DoSAC Offices - May 7th - 10.55am

"I feel like the last rat left on the Titanic," Nicola said, dropping the bag from her lemon zinger into the bin. "Three more weeks of fucking campaigning for an election everyone knows we've already lost."

Glenn murmured; didn't look up from his phone. "There's a rumour Farage is going to stand against you as Knightly's replacement."

"Helicopter candidate," Ollie said with a grin.

"It was a light aircraft."

"Well, I don't think you can rely on two of your opponents dying so we should start considering strategy," Glenn said. "Bear in mind the wankers will be throwing everything in their shit-pail at you this time."

"On the upside you scooped most of it out yourself already, so they're going to have to find something new."

Nicola slumped back in her chair. "Fighting on two fronts now - we know how well that ends."

"The opposition won't risk piling in and splitting the vote," Ollie said.

"No they'll just fling shit at me from the sidelines."

"This is actually very good for you," Glenn said brightly.

Nicola scowled.

"Your supporters will vote for you whatever but Knightly's lot will mostly likely switch back to the Tories now they're close to government again. This will almost definitely split the vote in fact."

Ollie's phone rang.

"I've got to…" he went out of Nicola's office before he answered. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Hi Ollie sorry are you busy?" Emma asked.

He laughed. "No I'm free for the rest of the day actually. We could go to an Ibis and have red-hot, bareback monkey sex if you like. That sound like something you'd enjoy? Oh no you wouldn't want to do that would you? Because we broke up."

"I dumped you," Emma snapped back.

"Yeah well if you want your stuff back I gave it to charity. Mind - since you're a crazy fucking hellbitch."

"You know I thought it'd be the mediocre sex but it's these charming conversations I really miss."

"You phoned me," he reminded her. "Which I imagine is down to Stewart." He laughed again, hearing her huff. "Jesus Christ, you can't even whore yourself out properly."

"Look do you want to come around tonight or not?"

"Yes."

"Alright then."

"I'll fucking look forward to it." He ended the call, only the vaguest idea what he was doing. If nothing else it'd been a while.

On the tv news24 was showing an empty podium outside Number 10 - the PM expected out at any moment to make an overture to the Lib Dems.

"Tom's coming out," Ollie shouted.

Nicola and Glenn were arguing about the possibility of taking her husband campaigning with her as they left her office.

"It'll go down well," Glenn said. "Family values and all that."

"Not if I stab him in the face during a visit to a childrens' ward." She perched on the edge of a desk. "Bloody hell Tom looks like someone's just shit in his mouth."

Glenn sat down at his computer. "According to Skittles' blog Mrs Coyne's ordered new furniture for Number 11 already."

"Skittles?" Nicola asked. "Why do these bloggers always have such stupid names?"

"They're saying it's a done deal already with the opposition."

"Jamie's going to love that," Ollie said. "It'll be like one of those reality shows where they take a kid off a council estate and send him to Harrow. Then give him a big rusty knife to defend himself with." He tapped a pen between his teeth, watching the tv for a few seconds; Tom awkward sounding, flustered. "How did he ever get married? 'I…uh-nuh-uh…would you perhaps do me the…aahhhh…honour of pummelling my junk?'"

Glenn glanced at him. "No wonder Emma broke up with you."

"Emma has come crawling back thank-you very much." Ollie bowed slightly.

"And what very interesting timing…"

Ollie answered his phone. "Malcolm, how's - "

"Don't talk just listen - you still play squash with Dan Miller yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Right I want you in my office in one hour, scrubbed up and ready to fuck. Give old man Steptoe the phone." Ollie handed it over.

"What's going on now?" Nicola asked. "Jesus I haven't even been out of the office, what can I possibly have done wrong?"

Glenn tossed Ollie's phone back.

"It's not you, it's Steve Fleming. Malcolm's staging a coup d'etat."

No. 10 Downing Street - 11.30am

"Lord Nicholson, as much of a pleasure as ever."

Malcolm closed the door behind him, ushered him into a seat.

"You want me to tell you how pretty you are or can we cut to the fucking?"

"My sources inform me that Mr Coyne is not unamenable to the idea of a coalition - "

"Some fucking sources you have," Malcolm said. "That boat has sailed. It's sailed, been hijacked by Somali pirates and is back on the market with a brand new royal blue paintjob. The crew's dead in the fucking water as well."

Malcolm glanced at a message coming into his phone, suppressed a smile as he tapped out a fast reply.

"Not you of course. You'll have a ringside seat for the Eton-grade arseraping this party's going to get - up there in the House."

Nicholson steepled his fingers in front of his chest. "All is not yet lost Malcolm."

"No, we could barricade ourselves in and threaten to let off the nukes if we don't get unconditional support," Malcolm suggested. "That was Tom's initial plan anyway. It's going to take a fucking exorcist to get him out of this place."

"I think Tom's position might be becoming rather untenable," Nicholson said smoothly. "I imagine that if you were to ask our voters they might say that with a different leader we would have won a significantly higher number of seats."

Malcolm smiled. "Et tu Julius."

"'Men at some time are masters of their fates.'"

Malcolm finally sat down, watched Nicholson and waited.

"Dan Miller's wife was at university with Coyne if I remember correctly," he said. "And unless I am very much mistaken they served at the same think tank in the early nineties."

"Julius I'm good but I even I can't evict Tom before two o'clock this afternoon. Unless you actually want to murder him." Malcolm shrugged. "I'm not opposed to the idea I just don't fancy trying to shift his body on my own. Hey - we could cut him up and smuggle him out in the red boxes."

"We need him to bow out."

Malcolm laughed. "Tom's not going anywhere of his own accord. He's the fucking Rafa Benitez of politics."

He picked up his phone; another message, similar to the last.

"What the hell's Fleming doing making contact with Coyne?" Malcolm demanded. "Did you okay this?"

"Fleming isn't on the negotiation team as you well know."

He stabbed at his laptop. "This fucking Skittles bitch - the BBC have got it now - they're quoting them as a high level Lib Dem insider. They've fucking cut and pasted straight off the blog. 'A terse discussion between Toby Coyne and Labour's Mephistopheles-without-portfolio Steve Fleming is understood to have taken place within the last half an hour.'"

Nicholson blinked slowly at him. "If this is you Malcolm - "

"Look much as I would love to kick Fleming's bollocks up into his mouth, I'd rather do it with us in power. It's just mindless thuggery otherwise." He scanned down the page. "You need to contain him Julius - 'Fleming and Coyne spoke frankly for ten minutes.' Frankly. They might as well have said Coyne told him to go fuck a trucker."

Lord Nicholson stood, rebuttoned his jacket.

"I will deal with Fleming Malcolm. You just bring your talents to bear on Tom."

Malcolm sketched a vague salute at his back.

He dialled Glenn's number. "Start pumping the denials about Tom planning to stand down. His position is not untenable. There is no putsch - you get me - he's just feeling tired after the exhaustive campaigning. He's going home for the weekend to rest."

"Ah that old chestnut," Glenn said. "And this blogger - Skittles - what's our line on the Fleming stuff?"

"Fleming has acted beyond his remit - you're not prepared to say anymore until he's laid out on the slab."

"Which will be when?"

"Soon as I'm done sharpening my fucking knives."

Lib Dem HQ, Cowley Street - 1.35am

Toby Coyne watched a replay of the PM's address with a fixed smirk, casting occasional glances over his shoulder at Jamie, who was typing on his Blackberry.

"Is it true what they say about him?" Coyne asked.

"The bedwetting? Oh aye."

On screen Tom retreated back behind the black door and the election results were plastered across the screen once again as a late declaring seat came in. Another one for the wankers.

They cut back to a reporter outside Cowley Street - "Despite the Prime Minister's offer, senior sources within the Liberal Democrats are already suggesting that a deal with the Conservatives is imminent. Leaving their supporters wondering whether a understanding was reached during the election campaign itself."

"What?" Coyne snapped. "Where's this coming from?"

"They're just turning on the shitwhisk."

"This is serious Jamie."

He came around the desk and blocked off the tv.

"This is exactly what you fucking need them to be saying. Do you want to be the girl at the party nobody wants to shag?"

Jamie's phone rang.

"What?"

"We've got a problem outside."

He went to the window, looked down onto the pavement where two dozen protestors with placards and banners had turned up. They were heavily outnumbered by press.

"Now this is a fucking problem," Jamie admitted.

"How do they get organised so quickly?"

"Bunch of work-shy fucking hippies. They're being directed from somewhere. This is someone trying to force your hand."

"No-one is going to force me into moving before I'm ready."

Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. "Fucking aye boss. You've got the only tight cunt at the rugby club dinner - you name your price."

Coyne turned away from the window; the voices were reaching them now.

"Are you sure about this Jamie? It seems like a risky strategy. The numbers are horrible for one thing."

"Trust me - there's only one way you're going to get your policies treated seriously and this is it." He nodded towards the door. "I'll see if I can get a fucking bulldozer in to shift that shower of shite down there."

Coyne went through into his own office and Jamie closed the door after him.

His phone was ringing.

"Good afternoon Jamie - things proceeding smoothly are they?"

"Get to the fucking point Hewitt you rancid, slack - ah I can't be bothered, you know you're a fucking cunt right? You don't need me to tell you again."

"This leak from Cowley Street - do you have any comment for us to add?"

"Fucking leak," Jamie said smiling. "Some geek twat wanks over their laptop and you lick it up. You're a jizz-kitten Hewitt - off the fucking record of course. Although if I add it to my blog feel free to quote it."

"You appear to be avoiding the subject. You're slipping fella."

Jamie brought up Skittles' blog on his computer. The latest post was ten minutes old - a call to arms aimed at the grassroots. They wanted a mass rally outside HQ Saturday morning. No Teal Coalition.

"It's a story in itself," Hewitt said smugly. "The former hardman of New Labour can't keep a few Lib Dems in line anymore. Do you feel out of your depth Jamie?"

"Fuck you."

"Separates the men from the boys, occasions like this."

"I'll separate your man from your boys you don't lay the fuck off this now."

Hewitt snorted. "Are you stamping your little feet Jamie - it sounds like you are from here."

Jamie ended the call.