His tired face lit only by the fierce firelight, Prime Minister Stephen Beresford pushed his glasses up his nose and tried once again to focus on the latest report on the state of the economy, when his wife’s somehow still-youthful face poked around the door.

“Are you coming up to bed?”

No I’m bloody well not, can’t you see I’m busy?

“Just a minute darling…”

How does she manage to hold the wrinkles back?

The responsibility of running a country had taken it’s toll on Stephen’s face a long time ago – and things weren’t getting better.

Giving up on the seemingly endless essay, he heaved himself out of his armchair, but even as he headed for the door, the fax machine whirred into frantic life.

A weary sigh.

Quickly followed by a raised eyebrow.

A gasp of shock.

How the hell…

Photographs. That was all. No letter, no demands, just those god-damn photographs.

I’ve lasted out a war, a party rebellion and two divorces. She can’t scare me.

The fire was burning low.

Photographs made good fuel.