fuckitybye | 001 - Voice

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fcking love boat on acid

001 - Voice

[Prior to this, anyone near Malcom's room (level 7, room 5) will have heard him banging about in confusion for a bit; as his cabin looks like his office at No. 10, that's where he thinks he is. Then, in an attempt to page his assistant, he accidentally turns on the voice posting device and a loud Scottish voice is heard:]

—Sam? SAM? The fuck is up with putting a bed in here? This some kind of fucking joke? I can ream out that twat Nicholson just fine with him bent over my fucking desk, aye?

[Pause.]

Sam?

Oh, for fuck's sake—

[Sound of door opening. Long, stunned silence.]

What the fuck?

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...Everything alright?

[Pause, as he realises this is pointless and he ought to explain. He's polite after all.]

I know it's confusing when you first get here, but there's no reason for that language. I don't think you're where you think you are, and I ought to break it to you straight. You've quite probably died, and are probably an inmate - on what can sort of be described as an interdimensional prison ship, but it really isn't conventional in most senses. I would explain more, but that's weird enough, I'm sure.

I also think you're down the corridor from me, as I'm fairly sure I heard most of that twice.

For the purposes of argument, I'm gonna bloody well assume that you're telling me the truth and that fucking Jamie hasn't put you up to this or some shit, and begging your pardon but I DO THINK being DEAD on a fucking "interdimensional prison ship" is a good fucking reason for ANY language.

Jesus Christ.

[Sound of Malcolm flumping into a chair.]

I'll give you that it's one of the best reasons, yes. I swear, it's the truth, and I can explain further if you want, but don't expect me to be too nice about it if you keep throwing language like that around.

What's your name, anyway? I'd ask where you're from, but it's pretty obvious. What year is it for you?

[At the mention of "language like that", there's a muffled "Jesus fucking Christ", but nothing else. Malcolm is not stupid and reckons he can unload on this fellow once he's gotten anything useful out of him. His tone, when he speaks, is suggestive of a tightly coiled spring.]

Malcolm Tucker. 2009 and Tom just announced the general election.

[Your tone is noted and, trust me, he's wary]

Tom is... who?

I'm Sergeant Neil Howie, if you wondered. 1973, so forgive me for having no idea what your reference to him means.

1973. Aye, well, then you wouldn't know that Tom Davies is the nutter now known as the Prime Minister. Least you have a fucking excuse for not knowing.

Sergeant, eh? Military or copper?

I'm afraid my reading into the future stopped around the mid-nineties. It was John Major last thing I read.

Latter. West Highland Police.

What, did you keel over from bloody boredom? Whole fucking country nearly did, so I can't blame you there.

How'd you end up here, then?

[No, Howie's name still hasn't clicked yet, but there are connections firing at the back of Malcom's brain.]

...I got the impression he was about as boring as, I don't know, Anthony Eden.

Through choice, mainly. I'm a warden. Admittedly, I'm no longer alive either, which put me in the position to choose.

[Well, he's not telling you much beyond that, Malcolm.]

[Sticks her head out her door. Coughs. This-is-kinda-really-awkward.]

Is...ah...are you...all-right?

Major made Eden look fucking colourful.

So explain this warden and inmate shite to me, eh?

[Sticks his own head out and looks her up and down.]

What is this, a fucking BBC costume drama?

Well, he was a Conservative.

Basically ~~and I can't wait for the earful I'm going to get for this one~~ - every inmate has a warden. Inmates are here to, in some respect, redeem themselves for what they have done wrong in life; to earn a second chance, if you like. Their wardens are supposed to help them towards that end. Inmates are not... like traditional prison inmates, they're not locked up - but you can't get in the pub or the CES, which is... sort of outdoors-but-not on the top deck. That's a bit confusing, I admit. There's also zero, which is, essentially, a cell block.

[The comment about Eden's politics earns a chuckle, but for the rest, Malcolm is quite, quite silent. When he speaks, it's in that controlled voice that usually sent the denizens of Whitehall looking for the nearest desk to hide under.]

And you said, forgive me if I misheard you, son, you said ... I'm an inmate?

[long, long pause.]

Yes, I would think so, most wardens know why they're here when they arrive. I can't tell you why - you'll get a warden in a few days, they'll know, and tell you.

[another long pause]

Sorry.

A what?

[Looks down at her dress, then back up at him. Then stares.]

You look familiar...

[Silence. Then:]

Sorry. Aye. Right.

[Deep breath, exhale. Another pause.]

You know, there's probably some cunt in Whitehall who's collecting on a fucking bet. The little wankers think I don't know but I know there was a fucking pool, a How's Malcolm Gonna Kick the Fucking Bucket pool. Five pound on an aneurysm, ten pound on a heart attack, what the fuck ever. That, I knew. That, I fucking expected. But this? This, this fucking idea that I have to somehow answer for some shit I pulled on a pleasure cruise designed by a fucking comics anorak with a crystal meth habit? This is NOT FUCKING ON. NOT ONE ARSING BIT.

[Pause as he simmers and paces, and a crash as he knocks something over in his fury.]

Who's the wanky bastard in charge of this place?

I'm thinking you're a new inmate. Welcome to the Barge. I see Howie's given ya a bit of an explanation. I'm Martha Jones, a warden here and a doctor in the infirmary.

[Distractedly, looking back up and down the hallway to see if anyone else is coming.]

Sure, love, I got one of those fucking faces, yeah?

[Very heavy sigh.] I understand you're angry, but... language, please. The Admiral's in charge - you'll have some luck getting an answer out of him.

I'm afraid you can't get out of here or leave, and it's been tried, trust me.

[A long pause, as Howie remembers something you said mid-rant.]

You work in Whitehall?

Perhaps, but I could swear that you...oh...

[And then it clicks - and she gasps-]

Your Majesty...

[And the door's quickly slammed shut]

It's always such a delight to meet new people and discover their darker predilections all in the span of five minutes.

I don't want to be his friend, Howie!

We don't have to be his friend. He's certainly far too much on the crude end of things for my liking, but it's polite enough not to leave the guy confused.

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