afternoon. It’s a taxi duty Saturday. I mean, as long as your civil servants don’t discover you have a few free hours a month we’ll be fine. Then you can have all the fun of dragging James and Alex to church while I have a lie-in on Sunday.’ He nods. Not agreeing to the plan exactly but agreeing to think about it. ‘What about this medical data thing? What do you think?’
He shrugs. Still hurting and subverbal.
She pushes away the takeaway box and fishes out her iPad. Looks up Maundrill Consulting and starts reading while he finishes his meal and refills their wine glasses.
‘God, they are very, very quiet about who their clients are, aren’t they?’ she says at last. ‘All very vague, industry leader stuff. And they aren’t trying to sell themselves here. I get the impression you need to be invited to even ask for their services.’
‘The whole thing sounds crazy. Owen blaming his troubles on this?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Not completely crazy if they see the question as a threat to their interests. He’s on the Digital, Media, Culture and Sport Select Committee too, I see. Would they oversee data security?’
‘It might fall within their remit. Their discussions are confidential though until they’ve decided what they are going to report on.’
‘So if he asked about NHS data security there it would probably leak.’
Sara has learned a lot about Westminster since Phil was elected.
‘Perhaps, but it still seems a stretch.’
‘That health data has any number of commercial applications. And geo-tagged info can tell you an enormous amount about a place.’
‘Such as?’
‘Imagine if you are choosing a place to build a factory, or another bloody distribution centre. This sort of information will tell you a lot more about your potential employees and the social infrastructure than the glossy promos of smiling market traders you’ll get from the council.’ She sips her wine, still reading. ‘Seriously, corporations will pay millions for that sort of analysis. And that’s before you even start thinking about how valuable this stuff is to the insurance industry. Who’s had the virus? What’s the likely vaccine uptake? You can tell that by seeing who gets vaccinations for childhood diseases already. What are the rates of diabetes? And now the government are encouraging employers to offer private health insurance to their staff, this data is going to get more and more valuable. Certain locations will mean higher premiums.’
She pushes the iPad aside. ‘Darling, I don’t want to end up with my head in my hands again, but shouldn’t you know about this sort of thing?’
He sighs. ‘It was decided the secondary and commercial use of data would not be overseen by my department.’
‘Hmm.’ She invests the noise with considerable cynicism.
‘So, it’s plausible? That just asking the question would send certain concerns after Owen? To shut him down?’
She waves her hand, taking in their home, the imported French wine, the shining appliances and well-stocked fridge. ‘Information is king, darling.’ She looks at her wine glass. ‘You know that as well as anyone.’
He reaches across the table, takes her hand.
‘I am so, so sorry I didn’t tell you.’
She traces a line on the back of his hand and is silent for what feels like a long time before she answers. ‘You were ashamed, Philip. And sometimes shame can make us do terrible things.’
Chapter 29
Saturday 12 March 2022
Phil drives north. It takes him three hours. According to his Facebook page, Owen is due to finish his afternoon surgery in the remains of the local shopping centre in half an hour. Phil parks and finds a bench with a view of the front entrance. He doesn’t want to read on his iPad here. Too many people crossing back and forth across the flagged square look pinched and hungry. Tracksuits, pound-shop blouses, and shopping trolleys that double as a sort of walking frame. He buys a thriller from one of the charity shops and tries to read it while keeping an eye on the entrance.
This is stupid. What if one of Owen’s people spots him and wants to know why he’s here? What if they leak this unannounced visit to the press? What if he ends up having to defend the latest Budget, actually standing in a half-shuttered high street with a camera in his face?
He feels like an idiot. He tries to shrug off the sensation and concentrate on his book. It half works, then a movement catches his eye.
The security guard checking IDs before he lets Owen’s constituents into the surgery is having problems. A woman, late middle age with a floral shopping bag at her side, wants in and her name is not on the list. Phil lifts his head.
‘But I’m hungry!’ she says, her voice rising. ‘The kids are back from their dad’s tomorrow and there’s nothing in the house.’
The guard says something to her and she backs away, shaking her head.
‘I’m not filling in another fucking form! Not another!’
The guard tries again.
‘What am I supposed to do? Can you tell me that? I’ve had my parcels! I’ve been everywhere. I just walked two miles here in these cheap-arse shoes because I can’t afford the bus, and you won’t even let me in?’
People are looking. The security guard touches the phone strapped to his arm.
She steps away from him into the bare desert of concrete flags. Someone has drawn a series of messy rainbows in chalk over them. Phil can’t remember when they last had an outbreak round here.
She’s crying. Ugly crying. ‘Fine! Fucking arrest me then, you cunts! What have I got to lose?’
And she drops to her knees on the paving stones and rainbows. ‘You think we’re animals! So feed the animals! Feed me!’
She’s screaming it. Phil notices her hair is brushed, her clothes clean. Like his mum on her way to Iceland when he was a kid. She might only have a fiver in her pocket, but her blouse would be ironed. The woman holds up her arms, her head thrown back. People around the edge of the square are turning to stare.
‘I missed one appointment! I called ahead and they sanctioned me anyway!’
The words stop, or they stop being understandable. A tearing yell bubbles up from deep in her throat. Then she draws breath and screams.
Inside the old furniture store, Owen hears the scream, but not the words.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Parker,’ he says to the elderly man sitting opposite him. ‘I better go and see what’s going on. You stay where you are.’ Mr Parker looks confused, deflated. ‘I’ll be back. I promise.’
Marcie, his constituency agent, shakes her head. ‘Owen! Don’t! The police will be coming. Derek can handle it.’
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he says. Yes, his security guard probably can handle it, but Owen is twitchy anyway. The store still smells of cheap carpet fluff. He needs air. And for God’s sake, he’s the MP. He can’t just hide. Too many politicians do that. He puts a hand on Mr Parker’s shoulder as he passes and squeezes, hoping it reassures him that he will be back. He feels the slight shock in Mr Parker’s body, and wonders when he was last touched.
‘Owen!’
He turns back. ‘At least take your panic button!’ Marcie lobs it across the hall to him and he catches it. Sticks
it in his pocket. He hates the bloody thing, can’t look at it without thinking of 2016.
He walks across the old showroom, nods to the people waiting at the back of the hall. Liam is there, at one of the formica tables with a fan of Citizens Advice leaflets in front of him, talking to a woman with a baby on her lap through a handful of Universal Credit forms. He raises his eyebrows. Need me? Owen gives a micro-shake of his head.
He steps outside, blinded by the spring sunshine bouncing off the flagstones for a second, then sees the woman on her knees and hears the ugly throat-tearing cry again.
She looks like a painting. Something medieval, a wood-carved pietà, her empty shopping bag across her knees.
Derek semi-blocks him. Politely done, but it’s still a block.
‘Didn’t have an appointment. Says she’s talked to the Citizens Advice people already. Stay here, Mr McKenna. Police are coming.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Don’t know. She said she’s hungry, got sanctioned. I told her this isn’t a food bank. Tried to give her the office number but she just went off on one. Please, Owen. Just let the police handle it. They know it’s your surgery. They’ll be quick.’
Yeah. Everybody wants to make sure Owen is safe. A young woman holding the hand of a toddler is standing opposite and watching them, horrified. She takes a step towards the woman.
‘Not quick enough,’ Owen says. ‘I’ll be fine. Just watch my back, will you?’
He walks cautiously towards the woman. Her eyes are open but he’s not sure she’s seeing anything. He can’t see any sign of a weapon, but then how could he tell?
He crouches down a couple of feet from her. ‘Ma’am?’
She reaches out for him, the movement sudden and wild, with a sort of groan.
‘I can’t … I can’t do any more,’ she says with suddenly clarity. He tries to control the flinch, feels the warmth of her breath on his face, its sour stench.
Derek is jogging towards them. Owen holds up his hand. ‘I’m fine, Derek. Stay where you are.’ The footsteps stop.
‘Ma’am, what’s your name? I’m Owen.’
She can’t focus. Her mouth works sideways for a second or two, then she seems, finally, briefly, to see him.
‘Fuck you,’ she says, crisp and clear. She collapses sideways. Strings cut.
Owen makes a grab for her, gets his arm around her shoulder before her head hits the concrete.
‘Derek! Ambulance!’ Owen shouts, and wonders what in God’s name he should do next.
‘Owen, mate.’
Liam – and he’s got a seat cushion from the furniture store in one hand. He crouches beside Owen and slides it under her head so they can lower her onto it. Liam takes her weight. Not that there’s much to her, just that Owen’s in this clumsy half-lunge, holding her, and is in danger of going over himself. The weight of responsibility. Owen twitches her skirt so it covers her legs. Her skin is cold.
He takes off his jacket and lays it across her.
‘Do you know her?’ he asks. ‘Derek said she’s been to Citizens Advice.’
‘Never seen her before in my life,’ Liam replies and leans in to take her pulse. ‘Thank fuck she’s still breathing.’ Owen feels the light on his face, he hadn’t even heard the sirens. Ambulance, paramedics running towards them. A pair of police officers. Not again. No long coats, he thinks, his brain feeding him scraps of Larkin poetry. What are days for? Two of them. Young. A girl with her hair scraped back off her face, a bloke, older, Asian.
‘We’ll take care of her, boss. If you’d just step back.’
Familiar and strange. Not déjà vu, but a mirror of another moment. We have suffered a sea-change. Owen looks up and thinks he’s seen another ghost. A glitch in the matrix. His mind is playing crappy tricks on him.
He gets awkwardly to his feet, steps back out of the way.
‘Is she OK?’
The male paramedic glances back over his shoulder. ‘She’ll be all right. Bess, fetch the gurney, will you? This yours, sir?’
He passes Owen his suit jacket and whips out a fleece blanket from his bag, which he arranges over the woman.
‘There we go, love.’
Owen hangs the jacket over his arm, looks round the sparse crowd again. He can’t decide if he’s looking for a familiar profile or camera phones. It’s going to be a story. How will it play? Dammit, can’t he just be here for a second without thinking of the politics. Always the bloody politics.
‘Fella?’ Liam. ‘Me and Derek have got this covered. You get on with the surgery. Folks are waiting.’
Owen looks at the policeman, who nods. ‘Go ahead. I don’t need you at the moment, sir.’
‘She wasn’t … she didn’t try to attack me or anything like that,’ Owen says. It sounds weak.
‘Thank you, sir.’
But he can’t leave until he sees the paramedics lift the woman onto the stretcher, strap her in. They’ve given her an oxygen mask and her eyes are fluttering open.
He thinks of the votes he has taken since he became an MP, the policies he campaigned for when he was at Labour HQ. The compromises, the failures. Phil.
Did I do this? Do I blame myself? Do I have to blame myself?
They are putting her into the back of the ambulance.
Did I make this happen? Was Jay my fault?
He stays where he is a second longer, then pulls himself together and heads back towards the office and Mr Parker, his worries about his wife’s care home, trying to leave the questions outside.
Phil walks back to his car. Fast. He has no idea if Owen saw him or not. He thinks maybe he saw some flash of recognition as the paramedics arrived, but what with the woman and the screaming … He was about to help Owen himself, on the point of dropping his book and running over, then the shaven-headed guy came running out of the store front, a cushion in his hands, and Phil recognised him: Owen and paramedics and police and there is Liam sodding Holdsworth in the middle of it. How in God’s name? He tries to think through what he saw. Liam at the surgery. Liam and Owen working together?
He gets into his car and breathes, leaning forward with his head on the steering wheel, and the memories and the guilt break over him in waves. Georgina with flowers in her hair. A dancer with Minnie Mouse ears. The torches of Shangri-La. He takes out his phone and googles Liam’s name and Warwick. There’s a bit about him on the website. ‘As an ex-offender … ’ Christ.
Phil pulls himself together and heads back to the M40, back towards his wife and his constituency and his home and away from the damn memories. But they come with him, of course.
Chapter 30
Monday 14 March 2022
Owen gets back to London in time to vote on Monday afternoon. His tour of local businesses went well and he has a draft memo for the Shadow Secretary of State for Business and Industrial Strategy laying out what he heard and making suggestions. Pam is pleased with the photographs and will pepper them across his social media feeds and newsletters for the rest of the month. Being back in Westminster brings him back down to earth, confronting him with the limits of Labour’s power while the Conservatives still hold the majority.
The government wins vote after vote, pushing through their various tax cuts and stimulus packages, but the Labour Party want to show they mean business too, so the whips make sure they are all there, temperatures checked, crowding into the ‘no’ lobby to register their objections, at least.
Owen spots Georgina through the crowd. She is surrounded. A steady stream of congratulations for her performance standing in for the Shadow Chancellor. Everyone wants a moment. She breaks free and comes over to him.
‘I’ve just heard the Chronicle story isn’t happening! I am so relieved for you.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. He should be pleased, but the word sticks in his throat.
Georgina heads off to talk to someone else, but her aura of success lingers round him briefly like perfume. A few people turn round to see who has been so favoured. Faces reg
ister his presence, some surprise, some cool assessing glances. A couple of backbenchers drift over to ask him his opinion on something. They don’t care what he thinks about anything, but they want to stand close to him, to see if they can smell ambition on his skin.
His phone buzzes. An update from Liam. Finally. The woman who collapsed is called Clara Jane Michelson. Clara Jane worked at a bookies shop in the high street until the virus hit. Furloughed, then laid off. Never been on benefits before. Liam adds that he knows the type: new to the system, they fill in the forms wrong, don’t know the tricks, knock on the wrong doors. She came into the Citizens Advice office once and spoke to one of Liam’s colleagues about credit card debt. Didn’t come back, didn’t respond to the follow-up calls. He’s pretty sure he can get her an emergency loan and will sort out the paperwork so the credit card company won’t snaffle half of it straight out of her account. Hospital said she probably hadn’t eaten for two or three days.
Update from Pam. The local press have published a grainy picture of him online, caught bending over Clara Jane among the chalked rainbows, Derek in the background. LOCAL MP IN MERCY DASH, the headline says. Mercy grab, more like.
Pam wanted to make a thing of it when the paper called for comment, but Owen resisted. She reluctantly issued a statement, which they’ve printed.
Owen McKenna MP spoke briefly to a constituent in distress outside his constituency surgery on Saturday afternoon. We are grateful for the prompt actions of local police and ambulance workers and wish the lady in question a full and speedy recovery.
Pam insisted on adding a couple of lines about his post-Budget visits to local businesses, but they’ve cut that.
He looks up from his phone and wonders how he will cope, sitting in the Commons and looking across the government benches tomorrow. How many of them have caught a starving woman in their arms recently?