Remember Hillsborough? Remember Grenfell? Remember the Post Office Horizon scandal? Of course you do. So you probably don’t have much faith in organisations and government to tell the truth. Because on every occasion, what you get from politicians is a lot of hand-wringing. Bucketfuls of faux piety. Verging on the lachrymose. Not forgetting the sincerity. Always the sincerity.
“This. Must. Never. Be. Allowed. To. Happen. Again,” they say. Talking extra slowly and over-emphasising each word. Because this time they think the public might be watching them. Because this time they expect to be believed. “Read my lips. I’m an honest broker.” Except we all know they’re not. That every time they say this mustn’t happen again, there’s another thing coming just round the corner they had said must never happen again.
Weird, isn’t it? What are the chances? It’s almost as if the politicians are just mouthing platitudes. The sort of banalities that get wheeled out on the death of a minor public figure whom no one really knew. More an expression of helplessness than genuine intent.
Something must be done. But no one’s really bothered enough to do it. Let it drop and leave it to someone else. It’s all a bit difficult. Embarrassing even. And what’s missing is the sense of shame. The acknowledgment that government or public institutions might in some way be complicit. Might bear some responsibility. The political class lives to fight another day.
No doubt the Theresa May government thought Brian Langstaff would be a safe pair of hands to head the infected blood inquiry when he was appointed in February 2018. An establishment man through and through. One of us.
Someone who could be relied on to do a thorough job. But not too thorough. Examine the causes but go easy on apportioning the blame. Especially to successive governments. Politicians always want to have someone else to blame. Never themselves.
But Langstaff is very much his own man. There’s nothing like spending five years listening to the testimony of patients and relatives to fuel righteous anger. Nothing like being talked down to and dismissed by politicians who you knew were lying through their teeth to turn you into a caped crusader. Give him a beard and he could be a Dumbledore for a new generation. The voice of ancient truths.
Come Monday afternoon, Langstaff had one last chance to make a difference. His report had been published that morning. The victims had given their press conference at lunchtime. Now it was left to Brian to make a splash. To make sure his report survived beyond one day’s news cycle. That everyone didn’t just go, “Oh that’s terrible” in the afternoon and have moved on by the following morning. Recommendations? What recommendations? Just shove them aside to join the pile of all the other things that are far too difficult to action now.
There was a standing ovation when Langstaff took to the stage of Methodist Central Hall to deliver his hour-long statement in front of an audience of victims and journalists. He was very much their man. They had spent long enough in the inquiry, they had read enough of his 2,000-page report, to know he was on their side. There was no whitewash. He was the real deal.
“You’re applauding the wrong man,” said Langstaff, with a bashful smile. You don’t get to have spent a career as a barrister without knowing how to work a crowd. “This report comes from you and your stories. Look to your right. To your left. In front of you and behind you. These are the people who have written this report. So please stand up to applaud yourselves.”
They did. The ovation was even longer second time round.
Then to the details. There had been 30,000 people treated with infected blood, 3,000 had died. More were dying by the day. Then there were the families and friends affected. Who had given up their careers, their lives to care for their loved ones. Dreams and ambitions lost.
There was the stigma. Many victims had been shunned or abused by their neighbours. Some of the early treatments for HIV and hepatitis C had been more traumatic than the conditions themselves.
And most of it had been entirely avoidable. The dangers of passing on infections in blood products had been well known since the 1940s and 50s. This hadn’t been an accident. Hospitals had covered up their errors and misconduct. As had all governments from the 1980s onwards.
Worse, they had actually lied to the victims. Told them that they had been warned of the dangers of HIV and hep C at the earliest opportunity. That they had always had the best treatment available. That everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
There had been cover-ups. The current government had even tried to delay paying compensation. Hey, these victims had waited long enough. It wouldn’t hurt for them to wait a bit longer. Let Labour find the £10bn when they won the election. The Tories could then taunt them for not balancing the books.
Langstaff ended by saying his job was not done. The publication of his report was just a waypoint on the journey. The real work started now. Making sure the government implemented his recommendations. It was a bravura performance. His voice had been heard. As had the victims’ voices. For the first time in decades they were people again. They counted. We ended with yet more sustained applause.
Much later in the afternoon, Rishi Sunak came to the Commons to give a statement. This was less convincing theatre. The prime minister used his extra slow, extra serious voice. Empathy turned up to three. That’s about as far as he goes. No one cared more about the infected blood victims than he did. They had been let down by health professionals and governments. He was truly, truly sorry.
Though not sorry enough – as pointed out by Labour’s Diana Johnson, who has campaigned on the issue for years – to have done as Langstaff had recommended in his interim report and establish a compensation scheme. Doing so now just looked like he had been embarrassed into it. Amazing how you can find an extra £10bn when it’s convenient. Almost as though the figures in every budget were imaginary.
Sunak ended with the inevitable. “We must make sure nothing like this ever happens again.” Except it will. It’s all too easy for politicians to apologise for the guilt of their predecessors. But it’s odds on there’s another scandal bubbling below the surface right now in which the state is implicated. And in 10 or 20 years’ time, the prime minister of the day will be saying sorry.
