by Tom Watson
He tries to surf the wave out of Portcullis House and across Parliament Square, and joins the snaking queue on the corner of Dean Stanley Street and Millbank. Anna joins him minutes later and that burst of pleasure hits him again. She’s cut her hair into a bob, making it look even blacker and thicker. She flashes him a wide smile, puts her hand on his shoulder and lifts herself onto her toes to kiss his cheek, then puts her arm through his and squeezes it.
‘God, what a day! If you don’t get in soon and sort out the bloody family courts I’m going to stage a sodding revolution myself. I basically had to throw a tantrum today to stop a model citizen being chucked onto a plane and sent to a country he hasn’t lived in since he was three. All because he pointed out that his employers weren’t even pretending to offer any protection.’
‘Did it work?’
‘This time. Judge only gave in because he had a queue like this one going out the door.’
‘Hello to you too.’
She looks up at him again, amused. ‘Yeah, yeah. “Hello.” So are they doing anything new or is it “hum-along-with-the-classics” night?’
They could power a city off her.
Owen checks his phone. ‘Haydn then something from the composer in residence.’
‘Is it some mournful tribute to something?’
‘No, variations on a piece by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Then that’s your lot.’
‘Cool. God, I miss intervals. And interval drinks. The crush round the bar and downing wine out of plastic cups. Taking culture in these bite-sized chunks fills up the diary, not the soul. So tell me then, how are you?’
The queue is moving now. Down at the front of the line an usher is handing out programmes and face masks, another checks tickets with an electronic scanner, another takes temperatures.
‘Fair to middling. Budget tomorrow. Big day.’
‘Pfft! Penny on this, penny off that and off to the sunlit uplands tomorrow. Maybe.’
‘Thanks, I don’t need to go now. Might take the day off.’
She looks up at him sideways to check he’s not really offended. ‘You should! I’m going wild swimming tomorrow. Embracing my life as a middle-class Englishwoman. It was either that or crafting, and I can’t go to court with decoupage glue all over my shoes.’
Anna arrived with her mother and sister in London at eight years old, fleeing Sarajevo. Owen thinks of a day the family sat in a café in Budapest, deciding which way to run, and is still grateful to whoever left a copy of Country Life on the table. Anna’s older sister thought the trees looked nice, so they came here.
Owen spots Charlotte Cook in the crowd ahead of them and raises a hand in greeting.
‘Who is that?’
‘Journalist.’
Anna shudders theatrically. ‘So are you going to tell me how you are really?’
Owen thinks about it. ‘Not great. But if you want to rack up another good deed today, can you just tell me about you? I’d really like to get away from it for a bit and it’s so good to see you.’
He sees a flutter of sympathy and regret cross her face. ‘Swamp sucking at your shoes? Sure. Let’s argue about music and I’ll catch you up on my “crazy people of the week” stories.’
‘Thanks. Do you know a QC called Chloe Lefiami, by the way?’
Anna nods. ‘Yeah, she’s great. Not a showboater in court, “forensic”, though saying that about a barrister is such a cliché these days. And she can turn on the rhetoric when she wants to. Why?’
‘She’s been asked to look into what happened to Jay Dewan.’
Anna knows the story. Most of it. He told her about it one night as they walked by the Thames. She is the only person he’s ever really talked about it with. She hisses between her teeth. ‘They are going into that, are they? I’m sorry, Owen, but Lefiami will be fair.’
‘She might be, but depending on what gets into the press, I don’t know if I’ll even keep the whip. Zero tolerance. Leadership may not have a choice.’
Saying it hurts him, physically hurts him.
‘They’d chuck you out of the party? God, Owen. Was there something you didn’t tell me?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, not really. But I never knew how much Jay blamed me.’
‘You tried to save him.’
‘But I failed, Anna.’
‘I know.’ She leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. They are still in a bubble of some sort, then. ‘But everyone fails sometimes. It’s what we do afterwards that counts.’
He’s not sure that’s a comfort.
The concert is good. The parliamentary choir provides the chorus, and the music and Anna’s face as she concentrates reminds Owen that fresh beauty still exists in the world: the Haydn and eighteenth-century architecture, classical columns and the high vaulted roof; that beauty can survive whatever history throws at it. An hour and it is over, but Owen feels fed. The audience leaves in blocks, hands stinging from their applause.
‘Fancy getting dinner?’ he says as they begin to file out. Maybe he can tell her about the blackmail, the demons Christine has summoned to his door. He studies his phone for surviving restaurants with capacity as they pass through the main door and start walking down the wide stone steps, tries not to think about how easy it used to be.
‘Ms Brooks! Ms Brooks!’ A camera flash. Anna recoils slightly against him. Owen looks up and sees a photographer he recognises and a young man he doesn’t. The man is thrusting a microphone in their direction. ‘Ms Brooks, is it wise for you to be going out with a man who has a history of bullying and intimidation? How would your at-risk clients feel about that, Ms Brooks?’
The demons have arrived in person.
‘Keep walking,’ Owen says. ‘And keep your head up.’
The flash keeps going. Photographer and journalist tap-dance sideways down the steps to keep up with them. ‘Are you betraying your clients, Ms Brooks? Is it true you left Owen because of his violent behaviour just like his former fiancée did?’
Bastard. At the front of the queue for cabs the Shadow Minister for Work and Pensions sees what is happening, and shouts.
‘Owen! This cab is yours!’
Good man. ‘Anna, let’s just get in the car.’ She pulls away and turns to face the microphone and the camera. ‘I broke off my relationship with Owen McKenna because I feared exactly this sort of harassment from certain sections of the press. That was the only reason.’
The taxi comes to them and Owen opens the door. Anna gets in and the journalist steps back. He looks pleased with himself. The quote won’t help him, but the photos will be good. Owen follows her in and the driver is Westminster savvy enough to pull away before asking for an address. Anna yanks one of the alcohol wipes out of the dispenser and cleans her hands before fastening her seatbelt. Then wipes them again. Throws the crumpled sharp-smelling rag in the bin provided.
Owen does the same. ‘Shall I take you home?’
‘Yes, please.’
He asks the driver to head to the Barbican. He has no idea what to say to her. He is texting his thanks to the Shadow Minister when his phone buzzes. Charlotte Cook. She must have been in the scrum.
You’ve probably guessed, but that’s Barns, ex-Daily Mail but now runs his own press agency.
Is he going to run something? Owen types back.
Word is he’s telling the editor he’s still gathering background. They’re getting antsy with him.
He thanks her then risks looking at Anna. Her profile, the strong line of her jaw, is shaded and lit by the street lights as they pass. She feels him looking, puts out her hand and pats his, but doesn’t look round.
‘Would this be a bad time to propose again?’ Owen asks, and she laughs.
‘Too soon, Owen.’ Then she turns and looks at him. ‘You know the problem. You’re ambitious, and I want you to be ambitious. You want power, and God knows I’d rather you had it than the current shower, but I don’t know if I could bend myself into a shape which would fit with the
life you want.’
The drive is too fast. They are approaching the Barbican estate. She tells the driver which entrance she wants. Then she takes Owen’s hand properly.
‘I had a good time this evening, Owen. He didn’t shock me, he just reminded me that if we got married … well, there’d always be a bit of me hoping you weren’t too successful, because, if you were, that sort of shit would be happening all the time. And that’s not a good basis for a marriage.’ She releases his hand. Shifts up her tone. ‘I’ll drink with you, though! And eat. Dinner in a week or two?’
‘Dinner then,’ Owen replies and she leans in to kiss him on the cheek before bouncing out of the car and walking off without a backward glance.
Owen can still feel her hand on his, the warmth of her breath. She is the first and only woman since Christine who does this to him.
‘Harsh,’ the driver says. ‘Where next?’
‘Yeah,’ Owen replies. ‘She’s not wrong, though.’ And he gives the address of the Vauxhall flat.
When he steps out of the lift he sees something waiting for him outside his door. A fresh bottle of Talisker with a bow around it. And a note.
Owen - you have until Friday night.
He takes it inside and puts the stereo on.
Chapter 20
Wednesday 9 March 2022
Owen arrives at the Chamber early enough to be sure of a seat on Budget day. He fills in his card to reserve his place and turns to the wall as the daily prayers are read. The Chamber will be eager for this fight. There will be an election within eighteen months and this is the first serious firing of the guns. Who has the vision to pump some iron into the economic bloodstream?
Owen has read the talking points email. All solid. He’ll find his own hooks for them, though, and put them into his own words. Nothing worse than when a bunch of MPs all roll out the exact same phrases like automata, it looks lazy and craven.
There’s the usual theatre and usual warnings from the Deputy Speaker. ‘Before I call the Chancellor of the Exchequer I must remind the honourable members … ’ Whoops and cheers from the government benches.
The Chancellor gets to his feet. He has the ability to project confidence without the blustering arrogance of some of his colleagues. Initiatives to recruit farm labour for this year’s harvest include a provision to pause Universal Credit, then reactivate your account when the picking is done rather than be forced into the usual nightmare of re-applying. Not a bad idea.
Owen thinks he can hear the empty rattle behind the talk of bold initiatives and restructuring of supply chains. Food is more expensive, even if money itself is still cheap. Job numbers are increasing, but not fast enough for some people – many people – and the shutters that came down during the various lockdowns on so many shopfronts are now rusted shut.
Most people will just be watching for the headline issues. More money for the NHS, aggressive action against tax avoidance: sounds good, but HMRC still knows it’s cheaper and easier to pick an extra twenty quid out of the pockets of every gig worker and sole trader than spend millions going after massive international corporations with their headquarters in tax havens and a wall of lawyers between the tax man and their money.
The Chancellor sits and the Prime Minister and his gruesome colleagues slap him on the back and squeeze his shoulders like he just scored the winning try. Phil Bickford is on the second bench behind the Secretary of State for Health. Too far away to join in the backslapping, so he is nodding with exaggerated emphasis and giving throaty ‘hear, hears’. He looks up and notices Owen watching him. His face goes blank, then he looks away.
Habit and muscle memory have got Owen this far through the day. He’s managed to keep thinking about the politics, but that moment of locking eyes with Phil and he feels himself collapse internally. Why is he bothering even thinking about all this? If Greg puts that report into the hands of this ‘skeezy freelancer’ Barns, and tells him to write it up, Owen will be out on his ear. Owen watches the back of the party leader’s head as he stands to make his reply.
Owen can make it all go away. Just withdraw the question. If Christine really believes in the Collins story, let her go public with it. Owen can keep his seat, his career.
The Chancellor looks thoughtful, serious. They’ll never catch him laughing about public-sector paycuts. The Prime Minister huffs and chortles and Owen looks away, a shiver of contempt shaking his bones.
The Chamber begins to thin out. By the time the chairman of the Ways and Means Committee is on his feet the Chamber is as empty as during the first sessions during lockdown. All done.
Pam knocks on his door as soon as he gets back to his office and sparks up the email. He reads her look.
‘Don’t tell me, you’ve had journalists calling.’
She sits down opposite him. ‘I have. Just one journalist though. Edward Barns. Started asking about bullying and sexual harassment in Westminster “for background” then a couple of “when did you stop beating your wife”-style ones and asking if I’ve ever felt afraid working for you.’ She looks disgusted. ‘Guy’s an idiot, Owen. If he’d rung me a week ago and told me he was writing an article on what women go through in this building he might have got all sorts of twistable quotes about Owen McKenna’s researcher living in fear, but what with the investigation he’ll get nothing out of me but “no comment”.’
‘So is it hacks you’re angry with, or just incompetent ones?’
‘It adds insult to injury, but I wanted to tell you to watch your back.’
‘I shall,’ Owen replies. Not much point saying the assassin, Greg, has already outed himself – he’s shown Owen the length of the blade he carries and named his price.
‘Anyway, that’s it. I’m adding all the briefing notes to your cloud server as I get them. You should be able to get through it all on the train.’
She gets up to go. ‘Pam?’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Have you ever been hassled at work? I’ve never asked you. I mean, I get emails occasionally from the Women in Westminster group. You know, you can always talk to me if there’s anything … ’
She laughs. A note of bitterness, perhaps? ‘No thanks. I’d hate to talk to you about anything like that.’ She sees his confused look and puts out her hand. ‘No, not … It’s just I think if I told you some creep had made a comment or shoved himself up against me at the bar, you’d come over all Dad and go and lamp him one in the Central Lobby.’
He imagines it. Yeah, he probably would. ‘And that would be wrong, would it?’
She laughs. ‘Yes, Owen. It would.’
‘And bullying? I mean, not the sexual stuff … ’
She leans against the door frame. ‘Look, everyone gets shouted at in this building sometimes. It’s high pressure. You make it pretty clear when I’ve messed up, but you don’t lose it and you’re good at saying so when I’ve done OK too.’ She sighs. ‘But some people … I mean, it’s like a compulsion. They like to humiliate, control. It’s pathetic, but when you are employed by the person doing it, it’s impossible to fight back. I’ve sat in the Sports and Social Club with half a dozen researchers in the last year who were in a shit state. You have to work so hard to get here, need so much luck, and we turn up hoping we are going to make a difference and then it turns out your boss is a sociopath who makes Donald Trump look like a teddy bear.’
‘Who? Which boss?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not my stories to tell, Owen. And you can’t say anything about it while this investigation is going on. It’ll make you look like you’re trying to find cover. Look, just get more women in parliament when you are in power and promote them, not just because it looks good, but because it is good. Oh, and if you hear any politician say we need more women in government for the sake of health and family issues, rather than say, the economy, well, them you can hit.’
Chapter 21
Thursday 10 March 2022
The rumours about the Shadow Chancellor start to flouris
h on WhatsApp just after nine the next morning. Food poisoning? No way. Owen sees the first of the messages as he crosses the floor of Portcullis House and lets out a stream of curses in the shade of an abashed ficus. No. They might as well just hand the next election to those crapulous toads right now. If the Shadow Chancellor gets up looking like he’s going to hurl with the leader giving him an alarmed side-eye, all the good work of the last year will be wasted.
He takes the stairs and marches into his office.
‘Pam, is this true?’
She barely looks up from her phone, scrolling back and forth and swapping between the groups.
‘Yup. Looks like it. He started feeling dicky last night during the strategy meeting and hasn’t made it out of his flat this morning. They are putting up Georgina instead.’
Jesus. Poor Georgie. She’s being handed a live grenade. Safe pair of hands on the 7.10 a.m. slot on the Today programme is one thing. Suddenly, with two hours’ prep, being caught in one of the biggest set of headlights in politics is another. He wouldn’t be in her shoes.
His phone beeps with a message from the woman herself.
Any advice?
His honest advice would be ‘fake your own death’. He types.
Watch the alliteration, don’t try to be funny or sarcastic. Project, don’t shout. Speak for the party, not yourself.
He pauses. What else?
Their hecklers will be brainstorming ways to rattle you. Ignore them. Microphones won’t pick them up. Rise above. Key workers, small business, safe schools. International co-operation. Real leadership not photo-opportunities.
He fights the impulse to keep typing but hits send instead. Seconds later she sends him the thumbs up.
‘Do you think Georgina will be OK?’
He looks up to find Pam staring at him hopefully. ‘You like her?’
Pam nods. ‘She’s great. So smart, and without being grand. Her press officer, Emily, just worships her.’
