Louche (adjective) def; Of questionable taste or doubtful morality; decadent.

Pawser put down his dictionary, picked up a spoon and thoughtfully stirred his tea. He did not consider himself louche in the strictest sense of the word. More engagingly disrespectful was the phrase, if he had to put his finger on it. This was an entirely a different interpretation and somewhat unsettling. He raised a hand to his falling hair and pushed it back over his head exposing the deep furrows in his forehead.

'Would you call me louche, Dirk?' he quizzed.

'I've called you worse, but probably not in your hearing,' muttered Dirk who was casually tossing a crayon in front of his map of London.

'Mrs Coaker used to apparently.' said Pawser sanguinely, doing his best to ignore Dirks answer.

'Ah yes but she was nuttier than a squirrel's winter store, so I wouldn't worry unduly.' remarked Dirk with a wry smile.

Dirk, sharp eyed and eager, resplendent as always in a designer suit with matching shimmering silk red tie, sat on the edge of his desk to contemplate his map. Casually he checked his hair was in order by studying the reflective face of the exceptionally large naval chronometer he wore on his wrist. Patting down a few stray drifts he checked his watch again. Satisfied with the results he licked his fingers, bent down and wiped a small scuff mark off his shoe before sitting back to evaluate his cartographic efforts.

'According to Lucy she was not as barking as we all supposed,' continued Pawser, 'She said the values of everyone in the service had declined over the years. Now everyone's working for personal gain, rather than for the good of King and Country. Not a very good state of affairs when you come to think about it. I should think old Digby will be spinning in his grave.'

'Well we know that applies to Jocko. Mind you even he in his own way seems committed. Perhaps it a question of personal ethics? How did you come to join the Service, Pawser?' Dirk had now produced a large compass and was carefully drawing ever decreasing circles over the face of the map. Every now and then he stood back to get a good look at the map, referred to a large sheaf of papers in his hand before drawing another circle.

Pawser considered Dirk's question. 'If your inference is that I came via a posh university and performed tricks that would make a travellers bulldog blush with my tutor Harry 'Halitosis' Cruthers, a spotter for MI5 just to get entry into the Service, then I can say you are sadly mistaken. I entered the Service first by joining the Navy, as Officer material of course and then came in through Admiralty having done a bit of intelligence work in Singapore. When I came back to London after meeting Penny, MI5 was the natural progression of my career to date.' stated Pawser rather pointedly.

'Progression?' wondered Dirk in a puzzled tone.

'Once into MI5 the sensible long term plan appeared to keep my head down as I had done at the Admiralty. Even back then Dirk, working here was like any other job in the Civil Service only less glamorous. Let's face it, the pay's mediocre and the jobs more mediocre still. Once I realised I was not going to make the exalted rooms of the 4th floor with its plush carpets, long lunches and secretaries who did your every bidding, it was best to plan for the future and find a little slot where no one noticed me. There I could eat away the years until I could retire on a decent index linked pension,' Pawser was adamant. 'This is my plan and up to now it's worked very well.'

'Well heady stuff hey, Pawser. Your ambition clearly knows no bounds. I'm surprised Mrs Coaker got you so wrong.'

Pawser shrugged nonchalantly and put his hands in his pockets. Feeling something there he pulled out a Christmas card. He clicked his fingers - he'd forgotten Barry's card.

'I'm off to the post room to see Barry. When Killerman gets back tell him to get the kettle on. I won't be long.'

Dirk nodded in acknowledgement and carefully drew another circle on the map.

On his way to the post room Pawser encountered Neville on the stairs unsuccessfully juggling a steaming cup of hot coffee and a pile of notebooks.

'You alright there Neville?' Pawser asked helpfully picking up one of the pads off the floor and returning it to the top of the wobbly pile in Neville's arms.

'Oh yes Mr Bingham. I'm just going up to a lecture on encryption in the electronic age.' Neville rested his chin on top of the books in a vain attempt to stem further losses.

'Well I'm going to the post room so I'll walk up with you.'

'I'd just like to say Sir, how sorry I am about what happened in the library. I don't know what came over me.'

'Probably your hormones Neville. Don't worry, I don't suppose you were the first or will be the last caught doing unmentionable things in the library?'

Pawser could see Neville was wrestling with a question, no doubt related to this unfortunate incident.

'Well Neville. Out with it. Whatever it is.' he prompted Neville.

'Sir?' Neville paused hesitantly. 'Do you think Mr Bentley is gay?'

'Ha, I take it you are a recipient of a somewhat unexpected Christmas card. I hope you haven't said anything to him.' Pawser glanced back down the stairwell to ensure it was empty.

'Oh no, they say he's harder than a pack of Essex girls out on a hen night. I wouldn't dare.' Neville shook his shaggy mane.

'Good for you Neville. Unless you want the front part on your nonce rearranging, I would keep it that way.' Pawser recommended. 'What is it that leads you to these unwarranted suspicions?'

Pawser knew of course, in the time honoured way that was with every new year's intake of which Neville was one, they would have time to reflect upon those around them and in due course Mr Bentley would come up for discussion. He wondered if they talked about Pawser and if the word louche ever entered their conversations.

'Well,' Neville continued somewhat uncertainly, struggling to find the steps beneath him, 'some say he ex para's and some say he's ex SAS.'

'And does that make him a sailor boy be?' Pawser wondered which was going to plunge down the stairs first. The coffee, the books or perhaps Neville himself.

'Well no, but he always dresses.... well you know sort of immaculately, perhaps a little bit too immaculately if you know what I mean.' said Neville.

'I to Neville am regarded as somewhat debonair in the way I adorn my personal carriage.' Pawser tugged at the sleeves of his corduroy jacket and straightened his woollen tie to impress upon Neville his urbane dress sense. 'Some may even say fashionable but that doesn't make me a little light in my loafers does it?'

'He surrounds himself with big burly ex Guardsmen.' Neville added lamely, looking uncertainly at the leather patches on Pawser's arms.

'Welsh Guardsmen are by very definition big and burly. It is the very essence of what they are Neville. However, if you were the Head of Housekeeping I would have thought it a prerequisite that you surround yourself with those who could beat the crap out of any miscreant without any recourse to conscience or favour. A Welsh Guardsman would seem to me to very ably fit the bill. Wouldn't you agree?'

'But they arrange the flowers. Surely that must tell you something?' Neville persisted.

'What it tells me is that you have been paying too much attention to the opinions of your peers,' Pawser rebuked. 'Physical security in the building is their primary role but it is part of Housekeeping that flowers are ordered, not arranged as you would have it. Flowers are ordered, photocopying rooms are opened and locked, leaks are reported, air conditioning adjusted, all to ensure the ambience of the building is maintained. These things happen so you and I may concentrate on the essential activities of catching terrorists, criminals and general low life that may otherwise upset the delicate sensibilities of the public at large.'

'They say he has a boyfriend in Florida.' Neville persisted.

'Pure speculation without foundation or evidence,' Pawser countered sharply feeling that Neville was becoming over fixated by the subject of Mr Bentley's sexuality.

Neville fell silent as they turned to face the final staircase up to the first floor.

Pawser looked at Neville, fresh faced, just from university. Looking forward with ardour to all the excitement ahead of him of the world of espionage, beautiful women, fast cars. Pawser could see that their conversation had created a vacuum that had extinguished one of the little candles of excitement that had been burning deep within Neville. Pawser hoped it was the one with 'have sex with girl in library' written down the side of it. But as Aristotle once said, 'Nature abhors a vacuum.' And with this in mind he paused on the steps for a moment before whispering conspiratorially to Neville.

'They say he has a tattoo of a mermaid on his chest, the spitting image of his dead wife.'

'Dead wife?'

Pawser was pleased to see that Neville looked both shocked and thrilled at this revelation.

'Rumour has it that she was the Commander of a Russian submarine. It's said they met in a bar in Minsk while he was on a mission. She was a great beauty who displayed all the brilliance of a chess grand master and sported the body of an Olympian gymnast, a sort of Gary Kasparov come Olga Korbut if you will. They fell madly in love, so much so that she agreed to defect to the West. These were the days before Perestroika so it was not to be. Her submarine was lost in a shipping accident off Vladivostok, sunk with all hands. They say it was sabotaged by her Russian overlords as they'd got wind of her illicit liaison with Bentley. When he came back he became fanatical about seeing the overthrow of Russia and ran Russian Operations for ten years. Every year he takes a pilgrimage out to the Baltic Sea to throw a wreath out on the water in her remembrance.' Pawser was imminently satisfied with this splendid yarn and stood with his hand on the door to prevent Neville's exit.

'No shit!' blinked Neville.

'No shit, Neville,' said Pawser, 'and there's the dichotomy that is Mr Bentley. Delicate flower or hard man with a penchant for naval seductresses. I'll leave it to you to work it out.' Hook, line and sinker thought Pawser blissfully before opening the door to allow Neville through.

'Thanks Mr Bingham,' Neville called back.

'Neville.' Pawser shouted after him.

Neville turned at the end of the corridor to look back at Pawser.

'You didn't get this from me. Remember.' Pawser touched his nose with his finger and winked.

When Pawser reached the post room he found the shutter was down but he could hear some movement from within. He tapped lightly on the door and walked in.

'Hello Mr Bingham, come in I'm just opening up. Hope it's going to be a better day than yesterday. Couldn't wait to get out of here.' Barry jangled his keys to prove his point and set to work unlocking the shutter. Pawser picked up a pile of post at random and began to flick through it while Barry busied himself about opening up.

'How's that Barry. It should be all Christmas cheer now the festive season is almost upon us. You know all roast chestnuts and the in-laws tucking into your best wine and brandy without a bye your leave.'

'Got in yesterday morning and some git from upstairs had dumped six hundred Christmas cards in front of the door with a little note that they all had to go out straight away. Can you believe it? On top of everything else leaving me and Bert to shift all that lot in one day!' Barry moaned.

Pawser murmured sympathetically and shook his head.

Barry had a large flat nose, thick wide lips and a way of brushing up his hair in the middle that was reminiscent of a fin of a bottlenose dolphin. 'And then,' he said pulling on a grey cotton work coat, 'At half past ten who should roll up but old William Wallace himself eff'ing and blinding, arms waving around like some pissed up Italian traffic cop, wanting them all back.'

'I've noticed Jocko does that on occasion,' Pawser recollected that it was mostly when Jocko called Pawser to his office that these bouts of uncontrollable rage seemed to grip him.

'Have they gone out? he says.' Barry despondently shuffled a few brown boxes around his shelf. 'Course they have. I says. It's a bloody post room. It says so on the door. Didn't you see? Don't get shirty with me,' he says,' I want them all back.'

'I see,' Pawser nodded, picked up one of the boxes, held it to his ear and shook it hard before replacing it on the shelf.

'Post them, don't post them. Get them back! Why don't your lot upstairs get your act together?' I says. Anyway he had the right hump .Stormed off yelling at me to get them all back or else .The Scottish nerk. I've had Bert out all day yesterday and today trying to get them back. Bert comes back telling me everyone's saying they haven't got them yet. I've no idea what the hell's going on!' Barry looked frustrated. His dolphin fin had drooped a little to the left.

No surprises there Pawser thought smugly. Half of MI5 probably ran the gauntlet of security yesterday with a little bit of festive fun squirreled away about their persons. Who's going to forego the endless joy of having a dyslexic King Cnut or perhaps Mr Bentley the fairy standing proud over their mantelpiece this Christmas? 'No one else has asked about the cards?'

'No one thank God. If Wallace comes back I'll have to tell him I destroyed them, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it.' admitted Barry.

'Oh, I bought you this,' said Pawser remembering the card. He handed it to Barry.

'What's this?' Barry sheepishly ran his hand over his wilting fin. 'Oh Mr Bingham I'm so sorry. There must have been a mix up. You won't say anything will you?'

'No nothing. Nothing at all Barry,'

'She works at Porton Down. She's Head of Disease Control.' announced Barry proudly.

'So I heard.' said Pawser

'You'd like her you know. Pandora I mean. She likes a good joke, you know. She's got a lovely laugh, sort of ..?'

'Contagious?' Pawser interjected.

'Yes. That's it. Infectious. 'Barry agreed, 'She'll be at the Christmas party, you can meet her then .I hear you'll be coming. Barry curled his lips up into a serine dolphin smile which he suggested he knew what Pawser preferred he didn't know.

'I'll look forward to it,' said Pawser thinking to himself he might prefer not to look forward to it too much. 'Well, I must be off Barry. I need to pick up my DJ. See you tomorrow.'

'Oh Mr Bingham thanks again for this.' Barry waved the card in the air. 'If Pandora and I can get anything for you let us know. Surgical gloves, disposable respirators, chemical suits, rabbits, that sort of thing.'