House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  “What should I do, Francis?”

  “Will you allow me to take charge of this for you, for a little while? With luck by tomorrow I shall be in a position to ask all sorts of questions, put a few ferrets down the rabbit holes. Let’s see what comes up.”

  “Would you?”

  “For you I’d do just about anything, Mattie, surely you must know that.”

  Her head fell forward onto his chest in gratitude and release. “You are a very special man, Francis. Better than all the rest.”

  “You might say that, Mattie.”

  “There are many people who are saying that.”

  “But you know I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  He smiled, their faces only inches apart.

  “You must trust me completely on this, Mattie. Will you? Not a word to anyone else.”

  “Of course.”

  “And one weekend, very soon, during the Christmas break, perhaps you can come to my country house. I’ll make some excuse about needing to clear some papers from it. My wife will be listening to Wagner in some corner of the continent. You and I can be alone again. Sort this out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The New Forest can be beautiful at that time of the year.”

  “You live in the New Forest?”

  “Near Lyndhurst.”

  “Just off the M27?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But that’s where Roger O’Neill died.”

  “Is it?”

  “Probably no more than half a dozen miles.”

  He was looking at her strangely now. She stepped away from him, feeling weak, dizzy, leaned against the balustrade for support. And the pieces of the jigsaw moved about in her mind and suddenly fitted precisely together.

  “Your name wasn’t on the list,” she whispered.

  “What list?”

  “Of Cabinet members. Because the Chief Whip isn’t a full member of the Cabinet. But because you’re responsible for discipline in the party they’d be bound to consult you about canceling the hospital program. And the TA cuts. So that you can—what is it you say?—put a bit of stick about.”

  “This is very silly of you, Mattie.”

  “And every Government department has a junior whip attached to it to make sure there’s proper coordination. Fingers on the pulse, ears to the ground, all that sort of thing. Your men, Francis, who report back to you. And because you are the Chief Whip you know all about their little foibles, who is off his head with cocaine, who is sleeping with who, where to put the tape recorder…”

  His face had gone pale, the glow in his cheeks drained, like an alabaster mask, except for the eyes.

  “Opportunity. And motive,” she whispered, aghast. “From nowhere to Prime Minister in just a couple of months. How on earth did I miss it?” She shook her head in self-mockery. “I missed it because I think I love you, Francis.”

  “Which doesn’t make you particularly objective. As you said, Mattie, you don’t have a single shred of proof.”

  “But I will get it, Francis.”

  “Is there any joy in the pursuit of such truth, Mattie?”

  A solitary snowflake fell from the sky. As he watched it he remembered something an old embittered colleague had told him when he had first entered the House, that a life in politics was as pointless as nailing your ambition to a snowflake. A thing of beauty. Then it was gone.

  “How did you kill Roger?” she asked.

  A fire had taken hold of her, a flame of understanding that glowed fierce. He knew there was no point in prevarication.

  “I didn’t kill him. He killed himself. I did no more than hand him the pistol. A little rat poison mixed with his cocaine. He was an addict, driven to self-destruction. Such a weak man.”

  “No one deserves to die, Francis.”

  “You told me yourself the other night, I remember your words clearly. I remember everything about the other night, Mattie. You said you wanted to understand power. The compromises it requires, the deceits it entails.”

  “But not this.”

  “If you understand power, you will know that sometimes sacrifice is necessary. If you understand me, you will know that I have the potential to make an exceptional leader, one who could be great.” There was a rising passion in his voice. “And if you understand love, Mattie, you of all people will give me that chance. Otherwise…”

  “What, Francis?”

  He stood very still, his lips grown thin, the cheeks gaunt. “Did you know my father killed himself?” he asked, his voice so soft it all but carried away in the winter air.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Is that what you want of me?”

  “No!”

  “Expect of me?”

  “Never!”

  “Then why do you pursue me?” He was gripping her arms tightly, his face contorted. “There are choices we have to make in life, Mattie, desperately difficult choices, ones we may hate ourselves for but which become inevitable. You and I, Mattie, we must choose. Both of us.”

  “Francis, I love you, really I do, but—”

  And with that tiny, sharp-edged conjunction, he broke. The chaos within him suddenly froze, his eyes stared at her, melting in sorrow like the flake of snow that had fallen from the crystal Westminster sky. He let forth a desperate sob of despair, an animal in unbearable pain. Then he lifted her and threw her over the balustrade.

  She cried as she fell, more in surprise than alarm. The cries stopped as she hit the cobbles below and lay still.

  * * *

  She was a strange girl. I think she was infatuated with me. That sometimes happens, sadly, to people in public positions. She turned up on my doorstep once, late at night, completely out of the blue.

  Disturbed? Well, you might say that but it’s not for me to comment, although I do know she had recently left her job at the Chronicle and had been unable to find new employment. I can’t tell you whether she resigned or was fired. She lived on her own, apparently. A sad case.

  When she approached me on the roof she seemed distressed and rather disheveled. A number of people including a newspaper colleague and one of our policemen in the Palace can attest to that. She asked me for a job. I told her that wouldn’t be possible, but she persisted, pestered, grew hysterical. I tried to calm her but she only grew worse. We were standing by the balustrade and she threatened to throw herself off. I moved to grab her but she seemed to slip on the ice, the conditions were quite treacherous, and before I knew it or could stop her she had disappeared. Was it deliberate on her part? I hope not. Such a tragic waste of a young life.

  It’s not the best way to start a premiership, of course it’s not. I wondered for a while if I should step aside rather than carry this burden forward. Instead I intend to take a close interest in the issue of mental illness among the young. We must do more. I will never forget the sadness of that moment on the rooftop. It may sound strange but I believe that young lady’s suffering will give me strength, something to live up to. You understand that, don’t you?

  I start my time in Downing Street with a renewed determination to bring our people together, to put an end to the constant drip of cynicism that has eroded so much of our national life and to devote myself to our country’s cause. I shall make sure that Miss Storin’s death will not have been in vain.

  And now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.

  The End

  Afterword

  It was a most glorious, splendiferous, monumental cock-up that took place twenty-five years ago. It completely changed my life. It was this book, House of Cards.

  I was on the tiny island of Gozo and in a sore mood. I started complaining about everything—the sun, the sea, and in particular the latest bestseller. Soon my partner was fed up. “Stop being so bloody pompous,” she said. “If you th
ink you can do any better, for God’s sake, go and do it. I haven’t come on holiday to listen to you moaning about that wretched book!”

  Spurred on by her encouragement, I took myself down to the pool. I’d never thought of writing a book, but now I was armed with a pad, a pen, and a bottle of wine, everything I needed to become a writer—except, of course, for those irksome details known as Character and Plot. What could I possibly write about? My mind wandered back a few weeks, to the reason I was sulking and feeling so sore.

  Conservative Party headquarters, 1987. A week before Election Day. I was Margaret Thatcher’s chief of staff. She was about to win a record third election but Maggie had been persuaded by a combination of rogue opinion polls and uncharacteristic nervousness that she might lose. She hadn’t slept properly for days, had a raging toothache, and insisted that someone else should suffer. That someone was me. On a day that became known as “Wobble Thursday,” she stormed, she blew up a tempest, she was brutally unfair. Her metaphorical handbag swung at me time and again. I was about to become another footnote in history.

  When we left the room, that wise old owl and Deputy Prime Minister, Willie Whitelaw, rolled his eyes and declared: “That is a woman who will never fight another election.” He’d spotted the seeds of self-destruction that all too soon would become apparent to the entire world.

  As I sat beside my swimming pool, Willie’s words were still ringing in my ear. I reached for my pen and my bottle of wine. Three bottles later I thought I had found my character—his initials would be FU—and a plot. About getting rid of a Prime Minister. So Francis Urquhart and House of Cards was born.

  I had no thought of getting it published—for me it was no more than a little private therapy—but through glorious and entirely unplanned good fortune soon it was a bestseller and the BBC was transforming it into an award-winning drama series with the magnificent Ian Richardson. I retired hurt from active politics and became a full-time writer. Now, twenty-five years after the book was published, FU is changing my life again. Step forward Kevin Spacey with his sensational new TV series. My house of cards has been rebuilt.

  To mark this new lease of life for FU, I’ve taken the opportunity of reworking the novel—no great changes, no one who read the original will think it a different book, but the narrative is a little tighter, the characters more colorful, and the dialogue perhaps crisper. I’ve revisited it in order to repay some of the pleasure that House of Cards has given me during all these years. What has remained constant is the novel’s unashamed wickedness. Bathe in it. Enjoy.

  So was it worth that drubbing by Maggie Thatcher? Well, what’s that phrase? You might say that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.

  Michael Dobbs

  Lord Dobbs of Wylye

  www.michaeldobbs.com

  @dobbs_michael

  About the Author

  Michael Dobbs is also Lord Dobbs of Wylye, a member of the British House of Lords. He is Britain’s leading political novelist and has been a senior adviser to Prime Ministers Margaret Thatcher, John Major, and David Cameron. His bestselling books include House of Cards, which currently airs on Netflix, as well as To Play the King, The Final Cut, Churchill’s Triumph, Churchill’s Hour, Never Surrender, and Winston’s War. Read more on his website, www.michaeldobbs.com.