by Tom Watson
Phil reads the message and his finger hovers over the little bin icon for a good thirty seconds before he replies instead with a time and a place.
Being a minister, even a junior minister, makes it hard to go anywhere unnoticed. Phil thought, maybe even hoped, that this meeting would get cancelled, but no. After a terse reply agreeing to the meeting, the private email account receives no more messages. So Phil calls the host of the drinks reception he is supposed to be attending and says he will be late, then says goodnight to the staff in the office, arranges for his red box to be put in the car and walks briskly across Parliament Square to Westminster Abbey, past the main doors and under the arched entrance into the Dean’s Yard.
The Sub-Dean is waiting for him, leaning against the railings and scrolling through her phone. She looks up as he approaches then takes him through the entrance into the cloisters.
‘I appreciate this,’ Phil says as they walk past the ancient memorials towards the Chapter House. The lawn smells freshly cut.
‘Happy to help,’ she replies. ‘Terribly cloak and dagger. I feel like I’m in a Le Carré novel.’
Phil blushes, afraid he’s being mocked. ‘I know it seems foolish but it’s surprisingly hard to have a private conversation in SW1.’
She shakes her head a little. ‘I do know, Phil. Don’t think the church isn’t riven by factions too, and we are supposed to all be on the same side. He’s waiting for you. Though I must say he looked a little nervous when I brought him in. As if I were going to forcibly convert him as the price of entry. I assured him the Chapter House is actually English Heritage.’
‘Owen’s a committed atheist. He was probably afraid he’d be hit by a thunderbolt.’
She allows herself a low laugh. ‘Ah! Atheists! Very superstitious bunch, I find.’
They walk through the low vaulted entry hall then up the stairs to the Chapter House itself.
‘You won’t be disturbed.’ A quick nod of farewell and she is gone.
The Chapter House is an octagon, the ceiling supported by one slender column which seems to grow out of the medieval tiled floor, blossoming from its terracotta patterning. The stained-glass windows wash them with colours and shadows, reds, blues. Phil blinks into the changing light.
‘How did you swing this?’ Owen is sitting on the stone bench which edges the room. He has his legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, hands in his pockets.
‘Do you know this is where parliament first met?’ Phil says. ‘Well, the King’s Council. Thirteenth century.’
Owen glances around him.
‘They could have picked a more cheerful decorating scheme.’
Phil takes in the faded images of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse and Christ’s return.
‘A reminder we shall all be judged, I suppose. The Sub-Dean and I were at school together. I wasn’t the only one in my year to make it out of Chelmsford.’ His footsteps echo as he walks across and stands in front of Owen. He’s getting some grey in his hair. ‘I thought you’d cancel.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘I thought it was just an impulse, emailing me, and you’d probably change your mind five minutes later.’
Owen grunts. ‘I did. A few times actually. Just kept changing it again. Anyway, how could I miss out on a catch-up with an old friend?’
This was a mistake, Phil thinks. What’s the point? The bitterness runs too deep. Then Owen draws his breath in sharply and his voice changes.
‘It’s an old habit, being pissed off with you. Can’t seem to shake it.’
Phil sits down next to him. ‘When I saw you in the Members’ Lobby the other day I was seriously considering trying to beat you about the head with a notepad. So don’t feel too bad.’
A half-laugh in the shadows.
‘So why are we meeting?’
Owen sighs and shifts on the stone seat. ‘Charlotte told me I should speak to you. I didn’t warm to the suggestion, but I don’t know … My conversations with Chloe Lefiami have woken up some old ghosts. This thing is forcing me to remember a lot of stuff I had managed to forget.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as I’d forgotten how much fun Jay was when I moved in. Before he started complaining about the whispers. Do you remember when we wanted to dig a pond in the back garden?’
‘God, yes!’ Phil hasn’t thought of that for years. ‘You were telling stories about your mum and Jay was laughing so hard he couldn’t hold his shovel straight. Lucky Georgie stopped us before we did too much damage.’
‘He had a great laugh. That was a good day,’ Owen says and falls silent.
‘Yeah,’ Phil sighs. ‘I hate remembering him as he was back then. A proper enthusiast for stuff, almost as bad as you, then how he was at Glastonbury. I wanted to shake him.’ He pauses. ‘Now what are you grinning at?’
‘You don’t sound half as fancy as you do when you’re speaking in the Chamber.’
‘Sod off.’ But it’s got no heat in it.
‘Were we too hard on him? Should we have fought Kieron over his ban?’ Owen asks.
Phil feels a cold grip on his chest. ‘He was flailing about. I honestly believe we did our best. Does that help?’
‘Yeah. I needed to hear it wasn’t all my idea and I wasn’t just a violent thug out to get Jay because I envied his Oxford education.’
‘I guess you know if I thought that was true, I’d say so,’ Phil says. ‘It’s not true. I always got the idea you just didn’t like people who thought an Oxbridge education made them super-heroes. Like they got some sort of “leaders of the free world” certificate along with the degree. And I’m with you on that.’
‘That’s about right.’
The silence stretches out between them. In the Abbey the organ begins to play and they hear the choir begin their ritual pleas for forgiveness from the Lord.
‘Are you in trouble, Owen? With the investigation?’
He rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘More the story they are trying to get out in front of. And Jay thought it was me who leaked the minutes to Charlotte, that I was secretly homophobic or racist. Charlotte’s not saying who actually gave it to her.’
‘Bollocks,’ Phil says. ‘You’re not racist and it was 2008. No one cared who Jay slept with. Not in our house anyway.’
‘That’s not what he told his counsellor. Apparently, people of my background can’t help being homophobic and racist.’
‘Double bollocks. But how do you know what he told his counsellor?’
Owen shakes his head.
Phil feels a familiar exasperation. ‘What? You don’t trust me?’
Now Owen looks at him like he’s an idiot. ‘Of course I don’t trust you.’
And they are back there.
‘Look, Owen, I followed my convictions,’ Phil says.
Owen blinks rapidly. ‘You followed your … I could almost, almost forgive you for that but give me a sodding break. I know exactly what you did.’ His voice begins to rise. ‘The first by-election in a safe seat under Cameron and it goes to you? Three months in parliament and you became a PPS? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot, Phil?’
Phil’s throat tightens. ‘Owen, I … ’
‘Maybe you leaked the report. You hated Coogan and the Union. Why wouldn’t you leak it? He left his laptop lying about, didn’t he? Used the dining room as his extra office all the time. Suppose you saw it. You wouldn’t be able to resist it. It was Charlotte who got you in with Cameron’s lot, wasn’t it? Were those minutes your ticket to the inner circle? Then they sent you back in as a spy for another year?’
Phil is suddenly so angry he can hardly think straight. ‘That’s it? That’s why we are here? So you can accuse me of that leak? Jay leaked the bloody minutes.’
Owen shakes his head. ‘Why not tell his counsellor that? Why did he get so paranoid about his computer afterwards?’
‘People lie to their therapists, Owen! Jay was the definition of denial! Yes, we should have talked to s
omeone else about him, but we thought that would make things worse, not better. And we were kids ourselves. How come you saw his counsellor’s notes?’
Owen runs his hands through his hair. ‘It’s all bullshit anyway. The whole thing. If Christine hadn’t annoyed your paymasters at Maundrill Consulting with that bloody question this would have just stayed in the past where it belongs.’
Typical Owen. Shifting the goal posts mid-conversation. No wonder it was impossible to have a sensible discussion with him for more than five minutes flat. ‘What has Christine got to do with this? Are you cracking up now, Owen? What paymasters? Maundrill Consulting? I answer to the voters of my constituency. That’s all. My paymasters are the taxpayers.’
It sounds a bit pious as soon as he says it. Damn. Owen gets to his feet. ‘That is the single biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life. You are the most sanctimonious priggish arsehole in Westminster, you know that, Phil? Who pays for your party? Half the time it’s the Russians and the rest is big business, lobbyists, the vultures who can’t wait to tear the juicy body of the NHS apart!’
Enough. Phil is on his feet too.
‘What? And your lot are the keepers of the true flame, are you? So fucking deep in the pockets of the unions they can choose your candidates, get Jay fired, write whatever impossible unicorn requests they want into your manifestos and make you say “thank you” afterwards?’
‘This from the party that brought us magic Brexit? You betrayed us.’
‘I walked away because I didn’t recognise the party I joined: you were throwing everything Tony had done into reverse and you could never listen to any bloody opinion other than your own. It was all about the party for you, and any thinking criticism was disloyalty. And look what’s happened to you since!’
‘Brexit is your fault.’ He jabs towards Phil’s chest with a finger.
This is ridiculous. Phil opens his arms wide. ‘Really? You were happy to court the votes of the anti-Europeans and anti-immigration brigade when it suited you! Not to mention using the EU to cover up for the fact you let the manufacturing industry in the country die on its arse on your watch. Even Georgina admits that now!’
‘Now he cares about industry! Your lot would leave entire cities to die if one of your big data donors told you to.’ Owen steps back. He looks disgusted. ‘This was a mistake. I’m an idiot. Just because I wanted to be told what happened to Jay wasn’t my fault. You betrayed me! Me! I worked that campaign. I saw the damage you did. We were friends and I know, I know like I know my own name that when you left the house, you took the list of defensive marginals with you. What was it? A couple of clicks with the iPhone as you packed your stuff? God, they must have wet themselves when you handed that over!’
Phil just stares at him.
‘After what we had been through, Phil! And we could have hung on. If you hadn’t handed over that list, Gordon could have hung on.’
Phil feels something shift within him. ‘You blame me. You blame me personally for losing that election.’
‘Yes. And for every austerity death which came after it. Every Universal Credit or bedroom tax suicide. You have blood on your hands.’
‘And yourself. You blame yourself.’
‘Of course I do! If I hadn’t trusted you, if I’d had the sense to see you were about to flee and hide under Cameron’s skirts I would never have left it where you could see it. I even talked to you about it! Dozens of times. So fuck you, you Tory butcher.’
He walks away across the colour-splashed tiles.
‘This was a mistake,’ Phil shouts at his retreating back. ‘And fuck you too, you paranoid Labour scum.’
Owen doesn’t stop walking.
Phil stays where he is, staring at the point Owen disappeared. The choir’s sweet distant prayers for grace creep into the Chapter House around him.
Chapter 26
Saturday 3 October 2009
Owen announces his engagement over breakfast. Christine is sitting next to him and wearing one of his old T-shirts with battered leggings. A Saturday morning in early October. They haven’t looked for a new roommate. Christine has moved in and she keeps the stuff that won’t fit into Owen’s room in Jay’s, in boxes, and pays a fair share of the rent. Jay’s family are still paying his rent. His clothes hang in the wardrobe, his posters on the walls.
Georgina is in flannel pyjamas slightly too big for her and eating toast. She drops the slice immediately, bouncing crumbs over the table top, and claps her hands.
‘That’s amazing! Oh, can we have a party? Let’s have a party tonight.’
Christine shakes her head. ‘No party, Georgina. I mean, I haven’t even got a ring.’
‘You didn’t get her a ring?’ Georgina appears outraged.
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,’ Owen says.
‘Was it romantic?’
Phil watches her and wonders: it’s clear Christine and Owen don’t want to jump up and down squealing, but Georgina is going full rom-com on them. Phil can’t tell if she is genuinely excited or taking the piss.
‘We were walking along the river after dinner and I asked,’ Owen says.
‘And I said yes,’ Christine replies. ‘Told my mum this morning, she’s pleased. Already trying to get us to set a date.’
‘June,’ Georgina says. ‘June is the month for a wedding.’
Owen is squirming in his chair. ‘Depends on the election.’
Phil stands up, opens his arms and Owen gets up and accepts the hug. Phil puts his hands on his shoulders. ‘Congratulations, Owen. You do not deserve her.’
Owen looks happy, the first time Phil’s seen that since Glastonbury. Phil moves on to Christine.
‘I have no idea what you’re doing, Chris. Did he hypnotise you or something?’
‘Must have done.’
Georgina drums the end of her knife on the table. ‘Par-ty, Par-ty, Par-ty.’
‘Seriously, Georgina. I meant it. No party.’ She recognises the tone in Owen’s voice, shrugs and starts buttering her toast instead.
‘Fine. What about a few people for drinks, then? Just a quiet one. We could roll out the barbecue again. I know Kieron would love to come and offer his congratulations.’
Christine looks sideways at Owen. ‘I guess a few drinks would be fine. I could text a couple of the other researchers.’
Owen takes hold of her hand. ‘As long as you don’t mind not having a ring to show off.’
‘Honestly, I don’t think I even want one. I’d be scared of losing it. I’ll wear a wedding ring, if you will. But that’s enough.’
Owen reaches for more toast.
‘Are you going to have to be a three-house family?’ Phil asks. ‘A house in each constituency and a place in London.’
‘We’ll work it out,’ Christine says and asks for the butter. Owen passes it to her. Phil sees the look on his face, though. He hadn’t thought of that.
When breakfast is done and Christine and Owen have retreated to shower and dress, Georgina looks up from her phone.
‘You have to tell him, Phil.’
‘I know, but not today. I can’t today.’
‘Just rip off the band-aid, babes.’
A few people become a few more, and by eight the house is full. Owen takes all the congratulations he can, then comes to help Phil with the barbecue. An autumnal drizzle is keeping the party indoors, and they’ve rigged a sort of shelter for the barbecue with an umbrella and the hat stand from the hall. Phil turns sausages and looks at him. Owen has a daffy smile on his face and Phil follows his gaze in through the French windows to where Christine is standing with her friends inside.
‘Maybe June would work,’ Owen says. ‘I mean, I’d lay good money the election will be in May. What do you think?’
Phil turns the sausages again and wonders if he should flap at the coals. ‘Sounds like it. You could always go for autumn though, to be on the safe side.’ Owen swigs his beer. ‘Aren’t you getting wet?’
‘It’s only mizzling. I wish Jay was here.’ Phil feels a pang under his ribs.
‘I know.’
‘He should be standing in this election. I mean, if he had got himself sorted, Kieron would have backed off by now and, God, Phil, the number of MPs who I hear are standing down now after the expenses stuff. He might have got a decent seat. Or a seat with a decent chance after all.’
‘Yeah. I know. It sucks. Go and get us a plate, will you?’
Owen ducks into the kitchen and returns with a platter, looking thoughtful. ‘Phil, he didn’t think it was me who had it in for him, did he?’
Phil puts the platter carefully under the barbecue to keep warm and snaps open another packet of sausages. ‘Jay? What makes you ask that?’
‘That ginger cake Christine made this afternoon, it reminded me. Just one time I came in and he was in the kitchen with Georgina, a few weeks before he lost his job. The look he gave me … ’
‘I think maybe he did for a while, but that night he got really wasted, you know really wasted and you looked after him? He emailed me the next day, said sorry he’d been a dick about you and he was pissed at himself for thinking you had anything to do with the rumours.’ Owen turns away, rubs the back of his neck. ‘Owen, I thought you had no idea he was blaming you at all, so I didn’t say anything. I’m sorry.’
Someone’s turned on the music inside. Pulp again. Owen shivers like he has déjà vu. ‘These people do know other music exists, right?’
‘You can convert them later. My credit card is still burning from the last time you took me CD shopping.’
Owen grins, his wide face-splitting grin. ‘Did I steer you wrong on any of those bands?’
‘You did not.’ Phil turns and bows to him, flourishing his sausage tongs. ‘I thank you for saving me from the shame of having exactly the same five CDs everyone else I know has.’
‘Maybe you should run for parliament this time,’ Owen says. ‘Lots of opportunity.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mind you, better for me if you don’t. More time for you to help plan the wedding. You know I’m expecting you to be my best man, don’t you?’
