Catharsis

Malcolm got out of jail on good behaviour, after only four years in prison. It wasn't all bad; three meals a day, plenty of quiet time to reflect. In fact, for most of he his stay behind bars he had been nearly silent. The only times he spoke was when absolutely necessary, and when some fuckhead tried to get uppity with him. That's when he would let loose the tirade of expletives that had built up inside him, using his most graphically violent imagery and instantly made himself a local legend among his fellow convicts. The guards had no clue, however. They, along with the other prison staff, thought of him as a genuinely remorseful inmate who wanted to pay penance for his crimes. And so he was released early, for being such a lovely, obedient, white-collar criminal.

Now that he was free again, he vowed to not ever return to the political scene. They had stolen enough of his life. Now it was time to live for himself. Malcolm time. Maybe he could travel. Or start a band. Or get really into gardening. It didn't matter what he did, as long as he was the master of his own destiny, from this point forward.

He liked his house, so he refused to give it up, but he decided to no longer frequent his usual haunts, not from fear of running into shadows from his previous life, but out of disgust. He didn't even watch the news anymore, he was so fucking sick of everything he had been a part of. How completely he had lost himself, so willingly sold his soul to the darkness just to pretend like he was in control of that fucking circus of walking, talking piles of shit. He needed a new regular hideout, somewhere with a decent cup of tea, some croissants, and an atmosphere in which he could collect his thoughts.

That's when he discovered an American-style 50s diner that he had never noticed before on the edge of town. Probably no croissants, but it had potential. It certainly wasn't the kind of place anyone else would expect to find him in. He liked the element of surprise.

As to be expected, the interior was kitschy, retro, and included a portrait of Elvis along the far wall, and a statue of Marilyn on the counter. The cheesiness was oddly charming somehow. He found himself smirking as he slid into one of the red booths. The tabletop was smooth, clean, with little metallic flecks to give it that nostalgic aesthetic. Neon lights ringed the mouldings, casting the whole place in a warm glow. Malcolm settled in.

A waitress approached the table. She was wearing a blue little dress complete with apron and high top shoes, her chestnut hair tied back in a neat bun at the back of her neck. She had enormous brown eyes, and they were looking at him in a curiosity that led him to believe she was interested in more than just his drink order. He wondered why her ruby lips were parted in that way, like she was out of breath.

Perhaps she had a thing for older men.

"Hi there," he greeted her finally, if only to break the awkward silence. "Can I get a Fanta please?"

She blinked at him, fumbling for her stack of order slips. "Yeah, sure, of course!" She jotted it down. She walked away a few paces, then doubled back to his table. "Erm… sorry, do you… do you recognize me?"

Malcolm shifted in his seat to look at her straight-on. Her face was spectacularly round, almost impossibly so. She looked to be half his age. Very pretty. He was certain he would have known if he had met her before. "Should I? I'm sorry but no, I don't recognize you. Have we met?"

She was still staring at him, as though she couldn't believe he was there. He half expected her to reach out and touch him to confirm that he was indeed substantial, not an apparition. He wouldn't have minded her touching him.

"Oh. Well, didn't… Didn't we meet in Nevada?"

"Nevada?" What a strangely specific location. "No, I've never been to Nevada."

"Really?" She bit her lip. It wasn't meant to be provocative, but it was. Then again, after four years in prison, anything with tits was looking pretty enticing to him. He could have humped a fucking statue if it looked at him the way she was. "Weird. You look just like someone, I mean, identical. You could be his twin."

"Is that so? He must be a handsome devil then," he jested, smiling.

"You even have the same ego," she threw back at him, playfully. Her smile was lovely. Malcolm was suddenly very glad he had chosen to enter this particular diner. "Same accent too. Glasgow?"

"Aye, Glasgow. Are you sure you're not confusing me with a, erm… public figure?" He didn't want to lead her too much, but maybe she recognized him from his unfortunately public arrest. He had occasionally made it to the papers before that, when those useless wastes of skin fucked up so bad they needed to use him as a scapegoat. Certainly there had been plenty of media coverage regarding his… past.

The waitress seemed intrigued. "Tell you what, I'll grab that Fanta, you have a look at this, and then we'll chat some more, yeah?" She handed him a menu, and as he took it their fingers made the briefest contact- it was almost like a static shock, a sudden burst of energy surged through him, and then it was gone as she turned to grab his drink. Befuddled, he set to examining their edible wares.

But in between glances at the menu, his eyes kept wanting to follow her movements, to study her. Why was he so fascinated by her? Surely he couldn't have been that desperate for female attention; though it had certainly been long enough. It was like watching an eclipse: he knew he shouldn't stare, but damn the consequences he wanted to see, as if he could somehow discover some long-lost mystery that everyone else would miss as they averted their eyes.

Before long she was on her way back to his table, Fanta in hand. He quickly forced himself to look at the menu, but found it suddenly difficult to read. Get a fucking grip, Malcolm. She set the glass on the table, then settled into the seat across from him unexpectedly. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea, darling. I'll only bore you. And besides, I think the other customers might get jealous…" He looked around, but found that the diner was actually rather empty aside from the two of them.

"I can check in on the others just soon as they show up. And I seriously doubt you could bore me. I'm very easily entertained." She held out her hand. "Clara. Clara Oswald. And you are?"

Malcolm hesitated. If she didn't recognize his face from the news, maybe she would recognize his name… and then instantly regret she ever took a seat across from him, and then she would awkwardly find a way to escape. Dreading what would happen next, he sighed, and introduced himself. "Malcolm Tucker. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Oswald." He grasped her hand in his; it was soft, and warm. He fought the desire to kiss the back of her hand. Not that he was particularly gallant, he just wanted to feel her skin against his lips… Fucking cool it, Malcolm. They shook briefly, then he waited for the realization to set in.

But Clara was unfazed. She just smiled back at him, and rested her elbows on the table. "So tell me, Malcolm, what's your story?"

Then she didn't know. He should have expected as much. A girl her age was hardly likely to be interested in politics, let alone the fate of one particular media strategist. A wave of relief washed over him. But she was still asking to know what he was all about. How could he present his background in a way that wouldn't result in her sidling away? He had to be clever. He was good at being clever.

"Well, I've just recently come back into town, really. Been on an extended holiday."

"Ooh, lovely, where did you go?"

A thought came to him then. Maybe he didn't need to be clever. He ventured with the truth. "Prison."

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows shot up. She didn't run. "Really? You don't seem the type." She lowered her voice and leaned in closer, as though they were conspiring. "What'd you do?"

"Perjury. Mostly."

Her eyes seemed to actually light up at that. "I see. So you're a liar then."

"The best. To a fault, it would seem. Though I guess in the end I didn't lie so well."

Clara sat up, straightening her posture. "Then you really haven't met me then. Because I'm the universally undefeated champion of lying," she boasted. "And I've never gone to jail for it," she added, a playful stab.

"Is that so? Well, I have my theories on why people might be inclined to believe you…" Malcolm gave her a lingering look. He had no idea what was happening here, but he knew that he liked it. Nothing was going as he expected; it was like trying to play chess against a fucking unicorn.

She seemed to be enjoying his implied flattery well enough. Then she remembered suddenly, "I haven't actually taken your order yet. Did you want anything to eat?"

"Oh, yeah, erm...how about some… cheese fries? Christ, can't you just call them fucking chips?" The second bit slipped out before he could stop himself. She laughed and grabbed the menu, untroubled by his comment.

"This is an American diner, gotta keep with the theme, dude," she explained, the last word emphasized as though it should have some special meaning. She watched for his reaction. Not sure what she was getting at, Malcolm shrugged. She almost looked disappointed. She disappeared behind the counter to deliver his order.

Malcolm wiped his face with one hand as he tried to make sense of all that had occurred thus far. He looked around: still no other customers. Was he dreaming? Did he die in prison and this was an unexpected form of purgatory? He certainly wasn't going to just waltz into heaven, he knew that much. And things were too odd to be heaven anyway. If he was dreaming, then he could get control of the situation. If this was purgatory, he would have to prove his worth. He felt equal to the task.

When Clara returned, and he hadn't been so sure that she would, she clasped her hands together on the table and looked him directly in the eye, suddenly quite serious.

"No lying. You really don't know me?"

"Not yet. But I'd very much like to," he admitted.

Her lips cracked a smile for a brief moment, before returning to the grave, hard line. "I mean it, you can't be playing games with me. If this is some kind of elaborate joke, I swear…" Were her eyes getting all watery?

"Whoa, whoa, hey, listen. I don't know who you think I look like. But obviously he means a lot to you. Now I've done my time for the lies I told before. I'm done with that. Of course, the little lies are all fun and good, but I promise you: I am not that man, whoever he is. I've never met you before. But I'm glad I have now." He felt like she had some method of truth extraction, a psychic dentist with giant doe eyes and a great set of tits and something strange, almost otherworldly about her. He couldn't stop himself from admitting the things he normally would never have uttered aloud, let alone to a complete stranger. Had she slipped something into his Fanta?

The pretty waitress nodded. "Good. Thank you. I mean, it's nice to meet you too. Sorry, it's just… well, it's a very complicated story. And you really, really remind me of him."

"That much is clear. He must have done quite a number on you then, what with how quickly you can change your mood. You're like a fucking bipolar traffic accident, I don't understand you and I can't look away." When he realized how that probably sounded, he immediately backpedaled. "No offense, of course. I just meant you're unpredictable and you're beautiful." Wow. laying it on a little thick there, aren't we? He actually covered his mouth after that, though he attempted to make it look casual.

Clara beamed at him. "How long did you say you were in jail for?"

"I didn't. Four years. Could have been five, but I was a good boy. Early release."

"Ah, I see. Am I the first woman you've talked to then?"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "For an extended period of time? Perhaps."

She laughed, though it wasn't malicious. "Okay, then I guess I can forgive you calling me a 'bipolar traffic accident.' Haven't heard that before. Very...abstract."

"I'm just getting started, Clara. You have no idea how colorful my words can get."

"I look forward to hearing the full spectrum then. Back in mo', I'm going to check on those fries." She stood and headed for the kitchen, stealing a backwards glance at him before disappearing behind the swinging doors.