Malcolm is formulating his plans for ousting Nicola. It is taking up all his time and concentration. So much so that when Thursday comes...

I wrote scene 24 before I'd written any of the others. It was the first thing that came into my head and I needed to get it down on paper. Almost the whole of the rest of this story has formed around this one scene. So for me it is the best scene, not because of the quality, but because it was the catalyst that started the whole creative process.

Scene 23

Malcolm Tucker was plotting.

In all the years he'd worked in politics, never had he done anything so low, so underhand. His motives may be sound, but his methods stunk to high heaven.

He needed to persuade others to jump overboard with him, which would mean the possible destruction of others careers too.

Ben Swain was a prize idiot, it would not be difficult to bring him into the mix, then he could be unceremoniously dumped. Ollie Reeder, who Malcolm knew to be a conniving, mean spirited, manipulative wanker, would also help, particularly if it enhanced his own prospects, and his ultimate goal, which was to usurp Malcolm's position. Ollie would be able to pull in favours from ex colleagues like Glenn Cullen, who wouldn't say no.

Malcolm despised Dan Miller, a slimy, toady; self serving and ruthlessly ambitious, he must be set up as Nicola's successor. He moved the pieces on the metaphorical chess board like a Grand Master.

And what of Malcolm himself? His careful schemes would not include saving himself. Beth had hit the nail on the head, at the restaurant...career suicide, that's what it would be, but it was the only way. He didn't even have the desire to win...no, he would rid the country of Nicola, then he would throw himself on his own sword. His loyalty to his Party no longer mattered to him. What happened to him afterwards was not important. He knew that faster, younger, more driven jackals were already circling. Ready to feed on the husk that was now his carcass.

He no longer wanted to be a part of this world. In securing Murray's downfall, he would contrive to engineer his own.

He was not sure how he would achieve his aims as yet, but wheels were in motion, he was brewing his lethal potion, and when he was ready, everyone would have to drink it, including himself.

Scared. He was shit scared. This had been his life for so long, he knew nothing else. But in the two years since his divorce, he'd dared to imagine there may be an existence beyond the pale.

Fuck it all, he'd work in Burger King if necessary.

What if he was fated to be permanently by himself? He'd just have to deal with it. No job, no legacy, no real friends, what an epitaph for a man's life! They'd taken it all, and fucked him royally along the way. He just couldn't be arsed anymore.

He closed his laptop, and replaced his blackberry in his jacket pocket.

Nicola Murray would fall, and it would be at his behest, he would make certain he gave her a good hard shove!

He left the office, and walked without intent, he wandered away from Whitehall, towards Trafalgar Square and along the Strand, heading towards Covent Garden. There were street performers in the old fruit market square, jugglers, acrobats, he stood for a while and watched. He needed to get home. He felt grubby, both physically and mentally. Filthy...dirty...he wanted a shower, although he knew he still wouldn't feel clean. He hated himself with all the hate he could muster. How could he possibly expect anyone else to like him, to love him, when he couldn't like or love himself.

Scene 24

Thursday.

The flat was a converted semi, quiet, and convenient. Chosen more as a place to crash than for aesthetics, she thought.
She parked the car, walked up the front path and rang the doorbell.
Nothing.
She stepped back and listened. Sounds came from inside, scuffling and a thud, followed by a curse.
She rang again.
Hurried footsteps, and the door was opened, just a little.
His tousled head peeped through the gap. Hot, sweaty and weary looking, he stood there, looking at her.
She saw a flurry of different thoughts pass across his face, clear to see.
Recognition...confusion...realisation.
"Shit!"
She arched her eyebrows playfully.
"You've forgotten?"
He scratched his head thoughtfully, then the hand strayed down his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Bollocks!...it's been such a manic day, I've only just got in."
He didn't step back or open the door further.
"Er...We could do this another time, it's no big deal..."
A look of shame passed over his countenance.
"Christ! Where are my manners? Talk about how to win friends..."
He stepped backwards and opened the door fully, allowing her to enter the hallway.
"I'm really sorry..." He mumbled apologetically.
"I take it dinner's off then?..."
"Fuck! I haven't even...oh God, I'm hopeless."
She looked at him with a pitying expression, he REALLY needed a wash...and she was starving hungry.
"Look...tell you what, why don't I go down to the little supermarket at the end of the road, and get us something, while you jump in the shower...then we'll eat? How does that sound?"
He gave her a look of mixed gratitude and humility, ruffling his hair again.
"That sounds fantastic..."
"As Arnie said, I'll be back!" She laughed.

The kitchen had only rudimentary utensils, she gathered it was more intended for students than for the likes of him. The place was clean enough but it had a rather gloomy air and very little that could be described as ambiance.
He emerged from the shower, pink and shiny, rubbing his head vigorously with a towel. Black jeans, skull motif t-shirt. He looked so different out of a suit.
The oven whirred alarmingly when she switched it on, but it seemed to work okay. Inside two pieces of salmon were soon poaching in white wine, wrapped in foil parcels. A wok containing vegetables and bean sprouts were being busily stir fried, a bowl of avocado and creme fraiche sauce, which she had just finished making to go with the fish, sat on the counter.
She handed him a glass.
"I wasn't sure what you'd like, they didn't have a great deal of choice, so I went for pretty standard stuff." She said, turning to him.
"That's Pinot...not brilliant, but it's nicely chilled."
He slung the towel aside and sipped, gratefully.
"Umm, not bad!" He said.
"Fish only takes twenty minutes, so it'll soon be ready."
They sat opposite each other, at the little kitchen table, eating, drinking, chatting easily. Considering they really hardly knew each other, that was a bonus.

After they'd eaten they sat side by side on the couch, in his living room, sharing the wine, both talking animatedly,

"No more for me, I've got to drive home. Speaking of which...what time is it?"

"Nearly twelve."

"Good, grief, I must leave, you'll have an early start tomorrow?"

He nodded.

"It's been really nice, I hadn't realised it was so late, sorry!"

Neither had noticed the time, so intent had they been on the conversation, looking through his CD's, discussing the music they liked, TV, theatre, art...it seemed they had a great deal in common.

He walked her to the front door. They stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure.

He leaned down to kiss her on the mouth, as she reached to kiss him on both cheeks...they smacked noses. They both stepped back, laughing, each rubbing the spot, she swallowed visibly and he tried again, this time his lips touched hers, only for a few seconds, just a glance, lingering but not really moving. But his eyes closed. She smelled so good, his stomach gave a lurch.

She pulled back, her hand against his shirt, pushing him back slightly.

"Night Malcolm." She said, her voice uncertain.

"Night, and thanks for cooking, sorry I'm such an idiot!"

"Don't be silly! Next time maybe you could come to me and I'll cook properly. And I won't forget!" She looked at him expectantly.

"Next time?...There'll be a next time, after tonight's fiasco?...I'd really like that."

He stood in the light of the porch until she'd driven away.

Closing the front door, he reached for his phone and dialled.

"Hi, love...it's me, did I wake you?"

"It's gone midnight, Dad, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just wanted to tell you something."

"What?"

"I actually think I've found a keeper, I thought I'd blown it, but now I think it might be okay."

"Oh my God! Really? What happened?"

"Well, I forgot about our date."

Clara groaned.

"But it was alright, she was brilliant about it. But we've had such a nice evening and..."

"And...?"

"Well...I kissed her...a bit...and she didn't seem to object, in fact she kinda kissed me back."

"Oh, Dad, I'm so pleased. That's brilliant! And about bloody time!