The Quorum

by Kim Newman

  As he manoeuvred the thrilled girls through the office, Michael made snap decisions. Of two comedians available for Friday’s show, he chose the up-and-coming American and back-burnered the newly rehabilitated Brit. He ruled out Sade for the music spot as ‘too eighties’ and authorised tentative Bosnia gags for the topical monologue, weighing bad taste against the need to prickle.

  ‘We’ve weeded it down,’ April announced, delivering a selection of Big Heart tapes. He loaded Kendra up as if she were a supermarket trolley and promised a decision by four. April, never still, whizzed off to pace and fret until she knew which release forms to pursue.

  He gathered Kendra and Gwen into his office, and closed the doors. Sound-proofing cut out chatter and bustle from beyond. The ceiling lightstrips automatically faded on.

  ‘My kingdom,’ he announced.

  Gwen spun like a top, skirt whirling over black leggings, demonstrating how much space there was. Michael conjured the wet bar and the girls gaped at the gadgetry. They fell upon the coloured bottles, demanding to know what each was. He ignored exotic requests for heavy liquids and took out the half-empty Stoli. He disassembled a Russian doll into a set of tumblers and sloshed generously.

  ‘Everything’s something else,’ Kendra noticed.

  Manipulating the remote control, Michael had a slim screen descend from the ceiling and a multiple-deck video rise from the floor.

  Gwen sighed at such wonders.

  ‘Shove those in, would zhou,’ he asked Kendra, nodding at the pile of videotapes she hugged to her chest. Fumbling, she managed to get the oblongs in their slots. Tapes were sucked in and the machines whirred.

  Gwen took an overly enthusiastic first mouthful and made a balloon-cheeked, red-hot-pepper face.

  ‘If zhou loved me, zhou’d swallow that,’ he said.

  Gwen gasped a laugh that sprayed vodka through her nostrils. Kendra had minor convulsions.

  The screen came to static life. Michael sat on the edge of his desk fast-forwarding four tapes simultaneously on different channels, zapping between them.

  ‘What d’zhou reckon?’ he asked Gwen, who had peeled off her blue plastic coat to show a ribbed v-neck jumper.

  The Big Heart slot focused on someone ordinary who was heroic, made a true-life sacrifice or pined for a lost loved one. The gimmick was the subject’s (victims, they were called in the office) family and friends made the video themselves and submitted it to Dixon’s On. The production team selected which would air: embarrassingly cheap, inordinately popular.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Gwen, whom he noticed was not a brain surgeon of the future. ‘Which is which?’

  He used the remote to quarter the screen. Each video ran at normal speed in one quadrant. Even with the sound off, Michael gathered the choices: a game granny riding about somewhere rural on a motorbike, a cat staying faithfully by a toddler in a coma, a class of schoolkids rescuing gannets from an oil spill, and a lady lawyer giving it all up to go to Somalia and work in famine relief.

  ‘Look at the poor birdies,’ Gwen said, the Voice of the Audience. No matter how the team might mutter about his ‘conferences’, they were more useful than circular discussions with the overeducated neurotics on his payroll. It was a lesson he’d learned from the master, Derek Leech.

  ‘I like the lawyer,’ said Kendra, who would in two years be embarrassed that she’d been best friends with Gwen. ‘She’s more genuine.’

  ‘Zhou’re right,’ Michael told her. ‘But not for us. There’s a difference between zhenuine and real.’

  ‘It’s terrible the wildlife that suffers because of tankers,’ Gwen said.

  Fast-forwarding all four tapes at once, Michael privately decided on the cat. You could take audience research too far. Animals and sick children were surefire: it would be tragically wonderful if the pet-owner recovered, or at least stirred from deep-sleep to blink at her adoring moggy, in time for a follow-up.

  He shut off the screen and slipped an arm around Gwen. She looked at her friend, giggled nervously, then cuddled up. She touched the lapel of his Gaultier jacket, drew her fingers away as if she’d had a static shock, then stroked the material.

  ‘It feels funny,’ she said.

  Kendra had second thoughts. She stood to one side, still in overcoat and woolly hat. She wasn’t shocked exactly, more confused. Here on his desk, he could do anything he wanted with Gwen. That made him interested in Kendra. Gwen snuggled against him and licked his neck like a cat. He looked, smiling, at Kendra, and raised his glass in a toast.

  ‘Drink up, it’ll warm zhour insides,’ he said.

  Kendra took a swallow and, slowly, dawdled across the room. He eased Gwen away and put a hand on Kendra’s shoulder drawing her close, fixing her eyes. He filled his mouth with vodka and, when it was time to kiss, squirted down her throat. Her open eyes grew wide but she did not choke.

  * * *

  The girls scrawled threatening letters. He said it was a joke on a friend, but they didn’t need an explanation. Lee Harvey, just for a laff, shoot this gun at the President... The ‘we were chust obeyink orders’ line of Nuremberg defence was a miscalculation; gas chamber functionaries should have argued that a nonentity’s compulsion to do what a celeb tells him was a universal human trait. What Lee Harvey didn’t know is we gave Mr Ruby another gun and this time - tee hee - he’s the one who’s going to be shot at. So let’s see what happened next... Careers were based on public willingness to suffer intolerable privations so long as they got on telly, on a pretend-equal basis with Jeremy Beadle or Alan Funt.

  Grey blotches dotted his vision and his head was pleasantly painful. He diagnosed his condition and prescribed a further course of treatment, washing down red pills with more Stoli.

  Kendra squatted, his jacket surprisingly terrific on her, rump peeking out under the backflap, head close to carpet as she laboriously filled in dripping red stains on her death threat. Gwen concentrated on foul language and limited abuse, her most inventive offering being the ancient ‘welcome to the AIDS club’, but Kendra was interested in design. She decorated her prim little notes (‘tonight, you will be killed’) with skulls and crossbones, poison daggers and large, staring, mad eyes.

  He ran off address labels and stuck them on envelopes (plain, not Top Hat stationery) then added leftover Christmas stamps. He made the girls promise to send the letters from their home town (Richmond) at irregular intervals between now and Valentine’s Day.

  When they were done, Michael had Ayesha give them T-shirts and badges. Twenty minutes after he’d sent the girls on their mission, it hit him, with a headachy surge like a blow from a ballpeen hammer, that their handiwork would be uselessly diverted to a box in Belfast. He’d probably scuppered the ELF membership at the same time.

  * * *

  As he gave yay or nay to the week’s line-up, his mind hunted through his bloodstream like Pac-Man, seeking out and blasting vodka particles. The team liked to talk at once to wildly different purposes and protract production meetings into the evening. To cut extraneous noise, he introduced a 6th of January ruling that no one could make a contribution without prefacing his or her statement with ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says...’ on pain of donating a day’s salary to Somalia relief.

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Roily, office toady and hatchet man. ‘Nobody can say we aren’t creative.’

  ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says... that should be Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says “what a good idea, etc”, Roily.’

  Roily made a goldfish mouth while everyone tried not to laugh.

  ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says make the cheque out to Oxfam,’ Michael said.

  Everyone was keen on Faithful Kitty. April said she’d do what she could on a recovery follow-up.

  ‘It wouldn’t even...’ she began, amid braying laughter. ‘Sorry, Mr Willie-Wobbly-Wonka of Crawfish, Abacadabra says... it wouldn’t even have to be permanen
t. Maybe if they gave her electroshock or an injection we could get a waking moment on tape.’

  ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says that’s entirely too fondant of you, Ape,’ he said, giving her the nod.

  The American comedian, Barry Gatlin, was firmed for the stand-up item.

  ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says make sure it’s the real Bastard Barry not the cleaned-up Wogan version,’ Michael ordered. ‘We’re not soggy terrestrial TV. We’re supposed to be muckrageous.’

  * * *

  Ayesha had arranged his costume. With the galley slaves still rowing, he retreated to his office and changed.

  The padding was from Cloud 9’s drama department. It strapped on and inflated like a lifebelt, bulking him to Pavarotti proportions. Ayesha helped him into his boots, tights and puffy britches. The Tudorbethan get-up came complete with cloak, plumed hat, sword and false moustache. There was even a bottle of spirit gum.

  As she glue-daubed his upper lip, Ayesha commented that she didn’t know Falstaff was in Twelfth Night.

  ‘He’s not,’ Michael said, affixing his moustache, ‘Sir Toby Belch is. Shakey wasn’t above ripping himself off.’

  Michael swirled his cloak and swished his sword, observing himself in the grey mirror of a blank screen.

  ‘Hah, en garde,’ he said, thrusting.

  The palpitating heart of Gary Gaunt was on the point of his blade.

  ‘Lie there and bleed,’ he told the vanquished critic.

  5

  TWELFTH NIGHT, 1978

  Here they were in the pit of winter, back in the dressing-room of the Rat Centre. Neil’s queasy excitement was tempered with embarrassment, as if Rachael, the blasé girl in the next room at Tadcaster House, were to see through him and picture the gawky fifteen-year-old he used to be, with a rainbow tank-top and shoulder-length curls. He toked on the joint but blow only ratcheted up the tension.

  ‘When we come together,’ Michael said, holding smoke in his lungs, ‘it’s a collision of matter and anti-matter.’

  He burped, almost coughed. Making fists, controlling himself, he continued, ‘Universe might end but th’explosion be beautiful, mes braves’.

  In the mirror, Neil saw Mark cringe. His university girlfriend was in the auditorium; he was anxious Pippa would not consider his oldest mates immature clods. An annoying thing about Mark was his over-concern with what outsiders thought.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re still doing this,’ Neil said. ‘I thought we’d never live past college.’

  ‘Live through college, you mean,’ said Mickey, taking the joint.

  At Art School Mickey had spiked his hair and pierced his ears. His Buzzcocks T-shirt had ripped-away sleeves; tears in his black drainpipe jeans were sutured with safety pins. For the show, he wore a Dracula cloak fastened with a black and gold Dalek badge.

  They faced the long mirror, interacting more with reflections than their real selves. It was cold, despite the slur of the fan heater. Thin snow was settling outside.

  ‘I wish it were Midsummer,’ Neil said, not realising how he meant it.

  ‘Midsummer is always a shambles,’ Michael pointed out, carefully applying a ’tache. ‘All our hits are offseason.’

  ‘Are we quorate?’ Mark asked.

  ‘More than,’ Neil said. ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘Forever,’ Michael breathed.

  For three weeks, until Pippa turned up to claim Mark’s attention, they had worked together, ominously not arguing much. The Forum was of an equal mix of altercation and achievement. Now they had separate lives and were less open with each other. The violent arguments came when they felt strongly about what they were doing. This was just a joke. It had only been last summer. How could they be nostalgic about six months ago?

  ‘You sure about Alex?’ Mark asked. Alex, a college first-year had been drafted to do the lighting. Neil gathered Michael was going out with her while Penny was at Polytechnic.

  ‘Zh-yeah zh-yeah,’ Michael assured. ‘She did both town pantomimes. She knows the board.’

  ‘This could be our last stand,’ Mickey said. ‘Let’s go down with all guns blazing.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ Michael said. ‘The Forum will never die.’

  ‘You’ll just wish it had,’ Mark said.

  The first thing Mark did with his grant was buy a suit from one of Brighton’s many old-clothes shops, a gangsterish pinstripe. Over the term, Neil hadn’t seen much of Mark. First they were in different halls of residence, then Mark moved with Pippa into a town flat. They each had new friends. Over the holiday, they’d been together more than in two and a half months away from home.

  ‘We’re nineteen, we’ve lived,’ said Michael, not without irony. ‘We’re better now than we used to be.’

  They’d all slept with girls (at least once); Neil had hopes (probably unrealistic) for Rachael. They could drink large quantities of bitter and only puke monstrously twice out of three times. For Neil, the crisis came when Michael relayed a message from Mrs Dixon: he was welcome to stay over whenever he wanted, but did he have to be sick every time?

  Desmond, an ex-footsoldier whisked out of the audience and drafted backstage, came in with a tray of pints.

  ‘Kill ’em,’ he said, leaving the drinks.

  Mickey crouched over the heater and sighed in mock orgasm as warm air billowed out his cloak.

  Neil gulped his beer. Smoking gave him a thirst. Also, he wasn’t sure if he could still go through with all this.

  ‘I thought we agreed this was over,’ Mark said. He’d been quiet.

  Last Summer, after the end of college, the Forum had staged Midsummer Night’s End on the assumption they would break up. In an American Graffiti end-of-an-era spirit, the entire class of ’77 came. Neil was surprised that many girls, and a few blokes, cried as it wound down. A generation, together since eleven (six, for some), split like an iceberg, chunks drifting off to different lives.

  ‘’Twas too good to give up,’ Michael said.

  This post-Christmas bash was on a different scale; just the four of them. There would be music and there would be comedy, but the footsoldiers of earlier years were scattered. Neil understood there was quite a crowd. The deal was the Centre took the bar profits and didn’t charge for the use of the hall, so admission was free. A lot of people Neil hadn’t seen since summer had come. It was too soon for kids not to spend Christmas with their parents. The girls who’d tearfully said goodbye to best friends were together again, probably wondering why they’d cared so much. Since summer, everything had changed.

  ‘I’ve missed this,’ Michael admitted. He was in full Shakespeare drag, filched from the college drama department. ‘I’ve missed us.’

  Neil wasn’t sure. The last three months, his first university term, had rearranged his ideas. One night in the kitchen, he’d tried to explain the Forum to new friends, reading extracts from scripts, increasingly aware how childish they were. Only Leo, a dope-head who missed all his lectures, really laughed. Fran, from Neil’s Introduction to Marx seminar, said entertainment wasn’t enough and waved Brecht at him. He was grateful Rachael knew nothing about this part of his life.

  ‘Who said zh-you can’t go home again,’ Michael declared.

  ‘Thomas Wolfe,’ Mark replied, either missing or making a point.

  Mickey finished and extinguished the ceremonial joint. Quiet about his experiences up North, he was least enthusiastic, at first, about the comeback. At some point since September, he’d gained a scar on his chin. He was always the one who most easily got out of control. After Midsummer Night’s End, he cornered Keith Lanier, who made a point of crashing every gig in town without paying, and pinned him to the floor with a stool, gobbing mightily on his face. ‘I thought we’d never see him again,’ he explained, ‘so I reckoned, it was my last chance to do over the cunt.’

  Twelfth Night ’78 was all down to Michael. In November, without telling the others, he’d ma
de arrangements with the hippies who ran the Rat Centre. At the start of the vac, he presented them with a fait accompli. In three weeks, with the usual day off for Christmas, the Forum would throw together a show. He already had some material written; they’d rely on improvisation and music to get through gaps.

  Considering the alternative was coming to terms with Bishop Berkeley, the reunion made sense. Also, he guessed it was important to Michael. Staying in the Backwater hadn’t been a good move; he felt he’d lagged behind. Cambridge acceptance or not, he made constant waspish remarks about ‘clever students’. He was supposed still to be going out with Penny, but after a few weekends hitching across country to be together they’d provisionally broken up. He was sure she was seeing someone at the Poly.

  Michael said he’d written 1000 opening sentences, 100 opening paragraphs and three and a half opening chapters. And binned them all. His planned novel, Julie Bee, was an expansion of a Midsummer Night’s End sketch about punk rockers forced to form a government. Mark said Julie Bee was handicapped because no one in Backwater really knew anything (the local idea of a punk band was a Dr Feelgood rip-off). Michael, with a travel agent for a father and an assured Oxbridge place, was hardly best positioned to understand inner-city proletarian nihilism.

  ‘Afterwards,’ Michael said, ‘I’ve got the keys to Gramma’s house in Achelzoy. We can have the party there.’

  Achelzoy was about nine miles out of town, a former island perched on its own hill in the flat expanse of Sedgmoor. After-production parties there were a tradition, since the Forum’s revues always coincided with periods Michael’s grandparents were away on holiday, innocently leaving it to him to feed their cats.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Neil said. ‘It’s snowing steadily.’

  ‘Great, we’ll be cut off and get cabin fever and eat each other.’

  ‘I said I’d go for a drink with Pippa and the parents,’ Mark said.

  ‘You can do that any time, Marko. This is a Forum party. Attendance is mandatory.’

  Mark shrugged.

  Desmond returned. ‘It’s ten minutes past supposed start-time,’ he said. ‘The crowds are restless.’