Inspirations: Pissy Patel

'Hello? Who is this?'

The response seemed to be a recorded message. 'Priti Patel, for crimes against human decency, you will be punished.'

'I'm calling the police, whoever this is.'

The voice continues, even as Priti continues. 'We know what you really did with those people you supposedly sent to Rwanda. The world thinks you are a bully, but it's time you were bullied back. We will text you instructions throughout the day. Do not try and trace the numbers. They will be destroyed immediately. Do not tell anybody. If you comply, the very secret documents we have will remain secret and this will end today. If not, well...' Click. The message ended abruptly.

Still reeling from the initial shock of what she has just heard, Priti felt her phone buzz immediately upon the call ending. "A sneak preview of what we have," the text read. Attached was a screenshot of a computer folder that she recognised all too well. The recognition turned her veins to ice. It could have been fake, but the names of the documents in the folder were exactly the same as the ones she would never want getting out.

The phone buzzed in her hand again. A text from another unrecognised number. "Make sure you drink a LOT of coffee this morning. You're not going to like where this is going, but you will like it even less if we show everyone what those documents contain. Drink up."

Priti's hands were shaking. Famously, she wasn't the type to get easily rattled -- she rattled others, whether they were fellow politicians or desperate children fleeing warzones -- but this couldn't be a wind-up. It had to be real. Nobody had access to that folder but her. She had been hacked, and it had much more potential to ruin her career than anyone's taste in porn.

Absently, she took a sip of her coffee -- strong, black, unadorned -- and inadvertently reminded herself of the second text. She had been so busy worrying about the voice clip and the situation as a whole that she hadn't gotten round to wondering about the implications of drinking a ton of coffee. She had an important speech to give very soon, and in a bid to stay hyper focused she was already on her second coffee of the day.

An idea occurred to her and she pulled the mug away from her lips immediately. Surely not, she thought.

The phone buzzed again. Yet another new number. "Drink up. We are watching."

She took another sip, hating the fact that she had to do what somebody else said for once. It could have been psychosomatic, but she felt a twinge in her bladder upon swallowing. Worse still, the idea that she knew what this creep had in store became worryingly stronger.

Buzz. Another text. "We are sending you a replacement speech. Print it out, read it immediately and use it when you go on TV."

Another text, from another number, followed it immediately. It had a PDF attachment, which she opened frantically, feeling her heart pounding with frustration and anxiety.

She scanned the speech quickly. It didn't take long. There was no way she could read it on live TV. No chance. She texted back "no way," but got a delivery failure notification in response.

She took another sip of her drink, simply as a soothing, familiar action, but then cursed loudly and flung it angrily to the floor. She was playing right into the hands of her tormentor.

Another text. One word: "Drink."

They really were watching then. That did not help her nerves, to put it mildly. She left the discarded broken mug, grabbed a new one and poured herself another coffee. Her hands were still shaking. There was no way she could do what this speech said to do, but having that document leaked would be the end of her career and possibly even the start of a new life behind bars.

There was a knock on the door and it opened just enough for an aide's head to squeeze through. 'Mrs Patel, it's time,' he said, and disappeared again.

Another text. "Drink up. Do as the speech says and we will leave you alone."

Priti drained her latest coffee and stepped out of the room. Making her way along the corridor to where the news cameras had been set-up outside, she was too distracted by the ever-increasing need to pee to think too clearly about what she was about to do. Frankly, it would only make things worse if she did dwell on it -- the nervousness and anxiety of it all.

Before she knew it, she was in front of the cameras, forcing a smile and trying to find a way to cross her legs without actually crossing them or even giving a hint that there might be an issue. She cleared her throat, allowed herself a little shiver and hoped to god it came off as pre-match anxiety relief. She scanned the speech one last time, steeled herself, and tried not to focus on the italicised instructions.

'As you know, I am here this morning to announce a new keystone policy for the government.' She paused, reading ahead, feeling a lump in her throat as she considered her options yet again. She couldn't read this out, really, could she? She'd be a laughing stock. Fuck, she needed to piss so badly. 'Our government has constantly shit the bed, and I'm here to...' another pause, here it comes. 'To add pissing myself to the list of fuck-ups.'

The relief was instant, despite the incomparable humiliation. Having waited so long, there was no steady trickle; the piss came out of her in a sudden burst and kept going for what felt like a life time. Her knickers were soaked completely through within seconds, and the trousers of her previously pristine suit followed quickly. A huge wet patch spread rapidly from her crotch to her toes, and the cameras caught all of it.