Clarity - Chapter 5
Malcolm Tucker hated surprises. Especially on a Monday morning. So he made sure to avoid them at all cost. Which was why his work week never really stopped. Weekends were a foreign concept to him. Granted, he rarely was compelled to physically move to Number 10 on Sundays for instance, but Number 10 never left him, it was always there in his mind.
He woke up as he usually did on a Saturday morning: on his couch, still half-dressed, the rhythmic clanking of his turntable echoing in the background. The tone arm, having nowhere to go now that the record was over, made this fact known with a sound that was strangely reminiscent of a heartbeat. He'd always found it soothing and usually fell asleep without turning the player off.
Although he'd arrived home late - early, really - he hadn't been in the mood for some Miles. He'd selected records he hadn't played for a while, something less nostalgic, less blue. He'd been surprised at this decision. He'd just let his hands slide over the smooth cardboard sleeves and picked it up almost immediately. Dizzy Gillespie. Maybe his thoughts had been less broody than usual. He couldn't really explain it. And dwelling on the reasons would only shatter this happy bubble, so he didn't.
He'd managed to get Jamie in a cab at a reasonable hour, and he'd even received a text from Sarah to thank him. Jamie never texted, but his wife did, probably because the younger Scot didn't know they could also be used to communicate. After all, he was more of a vocal person. Typed messages would never convey the same level of information. Or the same depth of feelings.
Malcolm only switched off one of his two phones when he went home with the firm intention of sleeping. The phone which always stayed on was for emergencies, and few people had the number. Sam and Jamie, of course. One or two journalists he trusted and a handful of special advisors at Number 10. It rarely ever rung but when it did, he knew it was bad news, so he always kept it charged. He'd even put Chopin's Funeral March as a ringtone (following a bet he'd lost to Jamie). He then checked his BlackBerry and started going through the various texts, messages and emails while putting the kettle on for his morning coffee.
By the time he had drunk his first cup and eaten the least revolting looking banana he'd found atop his fridge, he'd answered the most urgent texts and emails. He'd kept the messages for last, knowing from experience that they were both the least important and the most likely to put him in a premature bad mood. He then showered, changed, and went out.
It was 7.15. The pool would open in 15 minutes so he walked briskly. This was the only luxury he allowed himself during the weekend: one hour of uninterrupted swimming. A certain advantage of living in an affluent neighbourhood was that he could count on such facilities being available to him provided he paid a (scandalously expensive) membership fee. He didn't mind. And this was and always would be the only kind of club he would subscribe to.
He'd always loved swimming but only started doing it regularly a few years ago, when turning forty proved that the lager-curry diet no longer cut it if one wanted to reach sixty in somewhat decent shape. Malcolm couldn't for the life of him picture himself at sixty, but he was vain enough to realise that he had to do something if he still wanted to fit in his favourite Paul Smith suits. He'd quickly found out that swimming had other advantages: he knew he only had the time to swim for one hour, and once he'd found his rhythm to do the crawl three-months in, this meant stopping after 50 laps. But reaching this distance meant counting laps, and counting laps meant he couldn't think about anything else, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nothing could get to him inside the pool: no Number 10, no pesky MPs, nothing. If the outside world did interfere, it meant he'd lose count, which angered him and usually meant being late as well. So he'd decided to concentrate only on the movements of his arms and legs, his regular breathing, and the number of his laps. And it was heaven.
The pool was for members only every morning until 9. And then again in the evenings between 8.30 and 10. The few people he saw there at this time were like him: they only came to swim and didn't look that very thrilled about it. He was pretty sure he recognised some of them, and he could tell some people recognised him in return, but there seemed to be an implicit agreement that no questions would be asked nor comments made. This was a sacred place. People came there to be left alone and forget the outside world for a while. Malcolm didn't know if this made the pool the happiest place on Earth or the saddest.
When he got home afterwards he showered again (even in luxury pools you could never really eradicate the smell of chlorine), put on a suit, filled a thermos with tea and drove to Number 10. Traffic being good on a Saturday morning, he was at his desk around 9.30. He put out a few inter-departments fires via phone, signed a mountain of documents, refused to speak to half a dozen journalists about yesterday's Environment Minister's speech, and by 3PM he had finally come up with what he was going to do to Keith Graham. He had to admit, he was rather proud of himself. He couldn't help but smile, even though he knew his plan could only be really implemented on Monday morning, and reached for a second satsuma.
Once home that night with a celebratory curry he'd picked on the way in, he thought over his plan some more, another record of Dizzy playing in the background and the TV news turned on mute. It certainly wasn't his most vicious or Machiavellian scheme to date. Really, it was downright harmless compared to the ones he'd discarded. But for once, he'd decided to listen to that nagging voice at the back of his head. The one that told him that going too far would harm innocent bystanders. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what had made him come to this realisation, but he knew the joyful trumpet notes had something to do with it. That and the memory of a red dress that was just a bit too short.
Sunday was spent in a similar fashion, minus the trip to Number 10. He also had the disagreeable task of going to the shops. Since he always relegated this outing to Sundays, it meant driving quite far away. Fortunately, his blessed iPod with the volume turned on too high prevented him from acting out on his impulses to strangle half the people blocking the supermarket aisles with their alarmingly full trolleys.
He made a few strategic calls to people in the Health department to pave the way for Monday morning during the afternoon and then spent an hour toying with the idea of calling Jamie. He usually always informed him of such decisions (it was his job, after all). They often devised those kind of plans together. But it felt strangely personal this time. And after all, he would find out early on the next day. So he wrote a few lines for tomorrow's 8.30 briefing sipping a glass of Cragganmore and went to sleep early and in his bed, for once.
Monday morning was the usual nightmare of traffic and incorrect news announcements on the radio. Malcolm knew he'd probably get to work quicker if he took the tube, but it would deprive him of the pleasure of shouting at other drivers, pedestrians, cyclists, radio speakers and the odd press officer on the phone.
"No, she won't get that interview with the Standard," he tried to explain calmly to Gerry Smith, the Education chief press advisor. The one who apparently had a passion for cheese only equaled by Wallace & Gromit.
"Because I said so, that's why! Catherine Hadley is probably MIA by now, she's been sent to some godforsaken region ending in -shire to write a piece on fucking manure," Gerry didn't need to know that Malcolm had spent twenty delectable minutes with the Standard editor on Friday night just after the party demanding he do just that if he wanted to be kept abreast of future developments at Number 10. The editor had even been tempted to sack her, but Malcolm had judiciously suggested he kept her for the shitty jobs, literally in that case.
"Well I don't know, you tell her whatever you want! She's a big girl. Wait, was she the one with the yoga thing? In that case, don't tell her anything, yeah? Good." Malcolm hung up, noticing he had another call. It was Jamie.
"Keith Graham?"
Jamie rarely needed to introduce himself on the phone. Or say hello. Especially to Malcolm. He usually went straight to the point.
"Yeah?" Two could play at this game, after all.
"Anything to say?" Jamie sounded more amused than pissed off, which wasn't necessarily a good sign.
"Can this wait until I get here? Or wait, are you telling me he can't read a map where the names of the villages start with ten fucking consonants?"
"Why is it always Wales with you? Can't it be Durham or something for once?"
"The weather report seemed to indicate more rain over there. And I've been told there are floods."
"I'm surprised you didn't have him sacked as well. You had every fucking reason to, if you'd wanted to. I think you're going soft on me in your old age."
"No sexual innuendo this early in the morning. I'll be there in five." The car park was almost in view.
"Sexual innuendo, yeah, you can say that again. I know exactly what it's about. You're fooling no one, you big pouf. Ta ta."
Malcolm sighed and parked his car. He'd thought Jamie would be peeved because he hadn't elected to let him know about his plan regarding Keith. But this was different. He sounded...gleeful. What hellish development did this entail?
He got his answer a few minutes later, when he found a bouncy over-caffeinated Jamie visibly waiting for him near his office.
"Morning darling, how was your weekend? Did anything happen on Friday after I left that I should know about? Anything to tell me? Yes? No?"
Malcolm decided that his first stop wouldn't be the office. He needed to lay his hands on whatever miracle potion Jamie seemed to be running on. He was pretty sure neither the cafeteria nor the Starbucks two streets over had it. He wisely kept his mouth shut and stared at him in a way that he hoped would make him stop asking questions. For many people, this particular look signalled the pressing need to reach the nearest bomb shelter.
"Shall I venture a guess? Does it start with a 'C' and doesn't spell 'cunt'? Oh no, wait, it does actually!"
But after all, Jamie wasn't his closest colleague because he did a good Tigger impression. Albeit a very rude Tigger. Malcolm knew it was no use, he would have to answer him at some point.
"Nothing happened on Friday except me calling Vince at the Standard."
"Yeah, heard about that. Nice touch. But gone are the days when the mighty Malcolm would have burnt the fucking hack at the stake."
"She's young. I thought she still had time to change her game." They had now reached his office, where Malcolm expected they would split. But Jamie seemed intent to bounce around these particular four walls as well. Seeing the large pile of messages already waiting for him on his desk, he thought it best to go straight to the point and be done with it.
"I mean it, nothing happened. And I decided to send that prick Keith to Wales because I fucking felt like it. Health has enough problems as it is. Even I couldn't come up with a suitable reason to sack him that wouldn't bite the department in the arse."
"Bollocks. You're full of shit, my friend. The sooner you admit it, the sooner I'll leave this office."
Jamie crossed his arms nonchalantly and sat in one of the armchairs facing his desk. The little fucker.
"For fuck's sake Jamie, this isn't secondary school. Will you fuck off to your office and shout at some minions?"
"I'm gonna have to say it, then. You did all that because of her. Clara Oswald. You didn't want her to be collateral damage in case your executions didn't work according to plan. If you'd killed them both, she'd have been blamed in some way. I didn't know you were such a fucking romantic, Malc."
Malcolm sat at his desk and started rifling though the urgent messages he'd have to address before the 8.30 briefing. He tried to ignore the gleeful man in front of him but had a hard time concentrating on what was written. He hadn't even admitted to himself that his decisions might have been influenced by the young Education advisor, so how could he admit it to Jamie?
"It's okay, Malc. I get it. You've been pretty fucking miserable lately, you need a bit of that."
He raised his eyes in surprise, wondering if he'd been voicing his thoughts about Clara out loud. Perhaps his silence had been answer enough. He usually always had the upper hand in such exchanges. Was he that transparent? This gave him pause, and he felt a pressing need to justify himself.
"She's pretty, that's all. I might have been slightly influenced by that fact, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of doing my fucking job."
"I never said that, and she's more than pretty. And you know, I don't think you were the only one making eyes."
"Yeah, probably every other fucking person in the room." Malcolm felt a pang of regret at that. He might never get the opportunity to talk to her again and he'd behaved like a right tit. Staring at her like a fucking unhinged stalker.
"No, I meant her, you pillock. She was also making eyes at you."
"Fuck off, she wasn't. Now get out of here, you're boring me." Malcolm stood up, intent on showing Jamie to the door. But he wasn't budging.
"I'll prove it to you. I'm on my way to the Sanctuary Building. Gerry summoned me, I wonder why. You and your fucking nuptial dance, or whatever that is." He had finally risen up from his chair, and was walking towards Malcolm, a look of resolution on his face, now.
"Don't you fucking dare. There's nothing to prove. Now, get." Malcolm hoped he didn't look worried. Why would he look worried? But he probably was.
"It's okay, I've just thought of something. You know this Guardian interview? I'll give it to her. See what she's worth, yeah? Then if she's as good as I think she actually is, I'll start composing your fucking wedding invitation cards. Ta ta for now."
Malcolm laughed, despite himself.