Clarity - Chapter 9
The last week before Christmas was as hectic as Malcolm had anticipated. Why was it that every year, the PM deemed it the best time to rethink his whole Cabinet? Every fucking year since he'd been in power, come December the 20th and he would wake up with the pressing need for an imminent and inevitable reshuffle. And every year, Malcolm had to do damage control, because of course some cunt in Westminster had to go and babble to the press that Armageddon was about to happen, even though by the 22nd, the PM had changed his mind, after having been influenced by stern advisors - Malcolm being one of them. But by then, the fucking cat was already out of the bloody fucking bag, and he had to spend the days preceding Christmas pulling out fires everywhere. Which explained why Malcolm woke up at ten o'clock on the morning of the 24th.
He hadn't been home in three days and he'd slept for eleven hours straight. He knew that was to be expected after a 60 hour workday - or so it had seemed to him - but he was still surprised when he saw the time on his alarm clock. It was Christmas Eve for fuck's fake, he was allowed a modicum of idleness. Unfortunately, he didn't feel rested. His sleep had been more akin to a coma, really. His brain had simply shut down, and probably just in time. He actually had no memory of how he'd got into bed. Everything had been a blur after he'd said goodnight to Clara on her doorstep.
He had admired her resilience in the face of her own departmental emergency situation. But she had looked quite defeated when Sam had - to all intents and purposes - led her by the hand to the meeting room where he was eating dinner. Granted, he had become vastly experienced in the art of working ungodly hours and dealing with the fate of the government with little to no sleep over the years, so he couldn't really blame her for being exhausted. Any human being would have been after the 48 hours she'd had to go through. And even then she still had the energy to act stubbornly.
God was she stubborn. Arguing with him and refusing the simple courtesy of driving her home. He understood that her reluctance had probably come from an innate belief that she would somehow have to pay the price if she accepted favours. He couldn't blame her for that either: after all, even in this day and age and especially in this line of work, she would have been right about 80% of the time. And in the end, she had been doing him a favour, really. He had felt a lot better knowing that she was safe and sound in her own home. That being said, he still wasn't quite sure what that dog outing had really been about.
Oh, who was he kidding, he knew perfectly well what this had all been about. Driving home a junior advisor who was dead on her feet after two days of hell was one thing. Walking said junior advisor's dog with her was quite another. Maybe it was his way of showing her he could be stubborn, too. Maybe he had just wanted to be consistent and act like a gentleman all the way through. Or maybe he'd just wanted to meet her blasted dog, who the fuck knew. He couldn't erase from his mind the way she had looked all bundled up in that huge coat of hers, with the hand holding her dog leash disappearing inside the too long sleeve. Or how tiny she had seemed next to him without her heels. He had instinctively wanted to protect her. But if he was completely honest with himself, his thoughts hadn't exactly been fatherly or brotherly. He... Maybe his bed wasn't the best place to be having those thoughts, Malcolm realised.
Right, shower and coffee, then. Even if the pool was open on Christmas Eve - which he doubted - it was too late to go, now. It'd probably be packed with excitable children. Maybe he'd go for a walk, then. Maybe... oh crap, it snowed. Malcolm had finally found the necessary energy to get out of bed, and as he was opening the blinds, he realised that his back garden was covered in white. As were the roofs of the neighbourhood houses. It didn't snow that often here in London. And the childish reaction he felt growing irresistibly in him was quickly squashed by the adult realisation that it would be a nightmare to go to work. The roads would be packed with either people trying to exit the city for Christmas or people trying to get to the city for the holidays. And neither of those two groups would have any idea how to drive in this weather.
Guess they'd have to find a way to survive without me. For once, he couldn't care less, not after the last few days and the hours he had sacrificed for them and their sheer stupidity. There was no way in hell he was getting his car out. The buses were probably not in service, the tube was certainly packed and the cabbies who would choose to drive in the snow were most likely Evil Knievel wannabes. Malcolm would actually enjoy a day in. There were piles of stuff he was meant to read. And a few records he wanted to listen to. He was in the mood for some Duke, and that hadn't happened in a long while. But best not to think about the reasons now.
After his (rather cold) shower, he sat at his kitchen table with a cup of black coffee and two kiwis and went through his messages and emails. He was glad to see that he wouldn't even have to pretend to feel guilty for not going to Number 10: the hacks had apparently stopped bothering him about the imaginary reshuffle and no MP had committed a blunder during the night - like, say, driving intoxicated with a call girl beside him and two grams of coke in his pocket. That would have been so...well, last week, really. Malcolm was also glad to see that there was no new development in the education curriculum leak. Clara and her department would enjoy a quite Christmas as well then. Good.
So obviously his emergency phone was bound to ring at eleven on the dot. He was more than a little tempted not to answer. But Chopin's Funeral March gave him chills, and he remembered that he had given the number to his sisters, so he picked up after a few blood curdling rings.
"Malcolm Tucker."
"Good morning, darling."
"Jamie, for fuck's sake. I was about to have a heart attack. Why are you calling me on this phone? And why the hell are you blocking your number? Little twat."
"And a merry fucking Christmas to you too, love."
"It's not Christmas yet. Now answer my bloody questions."
"You are in a bloody good mood, Malc. I just wanted to try that phone, and I wasn't sure you were going to answer if you saw it was me."
"Of course I was going to answer. You made me put that fucking ringtone, it makes my skin crawl," he paused, then added, "Don't tell me you're at Number 10. Not in this weather."
"I'm not yet, but I will be in about 15 minutes. Or make that half an hour if I have to drop by the fucking A&E, this cabbie is a maniac!" Jamie had whispered that last part, knowing that a trip to the hospital would be even more in the cards for him if said cabbie heard him.
"It's snowing!"
"I know it's fucking snowing! Well, actually, it snowed, past tense. Now it looks like there's grey piss everywhere."
"Are you going to tell me what the fuck is happening or am I going to have to guess? And, by the way, there's no fucking way I'm driving in this. So there'd better be a really good reason if you want me to freeze my balls outside waiting for a cab that will probably never come."
"I sent you a car. Steve should be there in 20 minutes."
"Jesus Christ, doesn't he ever take holidays?"
"I'm pretty sure he's the fucking Stig during his free time. And he sounded thrilled to come and pick you up on the phone. I think he has a thing for you, Malc."
He was getting more than a little worried, now. Jamie never beat around the bush, and he still hadn't told him why he needed to get his arse all the way to Downing Street on Christmas Eve.
"Just tell me, Jamie."
"It's Hewitt. Another hit piece. Jeremy called me in advance. He's planning on having it published tomorrow."
"Now that will be a great Christmas present," Malcolm deadpanned, but he could tell Jamie knew his heart wasn't in it.
"We can kill it, Malc. And kill the fucker once and for all."
"We already tried that, the man is a fucking cockroach."
"Well he is a cock, that's for sure. Come on, Malc. A proper execution for all time's sake, you and me against the vindictive motherfucker."
Malcolm felt the weight of the last week crushing him once more. He wanted to tell Jamie to let it go, to let the fucker publish his bloody article in his too-dirty-to-wipe-his-own-arse rag. It wasn't the first time Jamie and him had attempted to stop him. They usually succeeded, but it always cost them a great deal in the form of missed hours of sleep. Any other day of the year, he would have welcomed the task, and probably greatly enjoyed it. And Jamie would have too, if he knew anything about the little psycho.
"I'll deal with it on my own, Jamie. You don't have to be there to hold my hand, I know how to deal with Hewitt. "
"Bollocks. You need all the fucking help you can get, especially since it's been so long you haven't properly eviscerated any senior hack, given your new touchy feely wanky approach."
"What about Sarah and..." but Jamie interrupted him.
"I'm almost there, get in the fucking car. I'm getting the rack and pillory ready. Ta fucking ta."
Well, there goes my one hour holiday, then.
Jamie hadn't been joking when he'd told him he was getting the medieval torture instruments ready. When Malcolm got to Number 10, he had apparently already devised half a dozen strategy to prevent Hewitt from publishing his article, and only one of them implied that somebody had to be killed, which was a first. Maybe his own so called wanky approach had started to rub off on him. He was at least glad to see that Jamie had also left his suit at home and had arrived in casual clothes. Malcolm hoped it meant that their presence here was an informal one, and that he wouldn't have a hard time sending him home shortly.
Steve had shown up as expected, and it had taken them an hour to reach Downing Street. But the driver hadn't been discouraged, and said he would wait for Malcolm and drive him back whenever he wanted. The man probably meant it as well, but he had promised it would be around five o'clock at the latest. No one would miss their dinner because of him if he could help it. No one who didn't deserve it, at least. Since he wouldn't mind if Hewitt, for instance, missed his. As well as a few other meals. The fat fuck should thank him, really. He would be doing him a favour.
It was strange, working with Jamie in an almost deserted building. The place wasn't actually deserted of course, Number 10 was never really empty, but it was nonetheless a very quite day. They used to do that more often in the old days. The old days only being a year or so ago. Before Jamie and Sarah got their bairns, in fact. They would have often worked together on Sundays for instance, and plan meticulously their strategy to control the relevant branches of government to their liking. He didn't really miss those times, since they still worked on some Sundays and holidays after all, even though it was mostly because of an emergency situation now rather than for sheer Machiavellian pleasure.
He had never resented the younger man for having a family, for having something else in his life that was more important than work. Who knew, maybe he had been enjoying Jamie's life by proxy, in some strange and quite depressing way. And Jamie still behaved the same way, he hadn't been magically transformed by married life and parenthood, he was still the same shouty demented Scot he had met in Glasgow all those years ago. Perhaps there was a hidden message there. Perhaps it was possible to live a different life and yet still be the same. To have someone - well, someones, in his case - and still be able to do one's job. Although he had a hard time convincing himself of that, Malcolm thought there might be solace there. Even if said solace remained a distant and unrealistic possibility.
"So, did you see Clara again?" asked Jamie out of the blue an hour later as they were pouring over recent articles by Hewitt. Trust the little bastard to always know what he was thinking.
"What do you mean?"
"Yesterday, after you forced me to go home. I thought she might be coming back here at the end of her interviews."
"Yeah, she did. You should have told her to go home," Malcolm answered, hoping to end the conversation.
"And?"
"And what?"
"And I'm not having any of your shit. Did you see her or not?" Jamie really couldn't take a hint, could he?
"Yes. I gave her a lift home," he told him in the most matter of fact tone he could muster.
"You gave her a... ?" Surely he hadn't managed to silence Jamie. That was unheard of.
"So what? The crazy lass wanted to walk home, it was the least I could do after what you had her go through for two days. She was done in."
"You drove her home?"
"Yes."
"She let you do that?" Malcolm hesitated but finally repeated his previous answer.
"And nothing happened after that?" he hesitated even more there, and Jamie could tell.
"Bollocks, did you..."
"No!" he quickly interrupted him, not wanting to know how Jamie would choose to word it.
"But something did happen," he insisted.
"Can we get back to work? Or whatever the fuck it is that we're doing? It's Christmas Eve, we both want to be somewhere else. And for your plan to work we need to find something we can use against Hewitt in his recent articles." But Jamie was like a dog with a particularly squishy, flashy, noisy toy and he wouldn't drop the subject.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"Then what did she do?" the little twat was really perceptive, you had to hand it to him.
Malcolm sighed and started scratching his scalp with vigour, hoping to delay his answer. He didn't want to tell Jamie - because it had been nothing, really - but he also knew that there wasn't anyone else he could share that with. Should he share it? Wouldn't that diminish it in some way? Oh, for fuck's sake. Was he becoming a character from a fucking novel by one of those crazy Brontë sisters? This was ridiculous.
"She kissed me," he eventually told Jamie, "on the cheek I mean, it was just a peck really," he added quickly, seeing the young man's huge blue eyes getting even bigger.
"Probably a French thing or something, they always kiss each other on the cheeks," he said, seeing that Jamie wasn't speaking and feeling nervous because of it.
"A French thing," Jamie finally uttered after a few more tensed seconds of silence, "Sure, why not. But do let me know if she starts making out with you for no apparent reason. I might want to visit France more often." Malcolm couldn't help but roll his eyes at this and shake his head in consternation.
"So come on, tell me. You drove her home, she leaned towards you in the car, kissed your cheek, said good night and left?" Jamie was really enjoying himself.
"Yes, basically."
"Basically?"
"Christ, would you fucking drop it? I drove her home, we walked her dog together because it was safer given the state she was in and she gave me a peck on the cheek before I left, that's all. Now, have you finished with your pile of articles? Anything?"
"You walked her dog with her? Is that a euphemism I should know about?"
"No, although I'm actually looking for a euphemism for 'fuck off', right now. So, the articles?"
Jamie looked at him strangely after that, but started reading once again. Malcolm could tell he was actively thinking about something, and that he would probably not like the result. But he was forced to put his plans regarding Clara on the back burner for a while, because his source on the Hewitt piece called him back around three and sent him the actual draft that would be published the next day if they did nothing.
"Fucking hell, he really has it bad for you. He pulled out all the bloody stops, and it's personal. What the fuck happened between you two? This can't all be about that Kelly Grogan lass, she left you for him after all, not the other way around." Jamie had no tact whatsoever when it came to his personal life, but then it'd happened sufficiently long ago now for him not to actually care.
"Fuck knows, he's just a sad old cunt. He's always had it in for me, and I haven't exactly been nice to him in the past."
"I hope it's not some repressed thing on his part. But that would actually explain a lot," half-joked Jamie.
"Perish the fucking thought. Your mind must really be a weird place for you to be thinking of something like that," but Malcolm actually enjoyed the banter. The younger Scot could probably tell that the article had rattled him. Hewitt depicted him not only as a mean, dangerous and manipulative man, but also as quite a pathetic and pitiful one, which Malcolm was less used to.
The journalist had found out some stuff about his dad he'd really rather people didn't know, as well. He wondered how he'd managed to dig this up, since very few of his acquaintances knew about it. Thankfully, Jamie already did, which made things easier and far less awkward.
"You could always threaten to tell his wife about Kelly. That would piss him off," suggested Jamie.
"No, Kelly's married now, with a kid on the way, I can't do that to her."
"You and your fucking principles."
"Someone has to have them."
"Malcolm. You can't let him publish that," Jamie told him in a serious tone, "He's doing it now on purpose, he knows you had a horrible week. He's using this knowledge against you."
"Don't you think I fucking know that?" Malcolm had indeed been tempted to drop the matter and let the bastard publish his piece. But now that he'd actually seen it, he knew he couldn't possibly let that happen.
"Could you... I don't know, get us something to eat or something? I want to think about it on my own, for a little while." Jamie looked at him a little sadly, but knew that his best plans usually came to him when he was sitting in this office all alone, so he acquiesced and left.
Malcolm knew he was running out of time. It was close to four already and he had promised his driver not to have him wait too late. He knew he could always send the man home and find another way to reach his place. Maybe he'd finally have that fucking walk. But getting rid of his driver meant that he'd probably spend the night here to come up with a way to prevent the piece from being printed. And Malcolm couldn't help but think that Hewitt had also planned this part. He wanted him to spend Christmas Eve locked up in his office and feeling sorry for himself. The man was a cruel but clever bastard. He'd just have to be crueler and cleverer, then.
Jamie came back half an hour later with fish & chips and a gleeful expression on his face. At first, Malcolm thought he'd come up with a strategy. But if he had, he wasn't sharing it. Exasperated, he couldn't help but ask him about it, after he had remained silent for the whole meal.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, did you inhale the vinegar at the chip shop?" Jamie didn't react, and still looked far too happy considering the situation they were in.
"Did you find anything?" Malcolm insisted.
"No," he eventually answered, "but I made a few phone calls and I expect I should get some results soon. Oh, and speaking of results..."
His office door opened. And Clara Oswald stood on the threshold. Malcolm quickly turned back towards Jamie and could see now what the stupid grin on his face had been about. The little twat's plan had worked, apparently. He silently tried to communicate with him his irritation but also his puzzlement. What the fuck was she doing here? On a day like today, no less.
"Miss Oswald, you made it, how wonderful. There might even be some chips left for you."
"I'm good, already ate. So, where do you want me to put these?"
Malcolm could see that she was holding a bunch of folders. He also noted that she was in casual clothes: boots, black trousers and that heavy coat of hers she had been wearing the previous evening to walk her dog. He liked that huge coat, for some reason. And not just because she looked ridiculously cute and tiny in it. After all, he would never admit to anyone - least of all himself - that he sometimes had use of the word "cute".
"Jamie, don't tell me you had Clara come all the way here to drop some bloody files?"
"It's fine, Malcolm. I was on my way North, sort of. I'm driving up to Liverpool, I might as well stop here," Clara told him in a tone of voice that was surprisingly devoid of anger or even slight irritation. Jamie looked at him strangely at the 'Malcolm' part. It was only the second time she was using his name, after all. And Jamie had - thankfully - not been present the first time.
"Now that you're here, love, would you mind terribly helping me convince this foolish man that he should grow a pair of fucking balls? And that calling someone on Christmas Eve to tell them their husband is a cheating bastard is perfectly acceptable when one's reputation and dignity are at stake?" Jamie asked her in a far too reasonable tone.
"Jamie, can I see you outside for a minute?" Malcolm said, barely resisting the urge to strangle the man in front of Clara.
"Of course you can, old chap, lead the way," answered Jamie pleasantly. Malcolm looked back at Clara before closing the door with a look that he hoped was contrite enough given the situation. But once they were out of earshot, he didn't hesitate to let his ire known.
"What the fuck are you playing at? What is she doing here?" But the smaller man was still smiling, damn him. Malcolm didn't know where to start. Should he hit him first and go back to his questions later?
"Relax, man, she wanted to come."
"What do you mean, she wanted to come? You called her?"
"Of course I called her, she's not fucking ubiquitous."
"What the hell did you tell her?"
"Nothing she didn't need to now. Alright? Malcolm, I swear, I didn't force her to come." Malcolm had a hard time believing him. But it was true that Clara hadn't looked pissed off about being there.
"You heard her, she's on her way to Liverpool, we can't delay her," he tried to argue.
"Have you seen the state of the roads? She's not planning on arriving there anytime tonight, if you ask me. She can help us for a while." Why did Jamie of all people have to sound so reasonable?
"Oh, Jeremy's calling again, maybe he's got something new for us," Jamie announced before picking up his chirping phone.
On the way back to his office, Malcolm pondered the word 'us' his colleague had used. He knew Jamie loved personalising issues - it just made it easier to solve them, really - but he had to admit that he was still touched. Why had he wanted Clara to be there, though? Psychological support? Like hell. She was only distracting him. Opening his door, he realised quickly that he had made a mistake leaving her alone in his office while he was talking to Jamie. He had left everything on the table, including Hewitt's draft, which he had read back to back a dozen times whilst his colleague was away. He hadn't been able to stop himself. And it seemed that Clara Oswald hadn't either.
She had the good grace to look a little guilty, but Malcolm could tell that she wouldn't apologise about what she'd done. He shouldn't have left the article lying around if he didn't want people to read it, after all. She stared at him a little sadly for a few seconds, but thankfully it didn't last, and her impish nature quickly took over once more.
"So, how am I supposed to help you grow some balls exactly?" Malcolm smiled ruefully at that and sat back behind his desk.
"Don't worry, I'm sure Jamie has a strategy for that, too," he told her. "When do you have to be in Liverpool?"
"I was hoping sometime during the night. My dad told me the roads were even worse up there, but I'm sure I'll manage, it hasn't snowed again at least."
Jamie then burst into the office, holding his BlackBerry up in celebration. "He's shagging Stephanie Carrington!" he shouted in a way that he usually reserved for pubs when Motherwell had scored a goal.
"Carrington? That weather girl wannabe working at The Mirror with the fake tits and the horrible laugh?" asked Malcolm, unsure.
"The one exactly. He must be going deaf in his old age. That girl's laugh really is deadly. Hewitt's got no taste whatsoever," Jamie answered, sitting down to calm himself.
"Steady there," Malcolm warned.
"Oh, right, yeah. Sorry. Guess you have something else to use against him, then." Malcolm sighed, undecided.
"I don't know. I mean, his wife is bound to know already, he's not exactly discreet."
"You could always try."
"I won't call him until I'm absolutely sure of my ammunitions. I'm not there yet," Malcolm pointed out, feeling like conceding defeat, once more. But a look at Clara's resolute face helped him change his mind.
"Right, let's work this," he told them, more sure of himself.
They spent almost an hour discussing various possibilities and pouring over even more articles. Clara was actually a great help. She was incisive and seemed to have a knack for reading between the lines. But unfortunately, they weren't any closer to a new solution.
"You could always delete him. It might actually work for a little while, since it's the holidays," pointed out Jamie, who was starting to look at his watch - very discreetly, bless him - every few minutes.
"Yeah, I know. But that would be the point of no return, and I've never actually done it," Malcolm answered.
"There's a first for everything."
"Delete him?" asked Clara, perplexed, and a bit apprehensive.
"No Cybermen involved, don't worry," Jamie reassured her, "Well, not really. Malcolm can revoke his press accreditations, delete him from the UK Press Card registry. He would no longer be able to work anywhere."
"Is that legal?"
"Not even slightly," answered Malcolm, "I shouldn't even have access to the database, but there you go. Welcome to a post 9/11 world. It would be corrected almost immediately if I were to modify it, but Jamie's right. It might actually hold up all the way through the New Year."
Malcolm had been thinking about it for a little while, now. It was a lot more vicious in his mind than calling his wife. And it remained work-related. He disliked having to stoop so low as to copy him and attack him on a personal front.
"Right, that's it, it's five o'clock," he eventually spoke up, "Jamie, you take Steve and go home."
"We're not done."
"Yes, we are. I won't let either of you spend more time than necessary on this thing. You take the car and go home, Jamie."
"But what are you going to do?"
"I'll start by threatening to delete him. If he thinks I'm fucking bluffing, I'll do it. And then I'll go home and enjoy a nice dinner, that's it. Come on, Jamie. Steve's waiting," he told him resolutely, standing up in order to show him that he was being serious.
"How are you going to get home in this weather, you idiot?"
"I'll drive him," answered Clara before he had time to formulate a believable answer. Malcolm turned towards her, surprised.
"I'm guessing you live on this side of the river?" she added.
"Yeah, Highgate, but..."
"Good then, North. As I said earlier, it's on my way." Malcolm looked at her more closely, and he could see she was being just as serious as he was with Jamie. And he realised that the younger man wouldn't leave with his driver until he knew Malcolm would be able to get home. So he decided to follow Clara's lead, even though he would tell her not to bother once Jamie had left.
"You heard her, Jamie, it's fine. Go home."
"But you are calling Hewitt tonight, right?" Jamie was starting to put on his coat. Malcolm could tell that he had succeeded.
"Of course, I just want to have the pleasure of calling him at the last minute. That way, when he'll be forced to pull out his article, it will hurt his reputation at the rag even more," he answered, intending to do just that.
"Good. Oh, and you're coming for dinner on the 27th, right?"
"I said I would, didn't I? Now get," he told him, almost physically pushing him out of the room. "And you know, about today..."
"Yeah, you're fucking welcome, big guy. Merry Christmas and all that. You too, Clara. Have fun with the bloody Scousers."
They both wished him a merry Christmas, and soon after he had finally left, Malcolm spoke up.
"You're not driving me home."
"Of course I'm driving you home, I said I would."
"But that would mean driving all the way across the city, it's a waste of time if you want to reach the M1."
"I'm driving you home," Clara repeated, resolutely.
"Don't be st..."
"Are we actually going to have the same discussion as yesterday?" she interrupted him, starting to look a little pissed off. Malcolm remembered the discussion very well, and he guessed it would be pointless for him to argue. She was just as stubborn as him, and she probably wouldn't enjoy being out-stubborned two days in a row. So, really, he only accepted because he now knew from experience that it would make her feel better, that was all.