It was Vespers, not that the hours of prayer meant much to anyone around him, but Malcolm Tucker was scrupulous in some ways.
Every day around this time he found a way to be in his office with the door closed and Sam guarding it.
It was easier at home, where he needn’t worry about anyone barging in, and everything would have been easier if he’d ignored daily rites like everyone else. He was devout, though.
Everyone knew that. He had a shrine in his office. That was unusual enough in this government: the Tories were against any association of government with religion. Strictly secular, they were.
The Powers existed–nobody denied that–but they were merely useful. They served government. Government did not serve them. At least if you asked the Tories.
Malcolm wasn’t a Tory. He was a Liberal Democrat, like his man Tom. His man Tom had formed a coalition with the Tories, won an election for them, and was deputy PM.
Therefore Malcolm had thrust himself balls-deep into a Tory government full of public school jizz-spewers who had no use for the likes of him and his quaint habits.
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