Malcolm didn't fucking forget.
He'd forgotten a lot of things from last night; the location of his jacket, a worrying fifteen calls made to Julius, a regrettable Ebay order – even some pretty scary blocks of time which had been cleaved out of the universe – but not that. Never that. His brain had snapped into in high definition recording for two minutes and now he was stuck on weekend replays with 90's love ballads playing in the background. What a fucking disaster.
And how the fuck did he end up with four empty bottles of Fanta on the floor of his office stacked in a pyramid? Malcolm stared at the offending vessels of soft drink with red eyes before realising that he'd ended up on the floor as well, spread over the carpet like political road kill. All that was missing was a chalk outline. The whole scenario hurt his dignity more than the solid ground digging into his hip. He was getting too old for this shit.
"Fuck me... Fuck me... Fuck me..." The last one ended up with Malcolm's head resting on the carpet for a few moments of blissful relief.
A vision in hideous cyan blundered into his office without knocking.
"Oh god!" Terry bent oddly to make sure the corpse on the ground was indeed the fearsome Tucker. Her oversized beaded necklace slapped him in the face like an unwanted cock. "Where'd they dig you up from because I don't think they quite finished the job..."
"Terry. If you're my subconscious punishing me you needn't bother. There's nothing left to bollock. My skull is bleeding through my eyes. HBO's on the other line asking for the rights."
"Honestly Malcolm," Terry unwisely moved closer and started to peel the terrifying Director of Communication from the cheap carpet. "Did someone try to wash your clothes with you still in them?" She tried to flatten out some of the creases in his shirt but it was a mangled disaster.
Malcolm made some pretty distressed sounds as his joints realigned and he found himself sitting up wondering why Terry was mothering him. Jesus. He must be dying.
"If you like I can have an ironing board sent over from DoSAC," she continued. "We have three now that everyone's ironing their resumes in light of the approaching apocalypse."
He tried to laugh.
"Don't do that," she advised. "Shall I fetch your P.A.?"
Malcolm lifted his hands up to stop Terry. "No – no. Sam's busy." Probably. Then his face folded in a frown. "Why are you even here?"
"I've come to scrape Dan Miller off the wall. You had him nailed to it early this morning."
Oh Christ. He'd missed the show.
"How's he looking?"
"A head shorter."
"Incompetent, over-zealous revolutionaries. I said take his hands not his fucking head. He needs that for his interview this afternoon. It's not really a message of support if it's mounted on a spike."
At some point, Jamie appeared. An apparition from hell. He and Malcolm were locked in a death stare after debating the fine print of who got to murder whom. Vultures fighting for scraps had more manners and frankly, Sam was sick of hearing them shout elaborate expletive nonsense this early in the morning. Not to mention that despite her best efforts, Tucker looked as though he'd had a slight sky-diving accident.
"Oh my god –" she pushed her chair out from her desk and stalked over to them. "I don't have time for your homo-erotic drama right now." Sam checked her watch. "Play amongst yourselves, I have to go. Don't set off any sustained gunfire in the press hall while I'm gone. Please. I'm too busy to mop up after you."
"Hey – that's my line." Tucker shouted after her, still marred from his athletic discussion.
Sam huffed and vanished.
"Look," Tucker finally turned on Jamie, who was tearing the soul out of a jam doughnut. "If you've just come to gloat about last night-"
"Come on – who else brings you presents like those photos?" Jamie gloated. He leaned in against Malcolm's shoulder depositing a snow storm of icing sugar. "Aren't you supposed to be giving a sustained series of lies at that committee hearing your P.A. is sashaying off to?"
"Fucking pissed headless ministers at a rave," Malcolm muttered, turning in an awkward little circle to vent his frustration. That translated to, 'yes goddamit'.
"I'm sensing some fucking intense tension – like Indiana Jones with a huge fuck-off boulder bearing down. Have you been doing unspeakable things with your secretary, director?"
Tucker turned on the younger man, bearing over him in a fucking terrifying shadow. "Keep your cock where it belongs or I'll have you flayed alive and add Hannibal Lecture to your Facebook friends. I hear he's rather fond of tiny ball sacks."
"You spend too much time thinking about my ball sacks."
Jamie only just escaped Tucker's office. He heard a mandarin hit the door behind him – thrown with enough force to take out small countries.
A moment later Tucker exploded out of the office, slamming the same door. "Fucking committee hearing," he growled, obviously having forgotten about it again. Maybe he just didn't want to go.
Jamie gave him a parting salute before polishing off his breakfast. "Break a fuckin' leg."
Sam was in the car outside, waiting for him. The cab driver was letting the meter tick over into some kind of infinite pit of gold.
"We're late," Sam said, as he slid into the back seat with her, still looking like an extra in a disaster film. He accepted the folder, phone and tie that she handed him in quick succession.
"Why have they called me back? I thought panel was closed for questions."
"Nicola Murray, your favourite haemorrhage, had another verbal accident last night prompting them to re-open the inquiry for further questions."
"How is it that she's still ruining my day? Usually when I arrange someone's execution they stay dead."
Sam offered him a patient smile. "I wouldn't worry. It's not so much you they want to speak to but me."
All the remaining colour in Malcolm's face drained away. He looked like a staved vampire wandering the world of the living in search of souls. That's how he faced the cameras a short time later, staring into their empty lenses, tearing into people's living rooms. Malcolm felt the soft weight of a small hand on his arm and realised that Sam was holding him. Holding him back from murder, probably.
Malcolm took his turn sitting in the uncomfortable chairs stacked behind the speakers while Sam was sworn in. It was imperative he stay quiet so she'd given him her folder and phone to look after. Mostly it was so he'd have something to do with his hands that didn't involve strangling the other members of the audience.
Sam fought back a grin when she noticed the petrified face of the panellist at the heart of Malcolm's latest revenge plot. Obviously the news story that was due to break any time now was going to be the end of his career. Two down. Two to go. She was starting to have faith that they could actually pull this off. She'd seen the master perform fucking miracles before but this was a privilege.
"For the record, can you state your name and position?"
Sam remained a vision of courtesy. "Samantha Cassidy, Personal Assistant to Malcolm Tucker."
"And this role that you play for the Director of Communications, is it – would you say, varied?"
"That's fair."
"Do these 'varied' tasks include the acquisition of data that Mr Tucker might use in his day-to-day activities?"
Malcolm knew better than to show it but his pulse lifted. He clutched the folders she'd given him tight. Sam remained a vision of infinite calm.
"If you mean, 'do I perform research for his official duties' then yes. Of course. That is the role of all personal assistants."
One of the panellists looked sideways at her. "I do very much hope that was not out of turn, Ms Cassidy."
Innocence. Pure as the driven snow. "Of course not."
It went on like this for almost as long as they'd questioned Malcolm the first time around. They were trying to get to him via Sam – as though she were the easier target to drag information out of. They couldn't be more wrong of course. Sam's brother was a lawyer and she'd helped him study through many of his exams. Her knowledge of these things was more than cursory. Actually, Malcolm was starting to panic at how good a liar she actually was. Certainly better than him.
That's when he caught himself resting her pen against his lips. He pulled his hands back and frowned. Fuck. He had to stop thinking about last night.
"See...?"
Another corner of Time fell away before Malcolm realised that his P.A. was addressing him. "What...?"
Sam sighed. They were strolling over Westminster Bridge – thundering clouds building behind parliament and the scent of wet pavement drowning out petrol fumes from the boats below. A moment of sun caught the grandiose building. She couldn't help lofting her eyebrow at the beastly thing. "See – that wasn't so bad."
"It was horrible." Malcolm muttered in reply, still clutching her clipboard under his folded arm.
"You didn't even have to speak," Sam protested, dragging her gaze away from the building and back to the brooding Director of Communications. "Honestly, if you're going to be in this mood all day..."
He looked over at her, his steely eyes peering from overbearing eyebrows. "They were trying to use you against me."
"More fool them."
"Maybe so but this won't be the last time they try."
Sam paused, guiding them both to the edge of the bridge. "They'll never get anything out of me."
"It's too dangerous. They're bound to find something eventually."
This time, Sam took his arm again, if only to make sure that he was looking at her and not the storm. "They won't." People frequently saw the great Tucker in a frightening mood but it was rare to see that fear reflected in his eyes. "You listen to me," Sam continued, "we stick to the plan. There's only two of them left and then it's over. Nobody's going to fun a second hearing, not with public interest waning and the budget due for review. This game has a timer on it and we're so close. Now – what's the plan?"