The House

by Tom Watson

  ‘I know you too!’ she says, looking at Owen. ‘You were at that party, with the girl who got me out of there.’

  Owen stands up and bows slightly. ‘That was Christine Armstrong. She was my girlfriend at the time.’

  She sits down again, and Owen does the same.

  ‘I thought … I thought when I heard there was going to be an investigation about bullying, it was going to be about me. I’ve been waiting all week for someone to call, like an idiot. And then Patsy, she still works for headquarters, she told me it was a Labour Party investigation, nothing to do with the Union and just about Jay Dewan. I couldn’t believe it! An investigation into him! Just a posh boy who went partying and forgot his inhaler.’

  Owen keeps his mouth shut, trying to learn his lesson from the car rather than leap forward to defend the Labour Party, or Jay. Chloe was talking about this woman, about women like her, as they crawled through the city traffic. A woman who was told to get over something, who tried to get over it and found she couldn’t, and now looks back at her bruised and damaged life and is caught between a sense of failure and anger. They make bad clients, bad witnesses; they lash out, Chloe said. Juries and tribunals look at them and see cause for their dismissal, their problems, confusing the effect with the cause.

  ‘We heard someone was writing a story about Jay and the party talked to Sabal Dewan, Jay’s father. He felt the matter hadn’t been examined properly at the time so the Leader’s Office asked me to look into it, but I have no power to make the Union talk to me at all. Until Owen told me, I’d never heard your name.’

  The woman gave a short laugh. ‘Of course you hadn’t heard of me. I signed an NDA. They said they’d destroy me if I didn’t, if I spoke up. Then I found I was destroyed anyway.’ She looks at Owen. ‘Your girlfriend was good to me that night. And I called a couple of people who’d said you’re OK, and I have to talk to someone. I have to.’

  ‘I’m glad you called me, Debra,’ Owen says. The air smells of damp grass, a slight tang from the over-stuffed and fox-ravaged bins.

  Chloe takes a breath. ’Debra, without looking at the actual document I can’t say for sure, but you may well be breaking the terms of that NDA if you tell me your story.’

  Debra covers her face with her hands and twists sideways like someone trying to avoid the heat of an approaching flame. Chloe keeps talking.

  ‘But, Debra, listen to me now. I swear I will treat this conversation as confidential. I won’t take any notes, not at the moment, and then, depending on what you tell me, we can discuss your options. Until then, we are just people sitting on a bench, watching the world go by. Isn’t that right, Owen?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Debra wipes her face with the back of her hand. Owen isn’t sure how much is going in. Now they are close he can see the pink capillaries around her cheekbones. Perhaps she drinks. Cause and effect. Shame.

  ‘I thought … I thought after everything that’s gone on in the last few years it had to come out. After Weinstein and all that, I thought someone else would speak out. I thought that after he lost the election for general secretary too, mind, I thought now they’ll tell the truth and get the bastard. No such luck. Then I thought it again when I heard about the investigation, but no. And I just can’t take it anymore. He’s still there. Getting a nice fat salary while I scrape by as a teaching assistant. My husband works at the Royal Free as a hospital porter. We’re hardly managing. He’s still not right – he had the virus, of course he got it – the flat’s damp and the landlord just says he’s got no money to fix it and he … he’s in bloody Hello! with Georgina! It’s disgusting after what he did.’

  Owen feels his heart sink in his chest. Weinstein. Oh hell! Had he suspected? Maybe. The signs were there, but he had chosen not to see them. He remembers Coogan at the conference – all those lovely ladies, looking for a favour. He thinks of Kieron in the kitchen, eating his fish pie, washing it down with a good white wine, and feels a wave of disgust. But where did Jay fit into this picture? He was victim of a whispering campaign, a power play by Kieron so he could get Georgina into the seat. Nothing like Weinstein.

  Debra bites her lip, trying to hold back the words. ‘I confided in her! In Georgina! I thought she was my friend. I thought that as it was happening to her too – then I get the lawyer’s letters and a year later I find out she’s his girlfriend! She married him! She’d never have got that seat or hung onto it without him. She’s a whore, a fucking whore. And she made me feel like one. As much as he did.’

  ‘Georgina knew?’ The question bursts out of him.

  ‘She knew everything. She knew about me, and Julie Coats. She acted like she cared, all sympathy, but she was just covering for him and out for herself.’

  No way poor Georgina knew. Or if Debra spoke to her, Georgina couldn’t have understood what it meant. She would never have married Kieron if she knew about this.

  ‘Debra, I am so sorry this happened to you.’ She glances sideways at him and flushes. ‘Do you mind if I just speak privately to Chloe for a moment? Then I think I should leave you to talk. Again, I’m so sorry this happened to you.’

  He watches her carefully. A flicker of mistrust, but then she nods and hunches her shoulders. He stands up and Chloe follows him a few steps from the bench. You can see the whole city from here.

  ‘Can you help her, Chloe?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know some excellent solicitors if she wants to pursue this further but I’ll have to talk to the Leader’s Office and give them the heads-up.’

  ‘What about the NDA?’

  A breeze whips between them and she pulls the collar of her coat closer.

  ‘NDAs are complicated – it depends what they are for. If they are to prevent the theft of copyright, they still have plenty of power, but after Weinstein people hardly even bother defending them if they were used to cover criminal assault, and my sense is that is what they were being used for in this case, would you agree?’

  ‘I would.’

  Chloe nods and they walk back together to the bench.

  Debra eyes them suspiciously and Owen bows. ‘Debra, I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to Jay when he tried to tell me about you.’

  For the first time since the bloody pandemic started, the bow feels right.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says and pulls her shapeless coat around her more tightly. ‘Nobody wanted to hear it. Do better next time, yeah?’

  Just what the policewoman said. ‘I swear I’ll try.’

  Chloe takes a seat back on the bench again and Owen heads down the hill towards New Cross Station. That’s what, the third time he’s promised to listen, to do better, in the last few days. He doesn’t believe it is God teaching him a lesson, but it feels, at least, like the universe is making a point.

  He thinks of Elsie Collins, Christine and the story they’ve been telling him and of the mysterious man who disappeared like smoke as soon as he bought Victor’s company. He pauses at the bottom of Erlanger Road and gets out his phone, looks up a photo of Marsden Grotto where Victor’s body was found. It is beautiful, bleak. High cliffs and white sand.

  Point taken, universe. He leans against a low stone wall of someone’s garden as the buses and vans speed along Queen’s Road and spends a few minutes on the parliamentary secure app, then scrolls through his calls received, finds the number he needs and dials. Greg picks up straight away.

  ‘Owen, how wonderful to hear from you! How can I help? The editors at the Chronicle were apparently very sad to lose the story, but we’ve looked after Barns. No need to fret, in case that’s why you are calling.’

  ‘Hi, Greg. No, I called to say “fuck you”. I just resubmitted the question. Do your worst.’

  He hangs up. The trees shiver their new spring growth about his head. It sounds like whispers. It sounds like a gathering storm.

  Chapter 38

  ‘Where have you been?’ Pam says as soon as Owen walks into the outer office back at Portcullis House.

&
nbsp; ‘I’ve been visiting Jay Dewan with his father and Chloe Lefiami, Pam.’

  Her face falls. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t … ’

  ‘Don’t apologise, I shouldn’t have gone AWOL without giving you any notice. I’m sorry. Come into the office for a minute.’

  She picks up her pad and follows him. When he sits at the coffee table rather than the desk, she looks confused, but picks the armchair opposite him and waits.

  ‘I need to fill you in on a couple of things,’ Owen says. ‘Then I need to make some calls.’

  ‘What’s the headline?’

  ‘That story is coming out, about me bullying Jay, and it’s going to be grim.’

  She puts her pad on her knee and takes the lid off her pen. ‘I can take it. I’ll put on your work-fast playlist on Spotify and prepare for trolls. But Christine Armstrong has been ringing. A lot. She’s still in London and wants to meet you. She’s at the Café Nero downstairs, by the Tube station.’

  Christine has to wait a while longer. Owen’s first call is to Elsie Collins, and this time he does not look at his watch. It is almost an hour later when he joins Christine. They get takeout from a hassled barista and Owen glances out of the window; Parliament Square has been surrounded by tractors as farmers protest the latest trade terms with the United States, and the air is thick with blasting horns and chants.

  Christine is being strangely quiet.

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ Owen tells her. ‘Let’s go over the bridge, sit and watch the river. Are you here to give me a hard time about withdrawing the question?’

  She shakes her head, and doesn’t say anything until they are halfway over Westminster Bridge. The jam caused by the tractors means the cars are almost stationary. At least the tourists on top of the bus have a decent view.

  ‘Owen, I came to apologise.’

  ‘Really? Not your style, is it, Chris?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She smiles briefly. ‘I’ve stayed married seven years. You can’t do that unless you learn to say sorry and mean it.’ They walk down the steps onto the relative calm of the Embankment.

  ‘If you’re really going to apologise, I’d better sit down.’

  He points to one of the benches, raised up on a plinth so you can sit on it and admire the mother of all parliaments on the other side of the river, and they get settled.

  ‘Go on then. I’m ready.’

  She leans forward and puts her elbows on her knees. High boots and jeans again today. ‘Yes. Look, when I started this, and then when we had lunch and I took you to see Elsie … ’ She blows out a lungful of air. ‘I thought when you mentioned the story it was just some bullshit fishing expedition. I didn’t think for a second there was any basis in it, so it didn’t worry me.’

  ‘I did call round, tell people not to interview Jay for possible seats, Christine.’ Damn, honesty can become a habit. He can feel her looking at him, doesn’t look back.

  ‘You never told me that, Owen.’

  ‘I told myself I didn’t want to get you involved, but, I don’t know.’ He looks at the Thames. Occasional pleasure boats pass by, but they are still rare. He realises the river probably hasn’t been this empty of traffic in five hundred years. The waters still flow on at their own pace, though. ‘I was probably afraid you’d tell me we were doing the wrong thing, that we should challenge Kieron, and I didn’t want to hear it.’

  He tells her about Jay’s file and Greg’s threat. An office worker passes them on an electric scooter. He’s in his sixties perhaps, wearing a mask in the same dark navy pinstripe as his suit.

  ‘Yeah, you should have told me, but I’m still going to apologise,’ Christine says.

  ‘That journalist, Edward Barns, tracked me and Rob down while we were visiting suppliers on Thursday afternoon. I could tell by the questions just how bad the story could be. He asked Rob if he had rescued me from an abusive relationship with you.’

  Owen met Rob a few times while Christine was an MP. A Geordie with a loud laugh and a passion for good food.

  ‘And what did Rob say?’

  ‘He told Barns if he wanted to see what a violent man looked like, he should ask him about his wife again. He slunk off. Anyway, I got it then. I called you to say you should withdraw the question, then to say I was glad you had.’ She blinks rapidly. ‘I should have thought … Trouble is, I knew them, Owen. The Collins family. Victor and Elsie’s parents live near the shop, and they came in most weeks. Elsie too, when she was visiting. Rob delivered to them all through lockdown, except when we got sick. I even met Victor once or twice and he seemed sweet. Bit otherworldly, bit intense maybe. But not mad. And his company was doing well before he tried to do us all a favour and he ended up dead. I was too close to it to see what you might be bringing down on your head. I was asking too much.’

  Owen thinks of the young man in the photo above Elsie’s workstation. ‘No, you weren’t. You were asking me to do my job. I’m still an MP and on the Select Committee which handles data and the internet. That counts for something. Even if the party withdraw the whip and I get deselected by my local party – it’ll take time. Before then, I have the weight of that beautiful monstrosity behind me.’

  He points at the gothic pile opposite them.

  ‘What do you mean, if you lose the whip? I don’t get it,’ Christine says. ‘You withdrew the question. The story will be shut down and you’ll be fine.’

  Owen shrugs. ‘I tried that and it felt shit. What does “fine” mean? I wouldn’t be “fine” walking around parliament knowing that Greg had that hanging over me. I wouldn’t be “fine” watching his friends slice up the NHS and hand over the people of this country to big data. Fuck “fine” if that’s what it looks like. Let them publish. Jay’s dad knows what happened, knows that I liked Jay and never meant him harm. I trust Lefiami to be fair. I resubmitted the question.’

  She pushes the hair back from her face. ‘Owen!’

  ‘And I spoke to Elsie again.’

  Christine brightens. ‘And? What do you think?’

  He thinks of her anger, vibrating through the air as they spoke, her sharpness. But then she also has passion and conviction, and her love for her brother, her belief in him, is unquenchable.

  ‘She’s not a good witness, and the story is as unprovable as it ever was. But you’re right, the whole thing stinks. The key thing is, I’m going to try and counter the claims Victor’s tech turned out to be faulty, go and visit Victor’s professor from Cambridge.’

  ‘Elsie said he wouldn’t speak to her.’

  He points emphatically at parliament again, which makes her laugh. She has a good laugh. She puts her hand on his arm. ‘But Owen, have you thought this through? Even if the official report is broadly supportive, if the story is really bad … ’

  ‘Too late now, I asked the question, and you know what, Christine? It feels good.’

  Chapter 39

  The online version comes out just after six in the evening. First Owen’s WhatsApp notifications blow up, then the phone starts ringing. Pam comes into the office with her iPad and sits on one of the armchairs while Owen stays at his desk and they read the article at their different screens. She manages not to say anything out loud until he pushes himself away from the desk with a grunt of disgust, but he hears her intakes of breath. Their phones buzz and twitch.

  It was what they were expecting. HORROR HOUSE IN LAMBETH, shouts the headline. MP OWEN MCKENNA ACCUSED OF DESTROYING THE CAREER OF RISING STAR, JAY DEWAN, LEADING TO HIS TRAGIC DECLINE. Phrases swim up into sharp focus as he reads. Scan the article quickly enough and it sounds like Owen tried to murder Jay. Jay Dewan is now cared for in an £8,000 a month permanent care home on the outskirts of London. Most of the quotes are from anonymous sources. ‘His background is very macho, very hard man. I’m not surprised he had issues with a brilliant Oxford-educated gay man like Jay.’ Another source has volunteered that he had to hauled off Phil Bickford during his own engagement party. ‘I’m not surprised his fianc�
�e ran for the hills.’

  Innuendo. Cruelty. Someone has snatched a photograph of Jay, glimpsed through the window at the home. Next to it is one of Jay looking handsome but waif-like in a suit and tie on the first day of the conference, below them an ancient shot of Owen at a local football match, his arms raised and his mouth open in a shout. Thug. Victim. No quotes from Sabal, nothing from Christine. Nothing from Georgina, at least nothing attributed to her, but she emerges as a survivor. ‘No wonder she can cope in the Commons after living in that house.’

  The article includes a brief statement from the Leader’s Office. ‘We take all allegations of bullying extremely seriously and the accusations levelled at Owen McKenna are being thoroughly investigated.’

  Then, the killer last line. Jay’s own words from his counsellor’s notes, the ones that have haunted Owen since he read them. ‘I thought he was my friend, but he’s destroying me, just for being who I am.’

  It is what Owen was expecting, but he wants to cry. Hit something. The injustice of it all. He clicks onto the notifications, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing it’s a stupid, stupid idea, but he does it anyway. ‘I always knew he was a thug. Look at the state of him. That poor boy! Destroyed by a racist. Typical Labour. Just want to drag everyone down.’ Screeds of obscenity.

  ‘I’ve started a statement,’ Pam says quietly.

  It breaks through. He closes the window onto the screaming hellscape and looks up at her. Her face creases with concern and he takes a breath. Pulls himself together. There is no mention of Anna anywhere, at least. He is glad of that.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The gross distortions of this article are an insult to me and to the memory of my friend, Jay Dewan. That said, I will always attempt to acknowledge my mistakes and await the Labour Party’s own investigation into the tragic events of 2009.’

  He rubs the side of his nose. ‘Good, but put this in too.’ He waits until she has turned the transcription mode of her phone on then speaks. ‘In a foolish attempt to shield Jay, I told a number of chairs of Constituency Labour Parties that he should not be invited to interview for possible seats. It was a stupid thing to do and the consequences for Jay and his family have been terrible. He was a young man of great promise and if he had had more mature and sympathetic friends I am sure he would be serving in this house with distinction even now.’