"Can we go?"
"No."
"How about now?"
"Glen, if I didn't need an accomplice I would have killed you by now."
Glen looked far from concerned. "Oh yeah – with what? The sharp bit on your glasses?"
"Yes. Straight through the neck." Ollie made a crude stabbing action much like a four year old playing with a stick. "Cause of death – murder by the clinically bored in a haze of cold coffee and whatever that was." He inspected the corpse of an energy drink.
"Well why don't we go in then instead of sitting out here watching him from the car like actual stalkers?"
"Not even Malcolm would shout at one of his own MPs in the middle of a public place. We have to wait until he comes out. Then we'll ambush him. Then we'll go." The pub was brimming. There was only one exit and they had that covered. Miller's car was a few in front – there was no way that they could miss him. All they had to do was patiently wait for him to emerge.
Glen set about tearing open a chip packet, rustling the foil around then crunching loudly. Ollie couldn't handle the noise for more than a few minutes before -
"What are you doing?"
"What's it look like?" Glen held up the chips as he shrugged. "This is clearly my best opportunity for dinner."
"A packet of crisps and you're done for the night? No wonder you stomp around all day with a ridge across your forehead. You're hangry."
"That's not even a word, Ollie."
"It's a colloquial turn of phrase and quite acceptable in the present circumstance. It's not like I'm Shakespeare, pushing bits of unrelated words together and trying to fob it off as language. The greatest genius of English history was probably an illiterate drunk."
"Don't let Malcolm catch you saying that. He's got a soft spot for the master of words." Another chip. An avalanche of noise. "He steals a lot of his best lines."
"And confuses the living shit out of anyone born after the eighties with choice extracts. You know, he spent twenty minutes torturing one of the interns the other day and the poor idiot had no idea what was being said. It's a waste."
"Like Dan Miller... Have you thought about what we're going to say to him?"
"I don't know – insult something he loves?"
"That'd be his hair then..."
"Over-gelled, receding mop of ken-doll-esque horror."
Glen nodded. "Yeah. Dyed wankery."
"Now who's making up words?"
"Chip?"
"No."
"Sitting by the door isn't going to help." Sam folded her arms, standing over the once fearsome man. Now he looked all sulky because she wouldn't let him have a go at his favourite chew toy. "Jamie's trying to play your saxophone. You better go stop him."
All she got in reply was a doleful pair of eyes. She sighed and sank to the floor beside him. Sam poured the remaining scotch from her glass into his which vanished as though he breathed it. A few frightful notes from a musical instruments wandered through the house.
"I know what this is about," Sam continued, more softly. "This night. Your elaborate display of frankly alarming liquor..."
He was silent. The foyer where they sat was dim, lit poorly by the distant glow of the living room.
Sam set her glass down then wrestled the other one out of his icy grip. She took his hands. That was something that Sam noticed about him, Malcolm was always cold. He was the first one to draw his curtains in the afternoon and often lingered by the ghoulish fireplace in his office. It wasn't just so the flames could dance across his skin. Malcolm didn't resist as she threaded her fingers between his but he wasn't exactly helping her either. If anything, he was watching her – as a bird might observe the world from its perch, undecided.
"I'm not scared of going to jail, if that's what you mean." Malcolm finally offered, when Sam didn't say anything else.
"That's not what I mean," she assured him, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. "Look – it was a year ago..."
Malcolm had already started to retreat. If they weren't discussing an upcoming MP's murder or future plan for world domination, he was immediately uncomfortable. "Sam-Sam..."
"I was very very drunk and he sounded Scottish."
"You really don't have to explain yourself."
"Why do I feel like I do?"
"I don' fucking know," he muttered, tilting his head to rest back against the door. It was freezing outside, cold leaching through the oak. "Shouldn' that be a question for yer therapist? You vomit out all your secrets then screw 'em six ways to the sun."
"If I had a therapist, Malcolm, they'd be a shivering, damaged, wreck. Besides which I'd probably have to kill them after every session. I'd be a very expensive enterprise."
He laughed this time. Softly.
She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. That caught his attention. "The papers are going to think I have a thing for your kind," Sam added lightly. "First you now Jamie."
"They shouldn't have printed any of that – about -" he couldn't even bring himself to say, 'us'. "It's about shredding my reputation before they run the final, damning story. They couldn't care less if I shagged a bar stool."
"More fool them," Sam assured him. "Turning you into a human is far from helpful to their cause. It'd play better if the world envisioned you as a supernatural demon."
"Don' help..."
She gave him an innocent look.
"An' stop slipping them yer happy snaps."
Well, Sam thought quietly to herself, if he was destined to be in the paper she'd make sure he looked damn good.
"Rock n roll..." Ollie exited the car so fast he slipped on the pavement and fell back against it with a thunk, sprawled like one of those models at a car show – except decidedly less appealing. He looked like a seagull that'd been hit in the face by a slice of bread. Glen strolled past, serenely buttoning his jacket against the snow.
Miller was stumbling about, gay from his ten drinks. Thank fuck he had a driver waiting or they'd have to bollock him about drinking and driving at the same time – Ollie knew full well he wasn't creative enough to string antlers and road offences together.
Glen reached him first, opening with a rather disappointing, "Evening, minister."
His impact was so uneventful that Dan didn't even notice and continued stumbling toward his ride home.
"Oh yeah – brilliant!" Ollie muttered, catching up. "He's quivering with fear."
"What was I supposed to do – open with a punch in the face?"
Ollie was about to reply when he noticed something – off. "No – hey – wait!" He caught hold of Glen's arm, dragging him backwards.
"Ollie – let go of me! What are you – this is a mailbox! Why are we hiding behind a mailbox?"
"Stop flapping about and look."
Glen looked and this time he saw what had turned Ollie into a gleeful preschooler. There was someone waiting in that car for Dan Miller and it wasn't the fucking tooth fairy. "We have to tell Malcolm," he whispered.
"Of course we do, just hang on a mo...'" Ollie fussed about with his phone, taking photos.
Glen watched in dismay. He really was a piss-poor shot with a camera. "You'd have made an abysmal journalist."
"Good thing I went into politics then."
"Being shit at one thing doesn't automatically make you good at something else."
"What is it about the Scots that you're so fucking keen on, then?"Malcolm asked, his voice soft – or was it simply the gallons of alcohol welling up in his throat threatening to drown him? "Is it the kilts and an outside chance at a stiff breeze?"
"It's not the Scots – rather – one in particular..." Sam laid her head against the door, tiling it toward Malcolm. They were simply looking at each other – saying everything and nothing at all – inching closer or leaning down. They'd been here before, a little closer than colleagues – not exactly friends. Sam didn't have the faintest idea what they were. They were definitely a collective something though.
"And this – particular Scot..." Malcolm elaborated. "What were you plannin' ter do if you found him?"
Sam's eyes flicked to Malcolm's lips and he felt her hands shake against his.
"This..." she breathed.
The world slowed to a pause as Malcolm watched her moving in. He was too drunk to pay the sensible voices in his head any mind. There was no mistaking Sam's meaning. At the first touch of her lips he -
The door behind them shuddered. Two heavy, stupid objects collided with the outside surface making it jolt violently against its hinges as though the four horsemen of the apocalypse had been involved in a pileup. A decorative wreath fell to the snow along with a sheet of ice that smashed over Glen and Ollie's feet.
"Shit."
"The fuck has a wreath any more?"
"Probably bloody cursed."
Sam and Malcolm tore apart, scooting away from the door. They stared at it dumbly for a moment, still holding hands, before Malcolm recognised the bickering voices. His eyes turned black. He was going to kill them. Actually. Properly. Murder them.
It felt like hours.
Ollie and Glen were pinned against the door. Whatever snow had fallen on them was now pooled in sad smears at their feet. Ollie was still clutching the goddamn wreath from the door, holding it over his general genital area.
"A – a – a wash-up of mistakes." Malcolm raged, pacing back and forth in front of them like a fucking mental rabid dog, except he was a little bit drunk and out of breath. "That's what you are. You're like one of those beaches you wander down, picking bits of broken shell and driftwood out of the sand. Well – I'm gonna comb your fucking beach and make bits of overpriced furniture with shards of your soul!" That bit was directed at Glen. Ollie mistakenly thought that was amusing and found himself pushed into the door. "The fuck you doing manhandling my festive decorations? Give me that!"
Jamie and Sam lingered at a safe distance.
"I've never seen Malcolm so upset by someone knocking on his door." Jamie whispered.
Sam agreed. "You'd better put his instrument down."
"Fuck. Point there." Jamie spun around and strolled back into the living room where he set the heft brass instrument onto its stand. Sam took the opportunity to pour herself another drink.
"Jesus," she remarked. "You've got fingerprints all over it. No – don't – don't wipe it down with your tie! Jamie... Honestly... What raised you?"
"It was more of a group effort, luv."
"Any idea why Ollie and Co. are calling so late?"
"My money's on the Miller hunt. Maybe they've done us all a fucking favour and knocked the twat off."
"Now now..." Sam gave Jamie her best cautionary frown. "If Miller's gone – who are you going to put forward next? One of Malcolm's mandarins?"
"Couldn't be any fucking worse, darlin'. Shit. We better stop that mad fucking pine tree from bludgeoning the messengers to death before they fucking deliver. Think I heard a lamp hit the wall."