It should have been a hell of a party.
In the elegant, pillared drawing room of Ten Downing Street, Peter Creedy stood, drink in hand, resting his elbow against the carved marble mantle of the fireplace. He surveyed the assorted guests mingling around him while trying to look casually at ease, and failing. He'd stood by himself for a while now, only exchanging brief pleasantries with the few other Party members that he was well acquainted with.
Creedy spied the Chancellor in the opposite corner of the room surrounded by his usual coterie of sycophants and cronies. Nothing like a night of free booze to bring out the arse kissers. Christ.
It didn't take a genius to see that Sutler had no intention of even acknowledging his presence this evening.
Typical, he thought, swigging his scotch. He swallowed hard, then grimaced at his glass. Fucking watered down piss.
Contempt, dark and sour like bile, suddenly welled up within him.
It was a fucking charade, the whole thing.
He glanced down at his watch, and then rolled his eyes, his mouth creasing into a frown. Dinner wouldn't be served for another hour, at least. Perhaps he could slip out, claim he got called on a case. Creedy quickly quashed the temptation, though God only knew he wasn't Mr. Fucking Meet and Greet.
He hated diplomats, hated the condescending smiles, the pretentious, banal repartee he lacked the skill and patience to engage in. He could pull off the polite, attentive act as well as the next bloke when called upon, but mostly he preferred the coarse simplicity of his fellow Fingermen's company.
Goddamn them all.
Creedy looked over toward the Chancellor once more, who was laughing as he clapped one of his groupies on the shoulder.
Dark, violent impulses surged through him then, and for a few moments he gave himself over fully to the images his mind conjured in vivid, staccato flashes.
Sutler's shirt twisted in one hand as he held him down, oh the fear coming off him like perfume, the baton solid in his grip an extension of his arm loud sharp crack of bone collapsing as he struck the blood hot like ejaculate spattering his face...
Creedy took a deep breath to settle his rising agitation.
He focused his gaze on Sutler. The bow of God's wrath is bent, yes it is, and when I let fly, you'll see.
You'll see.
A/N: I just came across this in my writing folder. It was originally part of a longer story I was noodling around with, and though I'm not sure I'll ever get that written, this snippet does seem to work on its own.
