"Malcolm's wandering around like he lost a sock..." Glen looked up from the crumpled edge of his newspaper. Frankly, deciding between manning the fort at DoSAC or renovating his sister's house, this was the most relaxing option and he had a sideways chance of surviving it with all his limbs intact. He even had a Christmas Card from Malcolm, The Second Coming sitting on his desk. Fuck off and Die or something. That was as cheery as the Director of Communications got.
Terry lifted her nose and rolled her chair back. Malcolm was pacing nearby. Jamie was nowhere to be seen. It was sad – like clipping a bird's wing. Oh Malcolm could still flutter about but it wasn't quite the same – he kept ramming into walls. "Well, they really are left and right," she replied.
A crease formed on the bridge of Glen's nose. "I don't think so." Far as he could tell, the wolves were of the same pack.
"Sure," she corrected. "One stands to the left of the apocalypse and the other on the right. They've been getting a good tan lately with all that business down at the inquiry."
Glen couldn't fault Terry there so he nodded.
"Do you think that'll go away now after all those stories in the paper? That Baroness... Did you read that one where she was – Glen?"
He'd stopped listening a while ago and was instead watching a comrade approach from the West. "Ollie..."
Ollie wanted to smash his face into the nearest wall. He'd been hoping to sneak through the building unnoticed. He made a non-committal sound.
"Can you go see what's wrong with Malcolm?"
"M-Me go – why don't you go?" Ollie's shoulders dropped in dismay.
"He likes you better."
"Oh thank you very fucking much." Obviously no one had told Ollie that his hair had bits of tinsel in it. The entire building was raining decayed decorations. "That's like being given a friendly terminal illness. Yeah. No I feel so much better now. I'll add him to my lonely hearts list – he's right up there with Vlad the Impaler and Satan."
"Come on, Ollie," Glen lowered his paper to the table. "The only person with a direct line to the devil is the ghoul pacing in the hallway."
"I hear they play sweary scrabble once a fortnight."
"It's not like you've got anything better to do."
Ollie feigned offence. "My existence doesn't actually revolve around the – I'm going – I'm going!" He lifted his hands in defeat when Glen threatened to nudge a press review form in his direction.
Talking about Malcolm and approaching the creature himself were two very different things. Ollie edged out of the glasses doors – dis-entangling himself from a dangerous hanging of tinsel before taking a few cautious steps toward Tucker. He wasn't happy. Ollie knew that for sure because he didn't have his phone out and he wasn't assaulting anyone nearby.
"M-Malcolm?" Ollie stuttered.
Malcolm stopped. Turned slowly. Lifted his face, eyebrows-first.
Ollie took a step backward in alarm.
"I – I was wondering if – you -" are okay seemed like a really dangerous thing to say so Ollie quickly switched to, "-need anything?"
Malcolm paced forward like a raptor, eyes locked on Ollie. The man's fucking veins were pulsing in his sclera. Ollie retreated until he his back hit the glass doors of DoSAC. Tucker didn't stop. The Director of Communications lifted a bony hand and pressed his fingers uncomfortably hard against Ollie's rib cage.
"A spike," he hissed. "A really long, sharp fucking medieval looking nightmare. Something I can mount heads on with the little twisty bits at the end."
"I'm not sure they sell those down at the shop..." Ollie started to say before he was cut off by a fearsome stare.
"Make sure it's got a curve at the tip. Serrations – yeah, plenty of those. And it better be the scariest fucking poker I've ever envisioned. We're talking a living, breathing rendition of my nightmare formed in good o'l British iron. Find one of those fuck-off crazy medieval twats with more muscle than brain."
"Right..." Ollie walked away, legitimately unsure if Malcolm wanted him to purchase a weapon or if it was some kind of extended metaphor for strong coffee.
"Psst!" Glen hovered awkwardly at the edge of his office as Ollie approached. "What'd he want?"
"Fifteen junior ministers and a sound proof room. How the hell do I know? Only a fraction of Tucker actually resides in the real world. It's like he's got one foot in the Matrix. I think he just wants cocaine intravenously through his eyeballs."
"That's probably not a brilliant idea."
"Oh gee, thanks for that advice. Like I'm gonna feed the monster hallucinogens. That's how world wars start. Why does he always come here when he's in a mood? Aren't there other government departments in this building yearning for attention?"
"We're his ball pit."
Glen made a justifiably horrified face as he contemplated being one of Tucker's balls. Ollie was left scarred.
Meanwhile Terry and Tucker had accidentally locked eyes through the hallway and bit of glass panelling in the door. He looked like he was going to melt the fucking glass so she rolled back to the safety of her computer and pretended to make a phone call.
Julius had about as much sleuthing talent as Jacques Clouseau. Sam watched him slink through the room, frame by frame like an ultra-slow catastrophe unfolding in bluray. When he finally got to the point of his visit – placing an envelope surreptitiously on her desk – she'd damn near died of old age. Jesus he seemed to be genuinely enjoying the experience.
Sam placed a file over the envelope, cleverly concealing it from view. "Biscuit?" she offered.
"No, no... No time for biscuits. Important matters to attend." Julius finished that off with a heavy wink.
Eventually the really crap Austin Powers left. Sam waited before picking up her file (and the envelope). She vanished into Malcolm's office, closing the door behind her. The envelope was immediately torn to shreds.
"Oh hell yes..." she hissed, as the contents spilled over Tucker's desk.
Rome came to the party.
X S
Sam held her phone to her chest until it buzzed against her skin.
Time to watch it burn. Grab your coat.
X M
"I heard he was dead!"
"Oh please, he's not actually dead," Glen rolled his eyes at Terry. "Contrary to Wikipedia, Malcolm doesn't literally murder other human beings. His violence is metaphoric – like the Daily Mail's wit."
"Yeah well," Terry tapped her nose knowingly, "Jamie's missing, last seen heading into Malcolm's office. Another story's going to break that has nothing to do with the inquiry."
"Malcolm can't kill Jamie," Glen insisted. "The two are linked by dark magic."
"I'm only repeating what I've heard on the vine."
"Aren't you supposed to be promoting Miller's TV spot? The one with the antlers?"
"Well, I have tried but that's the thing about hacks and holidays – they're all drunk or high. All I'm getting is answering machines. Miller could set himself on fire and streak over Westminster and nobody'd notice."
"Did it work?" The Lord of Darkness himself apparated in the living room. Jamie was there already, sipping coffee and flicking through a trash mag which had clearly gotten there on its own because Tucker would never purchase such a thing and leave it lying around in the open.
"Yeah – people think you've dissolved me and added me to the watering system. I'm not buried in the walls of parliament, I'm painted right on the surface. Fresh new coat of murder."
That made Malcolm smile. "Great." He unravelled a long, red scarf from his neck. It was covered in ice and already growing damp. "And how's your death been so far? Been busy?"
Jamie was about to reply when he noticed that the pillows on Malcolm's couch had hilarious details. "You've got little pink tassels on yer pillows!"
"Oh fuck off. They're Amaranth."
"...that's a kind of pink..."
"Jesus, I didn't realise I invited fucking Monet over for supper. Can I get you a haystack? Or maybe," he rustled around in his coat, dragging out his phone. "Maybe my personal assistant is more to your liking?"
Jamie found himself presented with the photo again. He raised his hands in immediate surrender. "Yeah, 'bout that. She got her Scots mixed up."
"Easy fucking mistake. We're basically the same fucking person, except I'm a wee bit taller and wear proper trousers. Yours don't even fucking fit."
"Short. I'm short. I can' help that they drag a little."
"Learn to sew."
"Wait – you sew?"
"Don' change the subject."
Jamie was grinning like a mad cunt despite existing on the thinnest of ice. "No – this is worth getting straight." He set his drink down and shifted forward. "You're actually domestic, aren't you? You cook – you sew – you clean – you..."
"Did you actually want to die today – because it can still be arranged. I've got a watering can and everything."
"Oh fuck off and have a skinny latte, you look like a Halloween decoration."
"I heard swearing and assumed it was safe to come in," Sam announced, as she wandered freely through Malcolm's house.
Malcolm dropped his phone in fright. Jamie didn't dare draw attention to it.
"Are those embarrassing photos of our favourite panellist?" He asked instead, pointing at the torn envelope in Sam's hand.
"Julius is one of those oddities of the world – he lords over dark vaults in the earth but nobody's quite sure how deep his roots go." She handed the photos over so that the pair of Highlander spawn could have a wank. "Why did Ollie leave an iron poker outside your office this afternoon?"