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I've told myself repeatedly over the last few years that I do not give a fuck about what I left behind.
I give no fuck about leaving the job that I loved more than any job before it and certainly more than any of the shitty jobs hence. It had to be done. I'm no fucking hypocrite. I don't care about the flat I abandoned when I decided to come home, I was hardly there anyway. It was somewhere to sleep when the world of politics allowed me the luxury. That was all.
And I definitely, definitely give no fucking fucks about leaving Malcolm Fucking Tucker to get on with life in all it's new Nutter glory. He was heading for the Nutter Gutter before I even considered walking away anyway. Twisting everything around in that clever sadistic way of his until no fucker, not even this one, knew which way was up.
It never really occurred to me that maybe he had lost track of 'up' along the way and it was just dumb fucking luck that he didn't drown himself in the riptide of shite that day. It's occured to me recently though. But even once it had I was busy giving no fucks.
Fine, fine. I'll admit I lost my temper a bit when I saw him wedged against his own hedges after being shafted by Steve Hairy Ballsack Fleming. I might have returned then to rip the ribcages out of one or two deserving dickstains if I hadn't been handling my own drama here. My eldest girl getting her GCSEs then presenting me with the news that the drooping prick of a boyfriend had only gone and got her fucking pregnant! Needless to say there were more important bodyparts to separate from their owners just then.
He seemed to turn that around just fine though so I got right back to giving no fucks and right on with demanding dear, well meaning Craig, who was a good God-fearing Catholic boy, marry my beautiful Meghan so she could avoid the shame and eternal damnation that bloody fucking well does still exist in this day and age, thank you very much, of having a ween out of wedlock.
I did not notice, at all, how grey and tired the old fuck was looking and if I had noticed it did not mean a fucking thing anyway.
There was a long fucking time between that point and this one. This moment that finds me staring at my phone as the tinny voice from the past is babbling about depression and weight loss and feeling helpless and God-please-Jamie.
His PA always was too fucking nice. Not to mention fucking devoted to him in a way I could never hope to match.
Of course I agreed to whatever the hell she wanted. It's Sam. She is impossible to fight. Like a Tsunami in a sensible skirt. And she was crying. Crying women- my fucking kryptonite. Good thing nobody ever found that out when I was working there. I just shouted louder if I saw a lip wobble back then. Show no fucking mercy, right.
He's staying with Julius Nicholson! That hairless bollock! What the fuck is going on down there? I shouldn't have hung up so quickly after agreeing.
I want fucking answers!
*
When she arrived I felt relief pour through my soul like cool water on a hot day.
I fear I have let her down though. She left him in my care after all. She trusted me to look after him. I tried. He seemed alright if a little quiet. A little unsure of himself. I just assumed, after prison, there would be an adjustment period. I thought she was being a little silly if I'm honest, over reacting to finding him sitting on his couch, staring at nothing. The man has had a difficult year. He deserved some peace and quiet. So that is what I offered when she called and told me of her concerns. I thought he'd say no anyway. I made the offer then let it go from my mind until she arrived at my door with him in tow.
She hasn't said much since she got here. It's been two weeks since she dropped him off, apologetic about having to go to Belgium for work.
From where I'm stood in the doorway I can't quite discern what they are saying to each other. He is huddled in the bed that he hasn't left for three days. She is perched delicately next to him and is stroking his hair. I am envious at the ease of those touches but I know that they wouldn't be tolerated if he were well. She knows this too. I can see the tension in her shoulders, she's holding herself back from just scooping him up and hugging his gaunt frame to her. I can also see the indifference on his face to her worried looks, the lack of care in his eyes as tears slide silently down her face. This man once paused in the midst of the worst day of his life to comfort her as she cried.
Her eyes meet mine and the helplessness I see is a mirror to my own.
After promising to return the next day and receiving a small shrug in response she walks out of the room and I follow her down the hall. We don't get far before she has me pinned to my own wall with a hand round my tie.
"Why didn't you tell me?" She demands, eyes blazing. Malcolm would be proud, were he to know how terrifying she is. Perhaps he does know. Their relationship has never seemed entirely professional since leaving Number Ten.
"I truly, honestly believed he was just tired. It was only when he stopped eating that I saw the whole picture, I'm so sorry Samantha."
"But I told you!" Being shoved around by a woman is a new experience, feeling my head bounce off the plaster I decide that steering clear of the fairer sex is one of the best decisions I've ever made. "I told you how I found him, Julius. I thought you understood."
I don't understand though. I've spoken to him and I still don't see why he won't get up, won't snap out of it. I mean, look what it's doing to her. He adores her. How can he be this selfish? Of course I know depression exists but I've always felt it to be a weakness of character. Malcolm is certainly not weak willed. Hes a force of nature. A raging storm of emotion and invective, perpetually in motion. How can he have depression?
She paces the length of the hallway, tapping her phone against her temple. I'm struck by how similar her characteristics are to his. I've never noticed. But then, I've never really noticed her at all in this manner. It's as though she's suddenly become three dimensional, not simply his PA. It's only ever been about him for me. Everybody in his presence seems to fade into the background and become flat. Almost everyone. There was one person. When she looks up I suddenly get a creeping feeling up my spine. I'm not going to like whatever she says next. I know it.
"I'm calling Jamie."
Oh dear.
*
"Fucking Cunt!" I roar at the BMW driver that just cut me up. I love driving usually, it's calming for me. Not at five in the morning after no sleep, an argument with the ex over the decision to just abandon her when she needs my help with little Ethan, Meg's boy. Suddenly its ten years ago and I haven't fucking moved beyond this same row. If I'd said where I was going...
I think her head would have popped like a giant red balloon.
I'm almost there now. Fucking arse end of noplace and I didn't think Malcolm knew there was anywhere besides London. Maybe Glasgow. Nowhere this fucking rural that's for sure. No wonder he's not got out of bed. Where would he go without a pavement to guide him? I get it of course, less chance of getting papped looking like shit out here.
I'm almost there. I know because the houses are getting bigger and further from the road. Suddenly there are long sweeping drives and well trimmed hedgerows. You can smell the fucking money.
Lord Baldington is going to have the biggest house with the longest drive. To compensate for his tiny inbred cock. The house has a name. It's a manor. Fuck I've gone past it.
*
I feel like I'm awaiting my own execution.
So I've decided to have a last meal of Viennese Whirls and Monster Munch. It's not the strangest breakfast I've ever had. Samantha glaring at me every time i take a bite is rather damaging the flavour however.
Malcolm hasn't left his bed, unsurprisingly. What is a tad baffling is she hasn't told him James is on his way. The man loathes surprises. She's usually more in tune with him than that. I shan't ask her about it. I'm trying not to make her more cross. She's all that stands between me and the rabid wolf at the door.
She answers said door at the first knock and the hound from hell stomps back into my world.
He looks smaller. He is smaller than me but he's also thinner now. No less substantial though. Still a coiled spring of fury. His eyes are huge and just as terrifying as I remember. He still crowds my personal space and my blood still turns to ice. When Malcolm does that it has the opposite affect. Either way it is intimidating.
He says hello with a sneered grin and it is like no time has passed since we were in this position, him threatening to staple my testicles to my hairless head if I don't back down from a policy like a good boy, Malcolm's words. Malcolm's law. Because Jamie Macdonald was and seemingly still is, Malcolm's. I do wish he hadn't left. I don't like him. He is everything I am not but he made Malcolm smile, laugh, eat and generally be human. He didn't lessen him in any way.
"Right, where is he?" This directed at Samantha rather than myself. Clearly I've been dismissed.
Her movements are tired as she gives him a hug. "Upstairs, first left. Thank you Jamie."
"Oh fuck off pet. Don't thank me. I feel fucking bad enough. And don't you fucking cry either. Women!"
I find myself unable to move from my position at the bottom of the staircase, Samantha waits next to me, silent. We are both following the sound of his heavy boot steps as they turn the corner, stop briefly at the Malcolm's door then enter.
There is silence for ten whole seconds. Then all hell breaks loose.
Some of that furniture is antique. Not all of it, we're in the modernised wing of the house but even so.
They might as well be shouting in another language the accents are so strong. I have no idea what is being said. It's probably all swearing.
Maybe i should go up, break it up before any more of my furniture is reduced to kindling.
My father loved his hunting. I distinctly remember his lesson regarding getting between two fighting dogs. It was don't. I think that lesson applies here. Samantha obviously disagrees, she has a foot on the bottom step just as two bodies appear at the top.
James is dragging Malcolm down by the scruff of his teeshirt, Malcolm is struggling and spitting vile words. They are both covered in red welts that will no doubt blossom into a wide array of bruises before the day is out.
We leap to the side as they reach the bottom. Jamie is looking around on the floor as he shoves Malcolm onto the seat in the entryway then slams him back down as he starts to rise. Surely this violence is unnecessary. Why is Samantha not scolding him at least? She saw no issue telling me off for my apparent lack of compassion. Unfairly of course.
"Shoes." He shouts at me. I don't understand this part of proceedings so I stand there with my mouth open.
"Fucksake! Shoes!"
Samantha clearly is on his wavelength because she presents him with Malcolm's boots. He then turns and tosses them at the grey head and receives a hiss in return. They will look a bit strange with jogging bottoms.
"Coat." He says next. Right.
"Coat." Comes the swift reply of the ever ready PA and a coat appears.
Once he's stuffed Malcolm into the woollen garment and forced his feet into his boots he pushes him out of the front door and with a triumphant bellow announces-
"We're away for a walk!"
*