"Julius..." Malcolm did his best to appear welcoming despite the fact that he was folded on the floor like an IKEA project amid towering piles of manilla folders that appeared to have grown from the fucking festering mess on the mat and surrounded themselves in a deluge of coffee, Fanta and Curly Whirly wrappers in the weirdest leaf litter since the Mesozoic.

A tribute banner to Dan Miller paraded across his muted TV screen like a fucking cross at an Easter festival. Some reporter was doing their best to rustle up a meaningful tear while cornering a small pod of concerned bystanders produced by the nearest 3D printer. Malcolm hadn't seen this much enthusiasm for Miller since the reindeer incident. Politicians should die more often. It did wonders for popularity and Malcolm eked an extra morsel of joy from the situation knowing it was adding to DoSAC's already fucked crime stats.

"Malcolm..." The ever-cheery albino avocado finally tottered in, peering over his heavy rims at the screen. "Very sad – tragic to see a young political star cut down in his prime. Miller was a priecy cut."

"Oh come on… He was a fucking hair piece in a toddler fashion show and here you are, the shouty mother come to bask in the unnatural, manufactured beauty of your demonic offspring. Well the curtains are closed and the show's fuckin' cancelled – resigned to infinite repeats on daytime fucking – oh that's not even one of his quotes!" Malcolm suddenly vaulted onto his knees and shouted at the TV. "I wrote that." He badgered the screen mercilessly, before continuing. "Julius… I thought I'd find you decked out in fucking black robes carrying a half a tonne of rosary anal beads for-"

"Now now..." Julius lifted his hand, hoping to stop that train of abuse that was on the verge of derailing into heretical convulsions. "I'm sure I get the picture. You are always threatening to murder DoSAC employees when they vex your kittens but I did not expect you to carry through with a public execution."

Malcolm's vicious eyes lifted to Julius' face with such heavy sarcasm he was surprised his eyelashes didn't drop off. "I didn't fucking kill the fucker. I don't have a set of steak knives in my breast pocket or a rifle mounted over my desk. It's not the fucking Mid West. This is London. The closest we get to violence is a body in the drink or a scrap over the vending machine. Even then the worst that could happen is a junior MP being chocked to death with a packet of Skittles leaving vibrant coloured shits in the reception area."

"It was worth checking, Malcolm." Julius picked up an unopened can of Fanta and decided to claim the beverage. He sniffed it first to make sure it wasn't lace with Meth or the wings of angels. "There are some very arresting stories about your powers of darkness out there, Malcolm. The PM is convinced you have a sarcophagus stashed in the pantry. You know what they say. There's no smoke without a raging pit of lava."

"Yeah and a few fuck-off tectonic plates." Malcolm muttered as he buttoned up his jacket. "You and me are going to get a-fucking-long," Malcolm insisted, doing his best to keep his voice calm. "Because I haven't got the energy right now to polish off your bollocks and use them as snooker balls. Miller, the boring selfish silicon prick has allowed himself to be slaughtered in public and now his problems are fucking with the remaining shards of my life.

"You know, it's times like these that I miss Nicola Murray. At least she was a crazy cunt of badly dressed inconceivable shit whose long list of inadequacies included the inability to walk in a straight line. Not even the Elizabethan King of Spin himself could invent the Shakespearean tragedies comin' out of her head. Half the fuckery that leached from her office was too outrageous for the tiny minds over at Landfill Express to put into print. Mind you," his hiss turned to a snarl as he remembered to breathe, "then I recall that it was her bewildered, dying cries that set this whole fucking inquiry into motion in the first place and I'm overwhelmed with the urge to throttle her with that gawdy fucking imitation pearl collar she wears around her withering corpse. When I off her they'll have to peel Nicola off the walls after I make plaster of her body parts and turn her fucking alarming hair into DoSAC's doormat."

"That is exactly why I know you had nothing to do with this," Julius was genuinely enjoying watching Malcolm work off his aggression. He was literally bleeding sweat. "It lacked creativity. You'd have arranged Miller's bits in the snow like that programme with the ice zombies and the illegitimate son that keeps dying. Nailed a few fingers to the mailbox. That sort of thing."

Jesus, it was like talking to an enormous bald version of Ollie. "Yeah well, I'm off abstract art at the moment. Bad for maintain' a stable mental state." Malcolm continued manically sorting his files into piles. "Why are you here? Was it simply to check that I didn't butcher an MP or do you have an actual purpose in this world unrelated to idle irritation of well-meaning press manhandlers?"

Sam lingered at the door to Malcolm's office. She'd been on her way back with another pint of coffee when she heard Julius lumber in. How that creature got through the front door without her seeing was one of the continuing mysteries of the universe.

"This thing that you are looking for. I know what it is, Malcolm."

Fucking Sam. She must have been telling on him again. Malcolm very nearly laughed – even if it was a sadistic, bitter version of happiness. "Julius, I don't fucking know what I'm looking for. Are you fucking bugging my mandarins or something? How could you possibly-"

"Malcolm," Julius turned deadly serious. "I know. Now do you want to see what I brought with me or should I take a trip via the shredder on my way out?"

"And what are you? My fairy-fucking-godmother?"

"No, Malcolm. That's your role. Think of me more as an oracle. Yes. I like to picture myself as one of those omnipresent deities – benign but tugging on all the right strings."

"Like a fucking horrific orb spider with a web nested over the ceilings of parliament house. That's what you are. A giant arachnid with a set of venomous prongs out your arse. Well – I can live with that." Malcolm admitted. "As long as you don't roll me up in those cobwebs for a snack. I won't be part of your larder, Julius. I'm not a takeaway haggis."

"You are not a prawn chip. Noted." Julius replied, as he reached into his jacket and extracted a very slim file. "The first of several commandments."

"Funny." Malcolm flipped it open and then found all the breath ripped from his throat.

"Was I right? Am I the god of generosity?" He was so pleased with himself he was practically glowing.

"Chief boatman to the Underworld..." Malcolm agreed. "Sam – Sam… You might as well come the fuck in if you're gonna wait in the doorway like a fucking stalker. I know you're fond of Julius but yer don' need to shadow him for an autograph. He gives those out for free."

Sam's heels clicked across the floor. She set the tray on the floor instead of the table. It seemed a reasonable choice considering that's where Malcolm had decided to set up his nest. She often wondered if she'd been hired by the PM to supervise the office and prevent situations exactly like this from arising.

"So – what's in the folder?" Sam asked, perching on the couch near the boys.

Malcolm was in a state of shock. He looked like a recovering alcoholic that had just been offered half-price Smack. "Simon Weir – our head fuck boy on the committee..."

"Mmm?" Sam sipped the cup of tea she'd made for Malcolm.

Malcolm turned the folder around so that she could see the photo. "Ringing any fucking alarm bells?"

"You've got to be kidding me." Sam discarded the teacup and reached for the folder. "Weir and Miller have the same mother?"

"Different name. Same fucking person. I was right. The boring fuck has a past and it's full of fucking mutants and heresy."

"That is correct, Malcolm." Julius nodded, leaning toward the tea tray to fish through the biscuits. Honestly, half the time he only skulked over to steal food from the mad stick insect. "Simon Weir and Dan Miller are half-siblings on the mother's side. Miller's father was killed by a shady money laundering racket. The mother was taken into witness protection and the child, Dan, fostered out to a local boarding school. Simon was born a few years later and was unaware of his brother until some time in the mid 90's where a paperwork error reunited the pair."

"How the fuck did you find this, Julius? It's layered in several levels of fuck-off secrecy acts. Retracted so far up the arse I'm surprised you didn't have to fish it out with a skewer."

"Officially I'm just here for the tea, Malcolm, and the pleasure of your P.A.'s company."

"Officially you're a fucking shadow master."

And that was as close to a compliment as Tucker could get.

Deep in the evening, Malcolm had retreated to his house and entrenched himself on the couch where he nursed a tumbler of port while Jamie mucked around with his saxophone.

"Yer snap any of those keys off and I'll be forced to refashion a replacement out o' yer neck bone."

Jamie smirked. "Oy. You owe me after today, shepherding around those DoSAC off-cuts. Cleaning up bodies isn't part of my fucking list of preferred character attributes – nor are arty-wishy-washy-smiley-fucking press spots on a Saturday. You know what I like to do on Saturdays? Rip legs off fucking beetles. Drink myself into an oblivion with some pleasant Celtic melodies and sometimes, if I'm havin' a real treat, I might order a bit of Chinese 'cause I enjoy the cries of small animals boiling ter death in their own miserable juices."

"You okay, Jamie? You've got a vein – in yer neck – looks a bit like a clot forming."

"Don' you start! I'm ten years younger than you and I'm the one knocking on death's door every other fucking day with a sick note. How do you survive anyway? Is it all just curses and spite or is there some actual fucking blood in those veins? None in yer cock, obviously, or it'd be that P.A. of yours fooling around with your instrument, not me."

"Careful..."

"Yer might as well, lad." Jamie started polishing the saxophone with his sleeve. "The two of you have been accused of it in the Mail so it's fact whether it's true or not."

If possible, Malcolm sank further into the couch with a distant rumble in his eyes. They were clear and grey, staring off into the corner of his room. "Don' - don' you say that." He muttered quietly.

Jamie paused. There was something odd about Malcolm lately and it was giving him this growing ball of dread in his chest cavity. "Seriously." And he was. "Should I be worried about you and this lass?"

"What? No..." Tucker dragged his eyes back to Jamie and found him gazing with an alarming amount of clarity. "Sam is my P.A. and that is all."

"For a master of spin you really are a terrible liar. You fancy her and she fucking fancies you which is giving me this pre-coronary."

Malcolm massaged his neck to stop any of his tendons snapping free. "Look – can we not talk about this?"

"No, I think we need to talk about this." Jamie set aside the instrument and shifted forward on the opposing couch. There was a light jazz track in the background and the stink of cheap coffee in the air and a whiff of Jamie's previously smoked cigar. Malcolm's poor excuse at a fire had started to die threatening to asphyxiate them both. What a pleasant and welcome death that would be. Maybe he could throw himself in as kindling to lighten things up. "What are your intentions?"

"What – are – my – intentions?" Malcolm nearly choked on a laugh that had lodged itself in the back of his throat. "What is this – a BBC fucking melodrama? Is that wank-off Darcy about to enter stage right? Because if he is I'd like a right word with him about all these fucking expectations he's left an entire generation of women with. Miserable fucking..."

"Well if he did you'd be fucked because he's got a nice cut on him. Good hair. Money pouring out of his ears."

"He's an English cunt."

"And you're an ailing Scottish shit. I'd say, an' this is just a highly educated guess, that he has the edge over you. Answer the question."

"None. I have no intentions, Jamie."

"God. Yer don't, do you?" Jamie wasn't sure what to do. There was something seriously wrong with Tucker lately and a band-aid of liquor wasn't going to plug it. "Now I know you like to do all your fucking in the Hilton penthouse but the fact that you're not fucking anything is a worry. Are you actually fucking dying or did it finally drop off from something nasty yer picked up down the metro?"

"I can't touch her, Jamie. When this shit flies off the fan it's going to obliterate everything it touches. That is not going to include Sam – right – I've got her covered in paint sheets an' don't you go ripping them off."

"With no fucking respect, I don' think that's a very realistic approach."

Malcolm started to twitch. There weren't many topics off limits to Jamie but Sam was right on that line. The only reason he entertained any banter was out of some misplaced camaraderie built on a mutual affection for inspired cursing. "An' you? What about your intentions?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, let it go, it was once – years ago. We were wearing the same suit, remember? No, you probably don't." Jamie realised. "You were pretty fucked that year. What is it with yer and Christmas parties? I used to think tha' you only came to terrorise a few frightened MPs but I now I realise you were only in it for the cake." Malcolm was watching him in silence which was a terrifying state. Oh yes, he liked to talk bullshit twenty-four hours a day as long as none of it turned in his direction.

"I – I..." Malcolm started to speak and then found a curl of vulnerability rear its head. "All right. I'd like ter have intentions but I don't. Yer happy? The honest fucking truth. Ain' that a shocker. Just because she doesn't 'ave the good sense to steer clear of me doesn' mean I'm going to let her run aground on a reef mad of sawn-off-fuck."

Jamie folded his arms sternly across his chest like a concerned parent. "Actually no. Unless you get your own head sorted out this entire thing – whatever this thing is – will end in a nightmare an' I have no intention of you spending weekends cryin' on my couch."

"It's more complicated than that an' you know it. Sam thinks she understands what she's signin' up for but she doesn't. Not really. This thing – the cascading shit with the inquiry, it's going to go all the way to the wire and Weir will do everything within his maddeningly wide net of power to fuck with everyone that's even breathed on me. If he thinks, even for a moment, that Sam is more than a fleeting distraction he'll take her and slice her into fucking bits that we'll find in the god damn snow. It'll be a full fucking art exhibition." Malcolm was digging his nails into the couch, fidgeting nervously.

"Too late, you stupid cunt," Jamie replied. "You've got to take this fucker down in a hellfire – sooner rather than later."

"I know – I know..." Tucker murmured.

"You've allowed this to spiral into crisis. If I find a madman fucking loose in my attic I'm going to sever all his limbs and hang them from the power lines out front."

"You don't have an attic, Jamie. You live in the walls of parliament house. And what did you do to your face ay – get it stuck in a slamming door?"

"Walked into a fucking wall."

"A wall? What – did it fold up on you in a different dimension?"

"Drop it. I'm not 'ere to talk about my spacial awareness issues. We're here ter set you up on Tinder. Give us your phone!"

"It's Sunday, Sam. The fuck you doing 'ere?" Malcolm paused at his office door, jacket hung over his shoulder as he peeked in to find his P.A. draped over the couch, shoes on the floor, cushions walled up around her with a notepad in hand. She was watching the news on his TV where further tributes were pouring in for Dan Miller and he was pretty fucking sure she had an ear-bud in one ear, moonlighting with the BBC breakfast radio.

"Keeping an eye on things," she replied casually, without looking up. "Your favourite chew toy over at DoSAC made a lovely mess earlier. I'd have sent you to clear it up but honestly, what's the point? He'll only trip over a vat of Jila mints on the way back into the building and cause a cascade capable of consuming the entire main road. Then your transport minister will have a fresh nightmare."

Malcolm would have applauded her on the extended pun but his coat had an unravelling thread that his OCD demanded he pick at. Added to that, Sam must have known that he'd been off with Jamie last night. It's the only reason he'd be in late on a Sunday. "Hacks all behaving themselves?"

"Actually they're in fine form. Courting sympathy plays well. There was even a replay your favourite reindeer special. If you stick it around I'm sure CNN will run it again."

"Fucking cunt fuckers..." He closed the door with a hiss.

"Irony is, Miller could run as PM right now and he'd win. A corpse – propped up with duct tape and Ollie reading his lines through a loud speaker."

"Well thank-fuck he's dead. Can you imagine how dull our lives would be with Miller at the helm? Tom – well Tom is a first order psychopath, grown in a lab with extra sets of eyes and a few missing fingers," he had to stop while Sam giggled into her tea, "but at least he's good for a bit of sport – a few polaroids of hair raising blackmail. I've still got that set from last November. You remember?"

Sam was grinning wickedly over the rim of her cup. "Yes, of course. The PM was so terrified he sent you a birthday cake that year. Everyone thought it was terribly sweet. They didn't know he was buttering up your silence with sugar."

"The way to my black fucking heart of coal. Fuck, you're right. There are the shitting reindeer sticks again!" He gestured brutally at the screen. "Shit like that. It was a fucking joke because I was bored. The son of a bitch was in his office filtering through identical selfies of himself. Thank fuck none of the interns ever showed him how to use a fucking app or we'd be smothered in mountains of digital Millers. I'd have to kidnap a Russian and have the whole fucking network purged."

"I'm not watching breakfast TV to see how Miller's death is playing in the press," Sam admitted, setting down her drink.

Malcolm's curiosity piqued. He laid his jacket over the pack of is chair and sauntered over, standing opposite his P.A. with a mandarin. "No?"

"No..." She admitted. "I was up all night thinking about Julius' revelation. If Miller and Weir are half-brothers, what was Miller playing at? Either he was a truly dull individual, as you imagine and he was over at DoSAC purely living out his ego-fuelled dream to become PM. The trial was useful in that he usurped Nicola Murray but your demise would be a hindrance. Even if he's half as stupid as you imagine, he'd have to know that any kind of fatality near your person would cast a shadow over DoSAC. He'd never see the sun again."

"What's yer fucking point?"

"Well, consider he was working with Simon Weir instead to engineer your downfall. I'm prepared to accept that Miller is a masterful liar who has had us all on a string. Just – bear with me." Sam insisted, as Malcolm started to scoff. "Why would Weir have him murdered? It doesn't make any sense. The only person with motivation in that situation to remove Miller from the picture is you."

"I didn't fucking kill him."

"I know that," Sam replied quickly. "But that's what it looks like. What if that's what Weir wanted it to look like?"

"Weir killed his own half brother to frame me? We're not in a crime novel, Sam. This is real fucking life."

Sam stood up and faced her boss even though she was half a foot shorter. "Listen to me," she whispered. "You destroyed Weir's life when you took down his father. Have you ever lost everything you love? Do you understand what that does to a person?" Sam had not expected to see a flicker of darkness wash through Malcolm's eyes. He had been to that place, she realised. There were chasms in his life that she knew nothing about but every now and then she wandered to the edge of something he'd worked hard to hide from her. "All right. Keep a hold of that feeling," she searched his eyes, "and remember that's what you're up against."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They turned in unison.

"Who the fuck knocks?"