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Chapter Two
A Weekend Away
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It's official, thought Diaval while he and Maleficent stood in line at the Immigration Office. She's lost her bloody mind…
"Did you see King's face?" said Maleficent gleefully. "He couldn't have looked more surprised if I'd slapped him across the face with a dead fish."
"I'm glad you find this so amusing." Diaval's headache was escalating. Rubbing his temples, he tried to ignore his boss's look of mock sympathy.
"Poor baby. Not to worry. Once this is settled, we'll have a quickie divorce and you can go on to marry an obliging fifties housewife type who'll have a supper ready for you every evening and bear you plenty of little beasties."
Diaval turned to Maleficent with a groan of pure frustration. "You're not getting this, are you?" He leaned closer towards her and lowered his voice. "We'll be committing fraud. And while I've done many questionable things for you over the years, this is taking it a bit too far."
Maleficent's expression was suddenly all business, and Diaval felt his stomach turn leaden with dread.
"Let me put it to you simply, Diaval. If you don't play along, it will be as if all your hard work thus far never happened. You'll be back to square one – a small-town boy, lost and alone on the big, bad city streets – because do you honestly think King will keep you once I'm gone?"
"Next!"
It wasn't until Maleficent left him standing there, blinking owlishly after her, that Diaval realised they'd reached the front of the queue. A moment later she was gesturing impatiently for him to join her at the counter.
"Come along, darling. We don't have all day."
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Maleficent pressed her lips together to keep from sneering. The office she and Diaval had been shown to was small and cluttered, and smelled like a gym's changing room. What's worse, when she swept a finger over the top of a filing cabinet by the door, it came away dusty.
"Utter pigsty," muttered Maleficent. "Completely unprofessional."
She cast a glance at Diaval who was sitting in one of a pair of plastic chairs situated before a desk. Or what Maleficent assumed was a desk. She couldn't quite tell for all the paperwork and general mess strewn atop it.
Her assistant hadn't spoken since they'd left the waiting area, and sat now with his face in his hands.
"Oh do stop moping, Diaval," said Maleficent reproachfully. "There are far worse things in life than getting married to my wonderful self."
"Actually," said Diaval, voice muffled against his palms, "I have a hammering headache."
Maleficent rolled her eyes, but fished a packet of paracetamol and half-drunk bottle of water from her designer handbag.
"Here." She nudged him with the bottle. He took the proffered painkillers and water with a quiet word of thanks, and it was as Maleficent hovered over him suspiciously like a mother hen that the office door opened.
"A'ight," said the newcomer - a short, fat man with close-cropped hair and a coarse, uncultured accent that placed him as a native of the roughest part of the city. "Name's Barnaby Small. And you must be-" He held a stapled-together sheaf of papers to his face. "Diaval and Maleficent. Sit down." The latter he directed sternly at Maleficent. Deeming it unwise to refuse, she perched herself on the edge of the second chair that looked about as grubby as everything else in the room.
"So. You're applying for a fiancé visa," said Barnaby once he'd sat behind his desk. He looked between them with narrowed eyes. "Now listen up, and listen good. If I find out you're doing this to keep her in the country-" Diaval found himself on the receiving end of an accusing finger-point. "You'll face a fine and a prison sentence, and you-" The finger was redirected at Maleficent. "Will be shipped off home to," a glance at the papers, "The Moors faster than you can say 'citizenship fraud'. Understand?"
"Of course," said Maleficent smoothly. "But it's nothing like that. You see, Diaval and I were two people who were never meant to fall in love... but did." She grasped Diaval's hand for effect. It trembled and perspired in her grip. "All those late nights at the office and weekend book fairs..."
"Spare me," said Barnaby with a dismissive hand gesture. "Now this is what's going to happen. I will interview the both of you separately. Your answers better match up. Next I'll interview your families-"
"Ah..." Maleficent dropped Diaval's hand in order to raise her own like a prim schoolgirl. "Sorry to interrupt, but my parents are dead, and I have no siblings."
Barnaby sighed. "Naturally," he said, jotting down some notes. "And what about you Mr Blake?"
"Oh, uh, my parents are very much alive. And I have two sisters. But, um, they don't know... yet."
Barnaby looked up, eyebrows shooting heavenwards. "They don't know you're engaged?"
"We were going to break the news this weekend," inserted Maleficent. "At Diaval's grandmother's ninetieth birthday celebration. Isn't that right, dear?"
Said 'dear' gawped at her for a moment before his face settled into an expressionless mask. "Yes. That... that's right."
"Hmm." Barnaby abruptly stood and reached for a post-it note. "I'll be seeing you both Monday afternoon for that interview," he said, scribbling down the date and time. He passed the yellow square of paper to Maleficent with a rather sinister smile. "Enjoy your weekend away."
