Bad Education – Chapter XIII pt. 2

"One question."

Malcolm halted himself mid-monologue when Clara's steady voice rose up from under his grizzled brogue, causing him to angle his body towards her within the tight confines of the car, in silent offering for her to continue, to which she gave him a fleeting, private smile of thanks, when he silently noticed her small hand was clasped around the old Nokia phone as if it were her last life line.

"And I understand this might be a stupid question to ask…" She shifted her gaze over to the others squished into the back seat of Sam's Skoda "…but besides having to handle teenage girls every day, this is my first foray into any political machinations – " Her eyes flicked back to his own, claiming them effortlessly. "Say I do plant my phone. Say I give them a sound bullocking, head out, wait for a minute, then return and collect my phone again without any of them suspecting a thing – say I pull all this whole thing off: How do we know it will be worth the risk? How do we know I won't just record two minutes of them arguing about who should eat the last biscuit?"

"Y'ever been on the receiving end of one of your tirades?" Malcolm let the words slip out of his smile-tipped mouth before he could put himself in check for being far too personal in front of the DoSACs of useless phlegm when Clara popped an eyebrow. "I hate to instil a lack of confidence in your nation's leaders Miss Oswald," he hurried to cover himself up "but the sad truth is - our present minister excluded (but even she has her own fucking moments… " he threw a smile at Nicola, her arms crossed tight in disapproval "rare though they fucking be) – the fucking sad, embarrassing truth of it all is that your elected representatives have the backbones of fucking jellied eels, and are as fucking palatable to match. This close to the election, the polls now almost tying – you need only to make a disparaging fucking remark on their choice of fucking shoes, and the entire House of Commons will spend a whole fucking day arguing about how to chop their fucking feet off."

"But if they don't? If we don't record anything…" Clara questioned simply.

"Then… I'd be impressed by the fucking opposition." Malcolm threw out in a shrug.

"Well we can't have that, can we?" Clara quipped with a smooth voice and looked up at him with teasing smile on her plump, red lips, which caused a jolt of panic to shoot through his awkwardly seated body.

Was she flirting?

Was he flirting?

It had been a fucking age and a half since the last time he flirted with someone else in the hope of sexual fucking reciprocation, and not as some calculated machiavellian move on an unsuspecting political pawn – he couldn't remember what the border lines were anymore. He knew to avoid red flags like teasing of complimenting her, but just talking about meeting the sagging human ball-sack Peter Mannion and he felt life his feet were hopping along in some intricate fucking mating dance without his brain having a fucking clue as to what he was doing.

Not like it hadn't worked out well for himself so far though, as gasps of the night before skipped back into his thoughts – but still, he hampered down his reverie, the point stood that in front of this sad audience he had no idea what he did, and no idea what he was doing.

But maybe they knew.

Maybe they could see it.

His eyes shot over the backseat bastards in a vain, hurried attempt to interpret their hidden thoughts when Glenn, squished thoughtlessly into the corner with half his body pressed up against the car door, pulled himself up slightly by the roof handle and spoke up.

"I don't mean to put a damper on your plan, Michael Caine," His droll voice filled the car "but even if we do get the perfect recording you'll still face the problem of how to – "

"Make our party look like fucking leaders." Malcolm quickly diverted as soon as he suspected where Glenn's inquiry was going. He couldn't talk about that. Not with Clara there.

"No that's – "

"More hopeless than having a Lemming in charge of fucking Suicide Watch. But that's why you're here."

"I thought it was to break the record of insults per square foot."

"No, I broke that last week in the Foreign Ministry's fucking broom closet. You're here to here to help her." Malcolm aimed his sight forward to Nicola and pointed a sharp finger directly at her as she attempted to sink into the car's seat in an escape.

"Me?" Her small voice questioned.

"Well it was your complete fucking inability to form proper sentences in front of the press that got us on this whole fucking path in the first place…" Malcolm raised a smug brow "… I think it should help take us all the way home."

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Clara bundled into her apartment, haphazardly dropping her motorcycle helmet and teacher's folder onto the hallway bench, held her keys from her mouth as she pried off her leather jacket from under the straps of her bag and made her way as quickly as she could to her living room, to which she flung her keys and jacket onto the couch and ferreted through her work bag in search of her unexpected gift.

She smiled when her fingers caught smooth plastic, and pulling out the plain, old Nokia mobile phone, she tossed her bag away and tapped down on the tacky rubber keypad, following a long forgotten memory of where the contacts hid.

She couldn't contain her little snort of laughter when she discovered that the sole number sorted was under the name of "Shaft". It was either laugh or groan. She shook her head lightly when she pressed down on the alias and brought the nostalgic phone to her ear, just in time to hear the ringing stop.

"Not going to comment about your name." Clara went out first in mock seriousness.

"You commented just then." She couldn't stop the tingle from running up her spine as Malcolm's deep voice filled her ear. "What, doesn't it suit me?"

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"Ah, so it you think it does!"

"I didn't – "

"Good thing I can't come over tonight then, wouldn't want you to get worn out…"

"How's your neck feeling? Little sore still?"

"… touché."

Clara smiled to herself, then raised her brow haughtily. "But for the record – yes, the name does suit you. I currently very satisfied by your penis, current problem of separation not withstanding."

"And I am terribly satisfied by your vagina." Malcolm attempted an English accent to mixed success. "And would like to see more of it in future, in fact. You could come along too, if you'd like."

"How considerate."

"Thought so too."

"So, you want to keep talking about your generous endowment or shall we listen to the tape?" Clara returned to her abandoned bag and withdrew her iPhone.

"From one dick to the fucking next." Malcolm murmured to himself. "You listened to it yet?"

"Haven't had the chance yet."

"Nervous?"

"And excited." Clara flopped onto her couch as her mind began to race again. "I get why you've stayed in the job for so long though – it's a rush. Just letting go and heaping it on them when all they could do was gawp like bloody great fish, the adrenaline's still rushing through me. I went Full Malcolm. You'dve been proud of me. Even used one of your old lines."

"Oh?"

"Pool side with Pina Coladas."

"Well I know what's going to be the top of my fucking wank bank now."

"Shall we?"

"Not just yet – we've got a cold shower with fucking Susan Boyle booked first."

"The radio interview?"

"Started a few minutes ago."

"Bugger – " Clara cursed herself under her breath and reached over to her coffee table to grab her stereo's remote when she heard a dark chuckling over the phone.

"What?" She paused, remote in hand.

"Did you just say fucking 'bugger'?" Malcolm remained laughing.

"What if I did?" She asked carefully.

"Good thing only I heard it, wouldn't want fucking Mother Superior to washing your mouth out with fucking soap."

"I work with children, ok – it helps to keep a lid on cussing."

"And here's me thinking I'd be a bad fucking influence."

"Don't you have a radio show to listen to?"

"Been listening to it this whole time." His smugness practically oozed from the phone.

"Well aren't you the multi-tasker." Clara grumbled back and turned her stereo on, switching quickly through the channels to find the right frequency, when Nicola Murray's voice stumbled out through her speakers. "And if anyone's the influence, it's me."

"Don't I fucking know it."

Clara settled into the couch more comfortably and turned up the volume. "So, she said anything yet?"

"She has talked incessantly and said fuck-all, just as she was instructed to do. I'd almost be a little fucking pleased with her if I wasn't fucking barraged with fucking PTSD flashbacks of all the times she's been a fucking twat."

"No education talk?"

"Just pleasantries. But the lass interviewing her isn't one to prance a-fucking-round, so no doubt it will come up soon."

"You think it will be enough?"

"I think it'll be a puny fucking puft of a fart, but in the maelstrom of a self-perpetuating echo chamber that is the press during elections, it would have gathered so much weight by the time your recording drops tomorrow morning, it will be a fucking typhoon of excrement, that the party will have to fucking beg us to let them avoid it."

"Judo." Clara smiled in remembrance.

"Fucking Judo." Malcolm responded softly but then there was a sudden silence, and the sound of Nicola's rambling echoed through the phone, when his gruff voice crashed back. "Hold on here we go…"

Clara instinctively sat up on the couch and brought the volume up even further, her breathe stilling slightly as she turned her focus to the presenter's smooth voice.

"…remiss to mention what many consider to be the highlight of the campaign, which of course you literally held centre stage – "

"Ha ha yes of course…" Nicola's nervous voice rang out.

"You're quite the YouTube star."

"Yes, um, next I'll be going into makeup tutorials."

"I'd sell my fucking soul to read those YouTube comments." Malcolm cut in with a growl, to which Clara could only shush him or loose her concentration completely.

"Over three million views so far, it's been discussed and dissected by seemingly every news program this week – obviously it has struck a chord with the public." The woman on the radio continued.

"A very loud chord." Nicola agreed. "Though not…too loud to make it annoying, of course, just the right level of loudness to make it noticed and made aware of but um, not enough to burst anyone's ear drums ha ha."

"Fucking wordsmith you are!" Clara rolled her eyes as Malcolm's voice seemed a bit distant as he insulted his radio. "Someone give her a fucking book deal!"

"Well you say it has been noticed, but that come as a surprise to some…" The presenter continued "…one of the main points of discussion has been what the government's reaction will be, when it seems all we've been getting is silence."

"We've struck a chord of silence." Nicola attempted.

"Oh fuck the book deal she's moved on to fucking song writing instead!" Malcolm coughed in disbelief.

"I'm sorry?" The presenter stilled.

"Simon and fucking Cuntfunkel!"

"The chord." The minister stuttered to explain. "There are many variations of, ah, notes, and of course, of silence…"

"You must understand why it can seem to the outside world that your party has no idea how to respond to this and you are just buying for time."

"Well, Jonnah, like I've been trying to tell you, there are many types of silence."

"Of course."

"There is the silence of confusion, but there can also be the silence of intention."

"Intention?"

"Precisely."

"You mean to say the Prime Minister is being intentionally silent on the matter of education?"

"Well, when someone speaks your thoughts first, is it considerate to immediately echo them?"

"…I'm sorry?"

"The Prime Minister is not confused in his response when long before the incident he was already bringing up the Mitchell Report to cabinet and we…" Nicola fell silent.

"Fuckin' aye!"

"Mrs Murray?" The presenter stumbled.

"Hmm?"

"Did you… you just mentioned the Mitchell Report."

"Did I?"

"Yes. Just then."

"Well… It um.."

"To think I ever fucking doubted her." Malcolm let out in uncomfortable awe.

"The Mitchell Report is, if listeners are not aware, a detailed review and consultation of the nation's education system, led by Ken Mitchell, world renowned educator, lecturer, and in his own way, a YouTube star too. The former PM invited Mitchell to head the investigation, and indeed many sweeping changes were proposed, but it all seemingly fell to the wayside as no one has heard any more about it in over five years. Did you just say that the Prime Minister has considered enacting these reforms?"

"I…"

"That he has been considering this well before the Coal Hill conference?"

"Interesting word…consider… it has both its pros, and indeed its cons…"

"Do you retract what you just said?"

"…no."

"Then you stand by what you revealed."

"Yes, but what did I reveal?"

"That the PM is and has been, strongly considering bringing in the Mitchell Report's proposed policy changes."

"Or did I just reveal that the Prime Minister is a strong and visionary leader, prepared to continue to guide this great nation into the future, but I'm sure we all know that already…"

"No, Mrs Murray you revea… I'm sorry it that - ?" The presenter died off unexpectedly.

"Cue Colonel Fucking Bland." Malcolm prompted, when Nicola dove back in with her prepared drivel.

"Unlike the opposition, who still seem to think we're stuck in the 1980s, our party, and most especially the Prime Minister, underst—"

"I'm sorry Mrs Murray but there seems to be a man gesticulating wildly at you in our control room." The presenter interrupted with a slightly bemused tone.

"Well… that um…" Nicola stuttered.

"I believe it is your political aide… and it looks like he's one the phone too – could it be your party's communications agents have called him up?"

"It ah… who am I to guess who…"

"Is it possible you have revealed too much to us tonight?"

"I have not…I mean I have…"

"Seems you've struck a chord of silence of your very own." The presenter teased dryly.

"Well, you can call me Al!" Nicola burst out, to which Clara's face fell into her palm in second-hand embarrassment.

"Mission fucking accomplished." Malcolm sighed into her ear. "Where's that recording?"

Clara sat up on the couch. "Shouldn't we keep listening? She could – "

"She's dropped the seed, and Glenn fucking stamped it into the dirt – it's all done. She'll keep fucking stuttering along like a hypothermic nutter but the interviewer will get so fucking bored with her eventually, she'll drop the whole thing just to get her to shut up."

"Right" Clara turned off the radio and folded her legs up underneath herself. "So now we just wait for the seed to grow."

"Into a great fucking Oak of Here-say."

Clara cracked into an enthusiastic grin. "So… track 2?"

"Play it, DJ Oswald!"

Clara picked up her iPhone in excited expectation and just a little bite of doubt. Nicola's bluff was one thing, but without getting the right recording of the opposition, it could all just end up going nowhere. Opening up the audio file, she scanned back a couple of minutes from the end, calculating her time of exit. Her thumb hovering over the play button, she gently bit the side of her lip, then lunged in, headfirst.

"…manage to rake in a couple of views, don't you think?" Clara's own voice scratched out of the iPhone, tinny and distant, as she held it close to the ancestral Nokia.

"Snarky." Came Malcolm's commentary. "I like it."

She listened with an ever-increasing smile as she finished off her victims with newfound flourish, when her political mentor dropped in again.

"You weren't fucking kidding, were you?"

"Proud?"

"And fucking horny."

"Shh – this is it."

"…mini umbrella and watch you fucking drown." Her past self concluded, when there was a slight pause in the recording.

"Well…" Emma's voice broke the silence. "That was a disaster."

"Oh really Emma – was it just?" Peter Mannion huffed back. "Thank the fucking lord you're here, grand-translator of tits, otherwise we'd have no fucking clue how that just went."

"I did warn you – " Emma continued.

"And look what bloody good that did! Fucking no use making snide remarks of my trousers if you could just throw me a new pair when I've fucking soiled these."

"Where's Steward?" Michael Wallis interjected. "We need to figure out what to do."

"Oh he's bound to show up soon. Unwanted and unseen." Mannion bemoaned. "Much like malignant fucking cancer. Or a new Madonna album."

"Was that Miss Oswald just back - " Clara recognised the other aide, Phil Smith's, voice step in.

"And just like a fucking prayer…" Mannion exclaimed.

"Is it just me, or did that meeting go a little short?" A new voice, which she could only belong to the previously discussed 'Stewart' stepped in.

"Disastrously short." Mannion corrected.

"What do you mean? Didn't you employ the framework of conceptualization?"

"Oh we did – conceptualized the sprouts, the bloody trifle, everything!"

"And?"

"Didn't work."

"I should have known you'd fuck it up."

"We fucked it correctly, thank you, but it was such an idiotic fuck an idea in the first place – sorry, idiotic fuck of 'framework' – that it had nowhere to fuck but up!"

"She's going to go after us." Wallis started mumbling in worry. "Our one bloody trump card over those bastards and you ruined it."

"What, I ruined it?" Mannion seemed dumbfounded.

"Doesn't help she thinks we're all racists."

"Indians like spicy food!"

"You can't say that to millenials!" Stewart ordered.

"Hell, I like spicy food!" Mannion continued. "Can't bloody eat I any more thanks to my puritanical fucking doctor and overbearing wife but – "

"Please, keep rambling, because it's not like your vomiting out trains of fucking thought have in any way cost us this election!" Wallis blew up.

"It is your crappy policy to begin with!"

"Well I can't get her to help us change it now!"

"We need an alternate stratagem…"

"She wouldn't go near you with a fucking gallon of mace…"

"We need her on our side…"

"We're fucked…"

"We need…"

"I can't…"

"…"

"Sorry." Clara's breath hitched as her own voice cut clear through the chaos. "I um… I left my folder in here."

Stop.

She sat in silence

Clara's mouth sprang into a smile, which she tried to bring back in control, but then sprang back regardless.

"Like headless fucking chickens running round…" Malcolm's steady timbre returned.

"…yelling that the sky's falling down." She finished off for him.

"You did well."

"I did damn well."

"Aye," He chuckled darkly. "That you did. Swing it by me on an email and I get it leaked tonight so all of Britain can see what a fucking well job you did."

Clara leaned back into her couch comfortably and popped her feet onto the table. "What's your email then? Shaft69 ?"

"More donotfuckingsearchmeGCHQ "

"Yes!" Clara puffed in a haughty accent. "Definitely nothing illegal happening there!"

"Just fucking cupcakes and anarchist cookbooks."

She let out a small laugh, then settled for a moment, drawing in a breath. "So…"

"So."

"Tomorrow."

"Aye."

"You're going to bring this all together."

"That I am."

"But if… I mean, if there's a chance that they – "

"Are you worrying about me?"

"A little."

"Don't."

"But it's not as if you and them are on any amicable terms right now."

"Amicability don't mean jack fucking twat in this job, so it's going to be no harder than fucking usual. But if there's one thing I've chucked fucking cuts of my own soul onto the fucking pyre over countless fucking years for – it's that I'm good at my fucking job."

"I know you are."

"Then believe I can do it."

"I do."

There was a heavy silence as Clara listened to the sound of him breathing over the line, when the thought that this could be the natural end of their conversation tonight made a part inside her chest ache unbidden. She missed him. She wanted him here. Lying across her on her couch, his legs awkwardly dangling off the end, his short curls open for her fingers to run through thoughtlessly, the vibration of his laugh running up her thighs and into her chest. She…

"Come over tomorrow night." Clara ordered softly.

"Yes ma'am."

"Will be weird seeing you tomorrow."

"No more than it was this afternoon?"

"Ha… true." She began playing with the corner of her throw pillow between the tips of her fingers.

"You should get some sleep. Big fucking day tomorrow."

"You should sleep."

"I don't sleep, I fucking wallow in a bath of fucking red bull."

"You did last night."

"Nah, fucking skipped out when you nodded off and made a makeshift bath with that horrible fucking ginseng root tea you got hidden in the back of your cupboard."

"I'll make sure to keep my larder well stocked with red bull in the future then."

"If you'd be so kind."

"So… sleep."

"Sleep. I've got my dark arts to perform tonight, but tomorrow the sun will shine just a little fucking brighter."

"I shall remember to bring my sunglasses. Well…night then I guess."

"Night. I'll be there tomorrow."

"I'll hold you to that, mister."

"Fucking do."

"Good. Night."

"Sweet dreams Clara Oswald."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help her smile when she finally took the burner phone from her ear and hung up, leaving her alone on the couch in her silent living room, when the rush of her actions swamped back onto her.

New day tomorrow.

Because of her.

Clara let out a grin.

She couldn't wait to tell her students.

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"Right, all of you out." Malcolm finished with a wave of his hand to the constrained occupants of the car.

"You can't give us a lift to the station?" Nicola attempted.

"No one give you fucking double-0 status - that would kind of fuck over the whole idea of keeping a low fucking profile if we're all fucking carpooling together, wouldn't it?"

"Fine." Nicola huffed, as the three began to make their way to exit the car.

"Except Ollie." Malcolm cut in. "You're driving me back to Downing St."

"I am?" The human pimple piped up.

"Don't want to fuck up Sam's car anymore on the way back."

"What?" Glenn protested. "He's taller than you, he won't be a better driver."

"Fucking heightist, are we?" Malcolm shot back. "My shoddy fucking driving has nothing to do with my regal fucking stature, and everything to do with the fact I have a megaton of more important shit to think about in my brain than to fill it with fucking drive-shafts and flappy paddles. Ollie, on the other hand…"

"All right, all right, I'll drive you back." He complied.

"Thank you. Rest of you, fare thee fucking well." Malcolm turned back finally to Clara, and unceremoniously returned her helmet back to her, hoping the others wouldn't notice. "Good luck." He said stiffly.

"Thanks." She replied, gave a small smile, then left before he could make a fucking fool of himself anymore, the slam of her door snapping him back to action.

With the others eventually leaving with a grumble, Malcolm unravelled himself from the seat belt and stepped out of the car, his stiff limbs rejoicing. Trying not to focus on the close rumble of Clara's motorcycle, we walked around the front of the car and fitted himself into the front passenger seat, the faint hint of her perfume still present, as Ollie assumed the driver's position.

"Right." He started up the car. "Downing St."

They drove in silence as they exited the grey council estate and down the suburban streets towards to city, until Malcolm judged it enough time to make his move.

"So… you and teach, eh?" He began carefully.

"What?" Ollie looked confused.

"What do you mean, what? I saw the looks."

"What looks?"

"The fucking looks you were giving each other."

"Who?"

"Teach. Miss fucking DoGood."

"Clara?"

"Aye."

Ollie drove in perplexed silence for a moment.

"She… she gave me a look?"

"Don't play coy."

"I'm not playing coy, I don't know how to play coy, I'm fucking English."

"You didn't notice her fucking bug eyes on you?"

"…no."

"Well they were fucking on you. It's a shame though…"

"What?"

"..that nothing can happen."

"W..why not?" Ollie looked slightly panicked to be pulled out of the fantasy he'd been cast in.

"That you're dating the fucking frump over enemy lines, what's her name fucking—"

"Emma."

"Emma, right."

"Well you know we did, we did only break up a couple of weeks ago."

"Really?"

"Election season. Not really the best for cross-bench relationships."

"Huh…" Malcolm feigned deep thought.

"What?" Ollie jumped in quickly, too invested in his proposal.

"Well, seems now you can screw two birds with one stone." Malcolm gave a smile. "Or one leak, to be exact."

Ollie flicked his gaze back to the road then to Malcolm when he eventually understood his meaning. "No… you don't mean… no. No, no way I'm doing that."

"What?"

"Frame the fucking recording leak on Emma, I can't do that."

"You've fucking broken up!"

"There's still a matter of fucking… morals, all right?"

"She could say it was a fucking accident. Just recording it for minutes or some shit."

"She'd still lose her job!"

"That's her problem."

"She'll…"

"Fine. Whatever, you'll just fuck over your one chance with Teach then."

"What do you mean?"

Malcolm stared at Ollie in disbelief. "Hurry the fucking hamster up in that fucking brain wheel of yours, would you? If we don't frame the leak on someone in the opposition, the blame's going to fall back on Oswald. All of it. And just the tiniest hint of duplicity on her part and the press will suddenly turn her into the Big fucking Bad. You won't be able to touch her with a hundred foot fucking pole after that, let alone with your fucking withered prick."

Ollie considered in silence. "There's got to be another way to – "

"You know of anyone else in the opposition you've got personal fucking access to a computer?"

"No."

"Exactly. You know, I used to have high fucking hopes for you, thought maybe I could bring you into communications after the election, thought you have the knack."

"I do have the knack."

"Oh, great way of fucking showing it my Sharona."

"I can show it in other ways, it's just…"

"No, no… just forget it."

"I want to be in communications, I do, I really do… but I – "

"Want to? Do you?"

"Yes"

"Or do you want to be a fucking pansy? Because that's all I'm fucking seeing now."

"No."

"Do you want to be some fucking Whitehall wall slime for the rest of your life?"

"No."

"Do you want to turn into fucking Glenn?"

"Fuck no."

"Then who the fuck do you want to be?"

"Hard core."

"Ok Hard Core – the fuck are you to do?"

"Give Emma the leak."

"That's my fucking boy!" Malcolm slapped him on the shoulder as Ollie's mouth crept into a self-satisfied smile. "Now drive on, we've got work to do, me and you!"

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N/B

Oh Malcolm, can't keep you good, can we – the only question is how will this little decision come back to roost? Will it be a happy roost? Or a bad roost? Have I lost any sense of articulation after writing my longest fucking chapter ever? Very, very possibly. And to think this and the last one where originally supposed to be together. Ha.

But let me take this chance once more to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for reading and leaving little reviews too – writing is a dark depressing task, and the thought of you all out there keeps this little monkey banging her head on the keyboard to get the out the best it can. So thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.

Next up – Malc vs. Number 10, round 3. * DING DING *