Unleashing Demons

by Craig Oliver

  All of us are shocked.

  To many, it feels like a moment may be crystallising in the campaign. This morning Farage launched a poster with a crowd of brown-faced men looking like they are filing into this country with the words, ‘BREAKING POINT’ and ‘The EU has failed us all’. The image is in fact Syrian refugees being transported across the Slovenia/Croatia border and had nothing to do with free movement. It has been condemned as overtly racist, because the original picture had white faces in it, which have now been obscured.

  Now it’s reported that the killer shouted, ‘Britain first!’ as he attacked Jo Cox. There are questions about links to the far right.

  The football has finished and the campaign office is in a post-match torpor. I wave to Will Straw and pull him into the meeting room, filling him in on all the detail. There’s not much either of us can say.

  At the back of each of our minds is a thought that makes each of us uncomfortable – what impact will this have on the referendum?

  I have to disappear to go and see Justin King, the former head of Sainsburys, about an appearance at the BBC Wembley debate next week. It seems to take us forever to get across London to a discreet, uber-modern business club.

  It’s odd trying to brief him, thinking of everything that’s just happened.

  As he whizzes off to another meeting, I stay back to catch the six o’clock news with the debate team. It is heartbreaking. An image of a vivacious, talented, caring, campaigning MP, who was also a mother of two, is plain to see. What did she do to deserve this?

  In another pathetic fallacy, it starts to hammer down with rain as I get in an Uber home. I can’t face going back to the office and there’s nothing I can’t do on the phone.

  When the PM lands back at 8.45 p.m., we talk on a conference call. He is tired and saddened at the end of a long and tragic day. Next to grief, the overwhelming sense is that we must not allow anyone to politicise her death.

  The suspension of campaigning is already having an impact. The IMF has knocked back its planned story on the impact on the economy by twenty-four hours. The Sunday Times interview we did a few hours ago is now hopelessly out of date.

  I slump on my sofa. Ameet calls – he says all of this has made him ask the same question that’s been rattling round my brain like a stone in an oil drum for some time, ‘What kind of country do we live in?’ Jo Cox’s killing may not be related to the campaign, but the violence and shock of it, in the midst of what has been a bruising period, seems to put everything in sharp relief. Both of us feel the country is incredibly divided – and that is saddening.

  This has gone way beyond winning and losing on the EU – it feels like a Battle for Britain. Part of it is wondering what the hell is going on in terms of challenges to the PM, which seem more to do with gaining power than about Europe. Another part is how our opponents can be so mendacious. We are confronted by the willingness of supposedly thoughtful, educated people to manipulate, deceive, and try to kick away the foundations of sensible political debate – trashing experts, refusing to have a plan, telling people things they know not to be true.

  Alex Massie writes a piece for the Spectator blog saying no one can be blamed for the murder of Jo Cox but her killer, but speaks of a feeling of profound discomfort at a world where Nigel Farage can release the ‘Breaking Point’ poster. He concludes: ‘I cannot recall ever feeling worse about this country and its politics than is the case right now.’

  I have rarely been so tired and confused – or been in the middle of something that feels so important.

  Chapter 29

  A Voice of Compassion

  I WAKE UP ON Friday 17 June and feel a moment of peace. Then a thought enters my head like bacteria: we do live in a country where an MP as good as Jo Cox can be killed on our streets. The bacteria divides and divides – until my mind is full …

  A week today, we will know the result of the referendum, but campaigning has been suspended for who knows how long.

  I settle on my sofa, bracing myself before being immersed in the horrifying coverage. Some reports focus on the killer’s mental health. Others react by saying that if there was any suspicion that he was an Islamist, who had slipped into the country from Europe, we would never hear the end of it. I don’t know what to think.

  I have an overwhelming sense that we must rise to this moment. I want to talk to DC separately to the others. It’s just after 6 a.m. and I text him suggesting he calls me when he is ready.

  He comes through ten minutes later, just as I am standing at my sink, ready to shave (calls covered in shaving foam have become a staple of my day).

  We talk about the expectation that he leads in this moment. We are all reticent about it, because we don’t want to be accused of being political, but we need to find a way and a moment to speak about the horror of what has happened.

  Before the 8.30 meeting, I have a conference call with Will, Ryan, and Stephen. All of us are agreed that we need to find a way to respond properly to all of this.

  I have been looking at Jo’s social media – and the pinned tweet at the top of her Twitter feed is an article for the Yorkshire Post saying it’s not racist to be worried about immigration, but we need to be thoughtful about how we deal with it – and wrecking our economy is not the answer.

  One suggestion is to get Andrew Mitchell, whom she knew from his days as International Development Secretary, to call on the Leave campaign to withdraw its poster suggesting Turkey is about to join the EU. This seems a little randomly political to me.

  Graeme Wilson comes in and suggests a religious figure needs to speak. I wonder if Archbishop John Sentamu would do it.

  I try to lift the conversation. Should the PM give a speech? Should he visit the scene?

  I have to leave the call to go to a meeting with the PM. DC is already in with George, Ed, Kate and Simon Case. I pull up a chair and talk through where the campaign is getting to – thinking he should visit the scene.

  The conversation is long. There’s a lot of discussion of how this reminds us about what is precious in our politics – and what needs to be banished from politics.

  Simon Case is sent from the office to see if he can make contact with Corbyn’s team. Apparently he is on a train to Jo Cox’s constituency and we are struggling to contact him. ‘Surely someone on his team must have a mobile phone,’ says the PM.

  We return to what he wants to say. DC stands up, gets some paper and a sharpie pen. He starts to write it down.

  Some want him to make an angry speech where he calls out the lies and nastiness of the Leave campaign. This is not the country we are or should be. I can tell DC is moved, but it’s just too inflammatory – sounding like we are linking the two for political ends, even though that’s not what people really want to do.

  We seem trapped in the Prime Minister’s office. I’m convinced we just need to get up to Jo Cox’s constituency. We start finding the right words. Simon says it’s possible Corbyn will visit with him.

  David Cameron finds his voice and dictates the following words:

  The first time I met Jo Cox was in 2006 in Darfur. She was working, as she always did, in the most dangerous parts of the world, fighting for the lives of refugees. And today we come here to commemorate a life lost.

  Two children have lost a mother; a husband has lost a loving wife; and Parliament has lost an amazing person – a voice of compassion, who epitomised the importance of serving others.

  This has profoundly shocked our nation. And I think it’s important we stand back and think about three things:

  First: that we should value and treasure our democracy, and the fact that MPs are rightly out there with the public, accountable and accessible. Jo died doing exactly that – she died doing her job.

  Second: that politics is about serving others. There are passionate debates. We may not agree with what politicians say. But fundamentally, we should remember why they’re in public life: to serve the national interest and improve people’s
lives.

  Third: that our democracy here on these islands is a remarkable and precious thing. We have peace and stability, underpinned by tolerance. So where we find hatred, intolerance and division, we should banish them from our politics and from our communities.

  The values Jo fought for were community, tolerance and service. The best way to honour her memory is to redouble our commitment to them.

  It’s time to get up to Yorkshire. As we leave, news comes through that Jeremy Corbyn will share a platform with us. George has been speaking to the Leader’s office through Labour’s Deputy, Tom Watson. It’s been agreed there will be no campaigning in the coming days, including no street stalls tomorrow. That makes little sense to me, but we’re rushing so much, I don’t have time to think about it.

  Instead of getting into the usual Government Jaguar, the cops take us in a Land Rover. As we shoot along the road towards Northolt, I read Andrew Cooper’s latest polling analysis. It is tight:

  Today’s headline voting intention: Remain 50.8%, Leave 49.2%.

  I reiterate what I said yesterday: we are, within margins of error, 50/50.

  About 20% of voters are either completely undecided, or giving a vote intention but also saying they may still change their mind and vote the other way.

  Now we have left Downing Street, messages come flooding in. Some say DC needs to up the anger in his statement; others that it needs to be calmer. He just ignores it all, ‘We’re in the right place and I have to learn it. I’ve only just got yesterday’s Gibraltar speech out of my head.’

  The calls come in thick and fast on the helicopter flight, which is due to take forty-five minutes – I manage to take some, shouting above the noise. The rumour mill that we are on our way up is in full flow.

  Ameet wants us to go through what is happening for Sunday. Liz pours me a cup of tea in a painfully thin paper cup. DC learns his script.

  We land at a police field in Yorkshire. They also keep police dogs here and they bark angrily as we walk to a two-floor Portakabin, where a lovely lady makes us more tea.

  DC has written a condolence card. I put on the 1 p.m. news, with Jane Hill rather tongue-tied as she tries to ad-lib the links between packages at the scene where we are heading.

  I sit in the support car driven by Sean with a large bunch of flowers on my lap. He tells me he has driven here very fast. I ask him how he thinks it’s going. All his ex-army friends are voting Out. I wonder if he thinks the death of Jo Cox will have an influence. He tells me that he’s been talking to some people who think it is all part of a conspiracy.

  Seriously? Apparently so.

  We arrive in the town. It is tourist-board Yorkshire, the houses on steep streets and rolling countryside on the outskirts.

  I walk out with the flowers. Hilary Benn is there with Jeremy Corbyn, who stands notebook in hand attempting to memorise the script he’s planning to deliver. I can see down a steep hill the media and people surrounding a memorial covered in flowers.

  Hilary Benn is incredibly friendly. He strikes me as a kind and decent man, as we talk about what has happened.

  After a while I make a point of going up to Jeremy Corbyn. I shake his hand and thank him for agreeing to do this today. He says he is glad to. I ask him if he has seen the family – he hasn’t, they are in Reading, but he has spoken to Brendan Cox on the phone. Apparently he has spent the morning telling his three-year-old and five-year-old that their mother has died. ‘How do you do that?’ he asks me and I shake my head. There is no sensible answer to that question.

  Jeremy Corbyn enquires if I know where the Speaker of the House of Commons, John Bercow, is. I hadn’t realised he was coming, but as I look round, I see him arriving in a car with a No. 10 press officer.

  I walk down the hill with Corbyn’s press officer. We stop at a spot just in front of a phalanx of cameras. I crouch down on the damp, stone ground. I look up the hill and see the politicians coming down bearing flowers. The PM leads them as, each in turn, they lay them at the memorial. Then they walk over to the cameras.

  DC is no more than a couple of feet away. He looks down at me, then at a reporter who asks him a pre-prepared question. He delivers his words well. Jeremy Corbyn is a little rambling, but I hear a clear soundbite from him about rejecting hatred. As he talks, I am aware of John Bercow moving in from the background before saying a few words.

  I let them walk away, but they are caught by people who understandably just want to talk. I move so as not to get cut off from them. A woman puts her hand on my shoulder. Another shakes my hand. She thanks me, I thank her – though we are not sure why, it feels the right thing, the human thing to do.

  I walk next to the PM as we move up to the cars. Lots of people are saying, ‘Thank you for coming here.’ There is no awkwardness – just people searching for ways to show they care. I find myself holding back tears.

  The next stop is the parish church. The politicians are there to sign the book and light a candle. I chat to the local vicar, who says he’s not sure if two or two thousand people will come – it doesn’t matter, he’s happy to provide a place that’s open if they want it.

  It’s time to go and the PM is swept outside. This is normally my cue to run. But at that moment Jeremy Corbyn calls me over, ‘Craig. Thank you for today. And will you thank everyone at Number Ten for what they’ve done? I’d really like you to do that. It has meant a lot to me.’ It takes him a long time to say. I don’t mind – he is utterly sincere. For all our differences, like most politicians, he is a decent man whose heart is in the right place.

  I look down the long church path and see the PM standing at his car with the door open. He’s obviously wondering what we’re discussing that is so important. Later he jokes about all the new best friends I’ve been making along the way.

  The sun is shining as we fly to the PM’s constituency. I race through some emails and end up falling asleep.

  On landing, the PM wants to walk back to his house. I don’t blame him. It feels like we are in a world of pastoral bliss. A ewe is standing by a fence making a lot of noise. I ask whose house we are passing, ‘That’s Chadders’ [Peter Chadlington], my spiritual father.’

  He says Sam ran into Michael at the school gates. I ask him what he thinks Gove makes of it all. ‘I don’t know – embarrassed, I guess.’

  I say, ‘I can’t help feeling angry with him. The supposedly great intellectual rubbishing experts and getting himself wrapped up in a nasty, immigration-focused campaign.’ DC agrees, thinking he may be wondering how on earth he ended up here.

  We turn the corner into his drive and the debate prep team are there waiting for us. DC says they should have gone inside.

  We sit in his living room and I take the seat that seems to be mine whenever I’m here. DC wants us to make a list of all the things he has to get across on Sunday’s Question Time programme.

  It’s pretty easy. The briefing team are young, smart and on it – and it’s good to hear them in action. By this stage, we can all recite it word for word.

  I step outside into the sunshine. The air is thick with dandelion fluff floating on the wind. I call some commentators to brief them. All of them think we are going to win, but it’s going to be tight. Most of them rail against the angry, mendacious nature of Leave’s campaign.

  Ryan sends me the following email about debate prep:

  Circumstances have obviously changed over the past 24 hours. But I think there are some clear takeaways from the track and focus groups over the past week: No blue-on-blue. No personal attacks. Make a case about the economy, our place in the world and the sort of country we want to be.

  DC is due to have a call with Gordon Brown. He wants to persuade him to do an event involving both of them, Tony Blair and John Major.

  Word is, Gordon isn’t up for it.

  He is gruff and blunt when he comes on this line. But he makes a good case – he is appealing to a different audience, who don’t believe in the establishment. He sums it up bes
t when he says, ‘You’re appealing to a group who are secure, who might become insecure. I’m trying to appeal to a group that is insecure, by telling them they might become more secure by remaining in the EU.’

  DC says he thinks we need a ‘shock factor’ for the undecideds, and what better way than all the surviving PMs think it is a bad idea if we leave.

  ‘We had the shock factor yesterday,’ says Gordon. ‘I don’t think it will work.’ It’s plain to me this isn’t going to happen. Brown says there are too many people who feel they have nothing to lose. When we talk to them about risk they say there’s nothing to risk. In his view, there’s not a greater sign of the establishment than four prime ministers.

  As I’m driven back to London, I get a text from John Witherow at The Times: ‘The Times declares tomorrow, I think you will be •.’ The emoticon he has chosen has come out as a big black spot. I assume it is meant to be a smiley face, but I call him to check. He thinks we will win.

  I buy the team a drink in a pub in Chiswick and as I walk home I get a call from Peter Mandelson. He is irritable, ‘Who agreed that there should be no campaigning this week?’ I tell him there was an agreement between Tom Watson and senior Downing Street figures. He tells me, ‘You have been taken for an enormous ride. This suits the leadership down to the ground. They never wanted to campaign – and they only did because they were forced into it. Now they have the perfect excuse not to do anything. I am furious!’

  He goes on to say, ‘Corbyn and Watson want us to lose this referendum. Everyone needs to wake up.’

  The next morning I wake up to a stark message from him: ‘We are headed for disaster.’

  I’m not sure how I am supposed to respond.

  There is anxiety everywhere. Lord Guthrie has taken it upon himself to switch sides and tell the Daily Telegraph that he now wants to leave the EU, because of the threat of an EU army. There is no prospect of an EU army.

  I read the papers thoroughly, wondering why I need to know that Kelvin MacKenzie says the first of his ten reasons to leave the EU is: ‘Those two posh boys in Downing street will be out of a job’.