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  Tom Watson is the former deputy leader of the Labour Party and the MP for West Bromwich East between 2001 and 2019. He first folded Labour Party leaflets in the family kitchen in Kidderminster at the age of seven and has been involved in every single General Election since then. Tom served as a Minister for Tony Blair and worked at the very heart of Downing Street with Gordon Brown. In September 2015, he was elected as Labour’s Deputy Leader. Tom is well known as a campaigning politician. He took on the tabloid newspaper industry during the phone hacking scandal and more recently has campaigned against exploitative and addictive practices in the gambling industry. After changing his diet and getting fit, Tom now has the sugar industry in his sights and is committed to raising awareness about the dangers of excess and hidden sugars, and improving public understanding about conditions like type 2 diabetes.

  Imogen Robertson is a writer of historical fiction. Now based in London, she was born and brought up in Darlington and read Russian and German at Cambridge. Before becoming a writer, she directed for TV, film and radio. She is the author of several novels, including the Crowther and Westerman series. Imogen has been shortlisted for the CWA Historical Dagger three times (2011, 2013 and 2014), as well as for the prestigious Dagger in the Library. She has also written King of Kings, a collaboration with the legendary international bestseller Wilbur Smith, and Liberation, a wartime thriller, with Darby Kealey.

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-7515-7878-2

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Tom Watson and Little, Brown Book Group Ltd 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  The quote Owen is trying to remember on pg 182 is: I recalled what Imo said about size and attraction and felt it like a gun quite close to my head, by which I mean cold and true.

  From Farewell to Bread by Roddy Lumsden, published in Not All Honey (Bloodaxe Books 2014), used with with kind permission of the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Acknowledgements

  To Ned and Sarah

  ‘May they never lead the nation wrongly through love of power, desire to please, or unworthy ideals but, laying aside all private interests and prejudices, keep in mind their responsibility to seek to improve the condition of all mankind.’

  from the Daily Prayer of the House of Commons

  Chapter 1

  Monday 7 March 2022

  Philip Bickford gets to his feet and takes the magic half-step forward. He opens his folder and places it on the despatch box then rests his left hand on it, index finger brushing the figures he needs.

  The honourable members scattered behind him are quiet. It’s an ordinary morning and no one is expecting much drama during Oral Questions to the Minister for Patient Safety. Philip is not a dramatic performer. No one perks up waiting for him to be funny or cruel, or both. They are expecting bland words and his usual flurry of percentages delivered in – well, it’s not quite a monotone, but sometimes it gets close.

  This is ‘local press release fodder’ questions. This is ‘get your MP a line for his Facebook page’ time. It’s celebrating the NHS, welcoming this, reviewing that, consulting widely and acknowledging tough choices will be made without getting into the weeds of what those tough choices will actually be. Philip’s senior, the Secretary of State for Health, will make any important announcements and probably in front of a bank of cameras rather than in the Chamber of the House of Commons, so these regular sessions of parliamentary questions are usually mere skirmishes on the edge of the battlefield. Still, an opposition backbencher might try to make a name for themselves by inflicting a flesh wound with a flourish of their rhetorical blade, or open a campaign which could make the whole government bleed with an innocent-sounding enquiry into something local, specific. The sort of thing you might miss. The ground is treacherous.

  In the warren of corridors and committee rooms the enquiries into the government’s handling of the outbreak are continuing. The Royal Commission on Virus Control daily demands further disclosures of emails and minutes of meetings and the civil servants parry and prevaricate; across the river the Commission takes day after day of evidence from nurses who didn’t get the Personal Protective Equipment they needed even as their colleagues started dying around them, and care-home workers weep into the microphones as they talk about their residents left to die alone in their rooms; then there are all the public consultations as regulations made in haste are unpicked with tortuous slowness. Unexploded ordnance is still scattered over the field, in other words, so Phil, swallowing to clear his throat to speak, has to be careful where he treads.

  Phil knows he got this job after the 2019 election because nobody in government was paying much attention. The Brexit hardcore had got the top jobs and they still had dozens of junior Cabinet positions to fill. A working-class boy whose mother had been a nurse, and who hadn’t made too many enemies in the party? He’ll do somewhere in Health. The Prime Minister’s political secretary shrugged, scrawled Phil’s name on a Post-it note, stuck it up on the whiteboard in the ‘Health’ column and then got back to the really important business of Brexit. Those were the days.

  Phil was never going to be a great parliamentary performer, but he turned out to be competent and reassuring when that’s what people needed. He kept his job. Won the grudging respect of his colleagues and the opposition, and got on with it.

  So, OK, this isn’t one of the grand pitched battles of parliament, it is a dawn p
atrol, a routine survey of the battleground. A warning exchange of fire as the pickets and snipers remind each other they are still there.

  But. If you’ve never been there you can’t know what it feels like, that half-step into the glare surrounding the despatch box, the feel of the New Zealand hardwood under your fingertips, the blank, hostile faces of the opposition and the sudden jolt of adrenaline, of fear which makes the hairs on the back of Phil’s neck stand up. He gives it a beat, then speaks.

  ‘I thank my honourable friend for her question and am delighted to join her in congratulating the staff of NHS Kent on the opening of the new wing of Kent Central – another demonstration of this government’s ongoing commitment … ’

  He trots out the phrases, hardly needs to glance down for the numbers. The jackals on the opposition benches have nothing to cling onto, no room for a heckle, no hook for a joke. They grumble and sulk their way through his answer, scratching at their cuffs, hunching their shoulders.

  Philip sits down to polite ‘hear, hears’ from the men and women on his own benches. They sound like sheep when they see the hay truck winding up the hill. So far so good. He controls his expression. Don’t look smug. Don’t look scared. Don’t look nervous. Don’t look bored. Look calm. Look engaged. Don’t smirk. The battlefield is quiet, but the cameras are still on and the snipers are still watching through their scopes even while they smother a yawn. Spot who among the bobbing MPs the Deputy Speaker is turning to next and listen.

  ‘Donald Black!’

  The Deputy Speaker raises her voice for the first time this session. More members are coming in to find their places before the next item on the order paper. The Prime Minister is coming in to make a statement about the tortuous progress of the trade talks and offer some bullish bromides about great days ahead. Jam tomorrow. Just ten minutes of topical questions left and Phil can get out of here and back to work. An afternoon of meetings in his parliamentary office, then a strategy session at the department which is scheduled to run till seven, but will probably bleed on until nine.

  Yes. The Honourable Member for Southampton West, face like a misshapen orange with tiny dark eyes – cloves stuck in the pith of his pockmarked skin. Collar too tight, knot in his tie too small. Voice nasal.

  ‘Would the Honourable Member agree with me that as we approach the second anniversary of the peak of COVID-19 in the United Kingdom … ’ What’s left of it. The thought, heavy with the bafflement and fear of those first weeks, hits heavy behind Phil’s eyes. He thinks of the camp beds in rows in sports stadia, that photograph of a nurse coming off shift in Lewisham, his face gaunt and grey with exhaustion. The slow unravelling after the first crisis passed. The spiralling unemployment figures, shuttered restaurants and bills. The endless brain-aching bills. ‘ … that now is the time to commemorate that moment in some significant way, and particularly offer some public memorial to the frontline NHS workers who lost their lives in their heroic struggle against the virus.’

  An easy one. Surprisingly easy from the opposition. Phil stands up. Half-step forward again, the words ready behind his lips. More people are coming into the Chamber and a movement in the visitors’ gallery catches his eye.

  A man in his late sixties, wearing the open collar, thin sweater and jacket of a retired white-collar worker, is finding his seat behind the glass panel. He nods politely to his neighbour as she lifts her scarf and bag out of his way.

  Something deep in Philip’s brain twitches into anxious, vigorous life. The man sits and faces into the Chamber. Dark eyes, pale brown skin. A stutter of memory. A summer’s evening. Distant pounding music. Owen’s voice shouting something, Georgina crying. The yelp and squawk of a siren. Philip’s brain goes white. He’s frozen for what feels like minutes. Two point three seconds, he’ll learn later. Long enough.

  The tricksters and hecklers on the opposition benches snap to attention. Blood in the water. Say something, Philip tells himself. Stop looking at that ghost in the gallery and say something.

  He clears his throat.

  ‘The government believes that a lasting public memorial would indeed be appropriate to celebrate the deaths of frontline workers whose selfless actions … ’ Laughter, cries of ‘Shame’ bouncing off the walls. What has he said? How has everything changed? Three minutes ago he was listening to the birdsong and now the air is full of explosions. Order papers rolled into clubs are being pointed, fingers stabbing the air like knives. Keep going. ‘ … saved thousands of lives. But the Mayor of London must cease distorting this simple sign of national recognition into a political football.’

  It redoubles. The Deputy Speaker is looking at him with barely disguised contempt. Why? Then he hears his own words repeated in his head and he feels the blood rush to his face, the prickle of sweat behind his collar. Sauve qui peut.

  ‘Madam Deputy Speaker … I … with many apologies. We wish to commemorate those workers. I … misspoke.’

  Too late. Too slow. The moment has flown. The opposition benches are fake roaring themselves purple, but among them he sees faces twisted with genuine rage. They have the full sentence. Government ministers didn’t just allow the deaths of our nurses, they celebrate it! He can see the newspaper and social media headlines next to a picture of his own sweating face.

  Phil sits down, knowing he looks like a child. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Humiliation runs through his arteries, pumps through his organs and poisons them. He folds his arms and looks at the benches opposite him with loathing, then upwards. He needs a moment, just a moment to stare at the vaulted roof.

  It’s fine. It’s fine. These things happen. A slip of the tongue. How many times have people warned about the perils of breakfast rather than Brexit? Appeals to aid the shitting industry rather than shipping? God, his own mother is a nurse! They can’t forget that, can they? Of course they can. The opposition were bored and are now going wild for it.

  The pith-faced member for Southampton West can’t believe his luck, and has just enough nous to act on it.

  ‘Point of order, Madam Deputy Speaker!’ The idiot can’t help licking his lips.

  She allows it.

  ‘The minister has just revealed the government’s true thoughts on the hundreds of thousands of public sector workers who were ground down by a decade of austerity then forced to risk their lives daily to save others. What remedy does this House have to force the Minister to apologise to the families of every lost public servant?’ He reaches a near hysterical pitch. ‘Isn’t it the case, Madam Deputy Speaker, that no one will ever trust the party opposite to run our public services again?’

  He sits. His eyes have almost entirely disappeared, he is smiling so broadly. The MPs behind him reach over the bench to pat him on the shoulder. He’s the most popular kid on the playground. It was a mistake! A simple mistake!

  Phil gets to his feet and says words. Reminds them that the government knows better than anyone what is owed to the NHS, the exemplary care given to the Prime Minister, and thousands of others. Reminds them about his mother, about the record investment in the NHS, the pay rise for the frontline, the writing off of its crippling debt, yanking hospitals out of the financial black holes the opposition had driven them into with its private financing initiatives when in government.

  It should be a strong recovery but nobody hears him – they don’t even pretend to listen. In Hansard this sensible, well-constructed answer will be printed in full and look no more or less important than his last answer. But right now he’s the kid who’s spilled juice down his crotch in the playground, the girl with her skirt caught up in her knickers walking through the office, the cuckold, the viral pratfall, the gazelle at the back of the pack with the injured leg.

  Final question. The Deputy Speaker has called someone else. Christ, they are actually going to make him stand up again. It’s another of the government backbenchers who looks, as he’s thanking Phil for his department’s swift action on something or other, as if he’s going to throw up. Phi
l knows how he feels. Phil lurches back onto his feet. Muscle memory. He says more words. He speaks for the microphones, hardly audible in the Chamber. He is on automatic pilot now and feels like his own ghost as he gives a lacklustre answer to the follow-up under the cacophony of heckles and sneers, pausing only when the Deputy Speaker, her voice starting to crack, calls for order again.

  Philip looks up again at the man in the balcony. Remembers being young. Remembers the sirens and the smell of damp grass, the feeling of drying mud on his hands. The interview room. The man stares back at him then leans towards a woman sitting next to him and says something. She nods, then flicks her long braids back over her shoulder.

  What in God’s name is Sabal Dewan doing here?

  His hair has gone completely white, and even sitting you can notice the slight stoop in his shoulders.

  The Deputy Speaker moves on to the next item of parliamentary business. Phil can escape. He passes the Prime Minister as he leaves the raucous Chamber behind him. The Prime Minister blanks him. No – worse than blanks him: lets his eyes flicker over Phil then his expression resolves into one of mild disgust. That chancer, that scatterbrained blustering … It was a mistake! One mistake! After years of dutiful shit-eating during Brexit and then twenty-hour days and sleeping in his office for half of 2020 trying to save lives! Then Sabal Dewan turns up and brings back the memory of the worst night of his life, his losses, and in that sudden moment of reliving it he made one mistake and now the mop-haired martyr of Westminster looks at him like he’s the excrement on his shoe.

  Damn it. Damn these people, damn them to hell. Let the sodding building collapse in on itself, cordon off the Palace with yellow tape and leave it to rot, let sewage flood the basements, let the frayed wires flame and consume, leave the statues for looters and let the busts of parliamentarians serve as garden ornaments, let the terrace tumble into the Thames and take all these failed comedians, nonentities, intellectual lightweights, tribal warriors and braying asses with it.

  Phil needs a minute. Just a minute to clear his head and recover from the solar plexus punch of it, to get his game face back on. Out of the Chamber he risks touching his forehead. Good. Not clammy. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he …