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没人知道唐宁街恐怖传说Malcolm的第二性别到底是什么。
首先，没人敢问。这个b是他妈工作狂，如果你找他讲话但话题和工作无关，你会因为浪费他的时间而被骂得这辈子不敢踏进唐宁街十号或者十二号，甚至有可能从此落下什么精神疾病。而且哪个政治脑残会问这么弱智的问题？那他最好别碰这个行业了，趁早找个公司去做销售员说不定还能流芳百世。
其次，好奇的声音大多数来自于政府中心之外。不过鉴于政府中心之外的人没什么机会见到Malcolm，他们对都市传说怀有好奇很正常。因为从首相到新闻办公室，没有一个人对此有什么想法，就像这样的问题从来没有存在过，即使是刚入职的小职员都不会以此为闲暇话题。
但问题就出在这里，Malcolm会主动去接触这些处于权力漩涡以外的人：偶尔走访其他部门，替首相察看工作情况，在路上看见把事态搞成屎的人顺口骂两句；五天开四个记者招待会，让25平米的房子里挤满上百名记者（椅子和桌子坐不下的时候记者甚至得靠着墙坐在地上），对着他们疯狂输出政府想要表达的意思，好统一他们在媒体宣传上的口径。
虽然是有些众说纷纭了。有人说Malcolm有信息素，只是平常很淡，有时候会格外地浓烈，就像是发情期到了；有人说Malcolm身上的味道平凡到狗在人群中都找不见他，绝对不可能有信息素这种东西。
但总之好在那些说他有信息素的人意见都很一致，他们认为Malcolm有很香的橘子味，至少闻起来该是柑橘类的东西。
偶尔Malcolm会“嘭”地一声把门摔上，然后一整个下午谁也不见，电话和邮件都会转接给Sam处理，直到晚上下班两三小时后才回家。据说在这之后——只是据说——清洁人员闻到了极浓的橘子香味。但同样的，没人说什么。
Malcolm进门以前走得飞快，垂着脑袋仿佛不希望有人看到他的脸，但总有人会注意到他的鼻头和眼眶是红的。如果Jamie刚好在旁边，就会说；“他妈的，眼睛红着怎么了，你他妈没哭过？还是你他妈见不得别人哭？你的脑子里是以屎配重的大肠吗？”
这样的解释不但没有解决问题，反而引发了一个新的问题：以Malcolm强硬的态度，究竟有什么原因能让他哭得眼睛红了？但Jamie的态度很难让人有胆子再问下去，他看起来真像一只随时能把人咬死的苏格兰恶狼，护在他的政界引路人旁边。说不定他们两个都是被狼养大的。
Jamie是alpha，无需多言，他当然是了，他的攻击性强到该给他独创一个新性别。听起来有点刻板印象？没人在乎。有人在乎的只是他总跟Malcolm走得很近，这也是对Malcolm第二性别猜测的一大证据。一个三十多岁的alpha成天跟在某人后面，很难不怀疑他是不是看上那个人了。
Sam也是alpha，略微有些出乎意料，但能进入政府的女性几乎都来自这个性别。这就是现代政治。Malcolm对她的偏爱只要长了眼睛的都看得出来，她对Malcolm也持有同样的感觉，她已经跟随他超过十年了，但至今也没有结婚。
两个人在竞争Malcolm吗？不像是。Jamie是个好帮手，Sam是个优秀的私人助理，他们之间没有丝毫的剑拔弩张。
真相总会在某一刻急转直下。
DoSAC成功发布了换新大臣以来的第一个政策，并且回响很好，Nicola临时决定工作后开个小庆功宴，Terri委婉地拒绝了，Robyn根本没被邀请。到寥寥几个愿意牺牲休息时间来庆祝的部员跟Nicola、Glenn和Ollie坐下来点了几杯啤酒之后，他们才感觉缺了什么：Malcolm居然没有见证这历史性的一刻。
Nicola不假思索地拨通了Malcolm的号码，打开免提，很不巧地她被转进了语音信箱，所以她不怀希望地留了一条留言。
“Malcolm，没什么重要的，我们正在开庆功宴，地址待会儿发给你，以防你想来。”
Glenn有点担心Malcolm到这儿以后会猛骂他们铺张浪费给政府丢脸，Ollie已经咽下了第三个shot的威士忌，借着酒劲嘲笑Glenn和灰姑娘一样天真，梦想着仙女教母降临。
“Glenn，Glenn，我跟你说，Malcolm要是真拍着仙女翅膀飞到这种地方了，我就去苏活区，不，我就赌上我的脑袋问他那股橘子味究竟怎么回事！”Ollie洋洋得意，大声嚷嚷。酒精让他极其想笑，特别是面对Glenn这种他认为的失败者。
Glenn没说话，安静喝他的那杯啤酒，所有人继续着他们的谈话。但一个熟悉的人影带着那股熟悉的味道真的降临了。
“Hey，Nicola，恭喜你，恭喜你没在媒体面前捅娄子，真是给我省事了。”Malcolm解下围巾搭在椅背上，然后坐在那把椅子上，“我下班顺路来看看，不喝酒，可能待五分钟就走。”
“你的仙女教母来了，Ollie。”Glenn有点幸灾乐祸，旁边的人跟着笑起来。Malcolm露出了他标志性的疑惑神情，上下打量Ollie。
“我错过什么了？关于我的舆论大会？你们该等我来了再开始。”
“噢，没有，没有，只是Ollie有问题想问。”
全体目光都在Ollie身上，这下轮到他急了，他后悔自己被苏格兰威士忌浸泡的大脑让他说了不该说的，最重要的是见证者太多了，抵赖显得他是贱人中的贱人。所有人就不能把这些都忘掉吗？他们的脑子非得那么好用吗？
“呃......是的....”他硬着头皮尝试找到恰当的词语组合起来，“我不想让自己听起来很粗鲁...”
他的话被Malcolm打断了：“别拐弯抹角的，你他妈又不是和警察打交道的连环杀人犯，有什么直说，行吗？趁我心情还不错。”
你马上心情就要不好了。Ollie难以拦得住他心里的吐槽。醉鬼问出的糟糕问题会让Malcolm拿这个嘲讽他一个月。
“既然你说了，好吧。我们在猜测你的第二性别，因为那股橘子味实在太挥之不去了。呃....”他着重强调了“我们”这个词，希望旁边看热闹的都能帮忙分担火力。
“你还真是个牛剑蠢蛋，哈？我是beta，难道你能看到我哪里有和alpha或者omega一样的腺体吗？我担心你的觉察力还不如政治觉悟高。”
“啊？”Ollie酒好像有点醒了，并且略微有些失落，但不是因为Malcolm的指责，“那跟着你的橘子味？”
“你难道不认识我的办公桌上盘子里摆着什么吗？老天啊，吃点健康食物吧！”
以及是的，唐宁街十号因为这个笑了一整个月。Ollie晚上睡觉都仿佛能感觉到伦敦某个酒吧里有人正在以他为工作后的笑料。算了，他又听不见。然后他沉入了梦乡。
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No-one knows exactly what Downing Street horror legend - Malcolm's secondary gender is.
First of all, none dared to ask. This bloke here is a fucking true and real workaholic. If you approach him to speak but the topic has nothing to do with work, you'll be bollocked for wasting his time and be afraid to ever set foot in No.10 or No.12 for the rest of your life. Possibly even fall into some kind of mental illness from then on. Anyway what political twat would ask such a retarded question? Then they'd be better off staying out of the industry and finding a company to work for as a salesman before it's too late. Perhaps they'll be remembered for generations to come, you know, like Inspirational movies in last century.
Secondly, most of the curious voices come from outside the Government Centre. But given that people outside the centre of government don't get much of a chance to meet Malcolm, it's normal for them to harbour curiosity about an urban legend. Because from the Prime Minister to the press office, no one has any idea about it, it's as if such a question has never existed, and even junior staff who have just started their careers don't make it an topic.
But that's the main problem, Malcolm will reach out to those outside the power vortex: occasionally visiting other departments to see how things are working for her majesty, swearing at people on the road who are making a mess of things; holding four press conferences in five days, filling a 25 square metre house with hundreds of journalists (who even have to sit on the floor against the wall when there are no chairs or tables to sit on), and talking to them about what the government wants to say, so as to unify the calibre of their media propaganda.
It's a bit of a mixed bag of opinions though. Some people say that Malcolm has a scent, just usually very light, sometimes will be extra strong, as if the rutting period has arrived; some people say that Malcolm's smell is so ordinary that the dog can not find him in the crowd, absolutely impossible to have such a thing as a scent.
But all in all it's good that those who say he has a scent are in agreement that Malcolm has a very tangy orange scent, or at least smells like something that should be citrus.
Sometimes Malcolm would slam the door with a big bang noise and then not see anyone for the rest of the afternoon, with phone calls and emails being passed on to Sam. He would not return home until two or three hours after the end of the evening. It was said that after this - and it was only said - the cleaning staff smelled a very strong orange scent. But again, nobody said a thing.
Malcolm walked fast before he entered, hanging his head as if he didn't want anyone to see his face, but someone would always notice that his nose and eyes were red. If Jamie happened to be around, he'd say; "What the fuck is wrong with red eyes, haven't you ever fucking cried, eh? Or can't you fucking see people cry? Is your brain a shit-weighted colon? Get the fuck out of here."
Instead of solving the problem, such an explanation raised a new question: as the toughness Malcolm got, what on earth could have caused him to cry his eyes like that? But Jamie's attitude hardly gave anyone the guts to ask any more questions; he really did look like a vicious Scottish wolf ready to bite someone to death, guarding next to his political guide. Maybe they were both raised by wolves.
Jamie is an alpha, needless to say, of course he is, he's so aggressive that a new gender should be started for him. Sound a bit stereotypical? Nobody cares. All anyone cares about is that he's always in close proximity to Malcolm, which is a huge piece of evidence for the speculation about Malcolm's secondary gender. It's hard for a thirty-something alpha to follow someone around all day and not wonder if he has a crush on that person.
Sam is also an alpha, slightly unexpected, but almost all women who make it into the government come from that gender. That's modern politics. Malcolm's preference for her is obvious to anyone with eyes to see, and she holds the same feelings for Malcolm, whom she's been following for over a decade. But she hasn't been married yet.
Are the two competing for Malcolm? Doesn't seem like it. Jamie's a great helper, Sam's an excellent PA, and there's not the slightest bit of sabre-rattling between them.
The truth will always make a nosedive.
DoSAC had managed to issue its first policy since the new minister, and the response had been favourable; Nicola improvised a little after-work celebration, which Terri had politely declined, and Robyn hadn't been invited at all. It was only after the few members of the ministry who were willing to sacrifice their time off to celebrate sat down with Nicola, Glenn and Ollie and ordered a couple of beers that they realised something was missing: Malcolm hadn't been here to witness this historic moment.
Without thinking, Nicola dialled Malcolm's number and put it on speakerphone, unfortunately she waw diverted to voicemail so she left a message.
"Malcolm, nothing important, we're having a celebratory dinner, the address will be sent to you later in case you want to come."
Glenn was a little worried that Malcolm's going to pounce on them for being wasteful and embarrassing to the government when he got here, and Ollie was already swallowed his third shot of whisky, mocking Glenn for being as naive as Cinderella, dreaming of fairy godmothers descending on them.
"Glenn, Glenn, I'm telling you, if Malcolm ever does flap his fairy wings and fly to a place like this, I'll go to Soho and... no, I bet my head I'll ask him what's up with that orange smell!"Ollie gloated, yelling. Alcohol made him want to laugh extremely badly, especially in the face of someone like Glenn, who he considered a loser.
Glenn didn't say anything, quietly drinking his mug of beer as everyone continued their conversation. But a familiar figure with that familiar smell did descend.
"Hey Nicola, congratulations, congratulations on not stirring up a fuss in front of the press, that really saved me a lot of trouble." Malcolm unwrapped his scarf and slung it over the back of his chair before sitting down in that chair, "I'm stopping by from work, no drinks, probably stay five minutes and then leave."
"Here's your fairy godmother, Ollie," Glenn gloated a little, and the men next to him laughed along with him. Malcolm gave his typical quizzical look and looked Ollie up and down.
"What did I miss, eh? A opinion meeting about me? You guys should have waited for me before you started."
"Ah, no, no, it's just Ollie got some questions for you."
All eyes were on Ollie, and it was his turn to be anxious, regretting that his scotch-soaked brain had made him say things he shouldn't have, and most of all that there had been too many witnesses, and denying it made him look like the biggest cunt of all cunts. Couldn't everyone just forget all that? Did their brains have to work that well?
"Erm... Yes..." He stiffly tried to find the right words to put together, "I don't want to sound rude..."
His words were interrupted by Malcolm, "Don't beat around the bush, you're not a fucking serial killer dealing with the police, just say what you have to say, okay? While I'm in a good mood still."
You're going to be in a bad mood just a second. Ollie had trouble stopping his thoughts. A drunk asking bad questions will have Malcolm taunting him with this for at least a month.
"Now that you mention it, well, we're guessing at your secondary gender because that orange smell just lingers too much. Ummm..." He gulped, emphasising the word 'we' in the hope that anyone watching from the sidelines would help share the fire.
"You're still a oxbridge douchebag, right? I'm a beta, otherwise can you see where I have the same thing as an alpha or omega? You're not nearly as perceptive as you are politically aware, which you are not aware so much as well."
"What?" Ollie seemed to have sobered up a bit from the alcohol and was slightly lost, but not from Malcolm's accusation, "so the orange scent?"
"Don't you recognize what's on the plate on my desk? Jesus Christ, eat some healthy food okay?"
As well as yes, the whole whitehall street laughed all month because of it, and Ollie slept at night as if he could feel someone in a London pub somewhere using him as an after-work punchline. Never mind, he couldn't hear them anyway. Then he sank into deep sleep.