by Kim Newman
Mickey stomped along the pavement, eyes on his pointed silver boot-tips. According to intelligence they’d gathered over the last month, The Scam was throwing a party tonight to celebrate a year of publication. Because of that, the staff had worked over the weekend so the magazine could go to press on Tuesday evening rather than the crack of Wednesday dawn. Neil was delivering the completed boards (the typeset and laid-out pages of the magazine) to the printer’s. His mission concluded, he’d hurry back to Holborn to canoodle with his yank girlie, Anne, and boogie on carefree into the night.
Neil turned to walk to the printer’s door. For a moment, he blocked the pavement. Never before had they got so close during a move. This year was serious. At first, Mickey had thought of moves as practical jokes. He wasn’t superstitious and the covert stuff was interesting and rewarding in itself. As someone who worked alone, it was a jolt to be with a creative team again. Michael was the one with faith in the Deal, Mark and Mickey went along to see what would happen. Even after Sutton Mallet -whatever had actually gone down that Twelfth Night - he couldn’t seriously believe everything he’d made of his life depended on one old friend’s perpetual misery. After 1983, he didn’t know either way, but had to do something to get out from under. He’d tried everything else - even considered solo moves against Cunt Slimey - and this was his last ditch.
‘Mickey,’ Neil said. ‘Good God, Mickey.’
Mickey stopped walking and looked up, letting out his breath. He grinned, heart racing.
‘Neil,’ he said. ‘Jesus Fuck, Neil Martin! It’s been...’
Neil shook his head, also grinning, goofily. ‘Years, my man,’ he said. ‘Not since the seventies.’
‘Shit on a shovel, but we got old quick.’
‘Remember when Jacqui Edwardes got engaged to that twenty-five-year-old guy?’
Mickey did, with a twisting skewer of irritation that would make the rest of the evening a cool pleasure.
‘Twenty-five was like a hundred. Now, here we are. Methuselated.’
Dazed to have it brought back, Neil was rooted to the spot. But his body remembered how important his mission was; he twitched sideways towards the printer’s. Eugene Reilly (at £400, the second-highest-paid footsoldier of the night) picked up his cue and came out of the printer’s. He’d been in the foyer, a bike messenger if anyone asked, ready for action.
‘You from The Scam, mate?’ Eugene asked.
Michael wanted to play the part of ‘Man From the Printer’s’ himself, in a boiler suit and a wig, but the others overruled him. Eugene had been in one of Michael’s stage productions but hadn’t been on television enough for Neil to recognise him.
‘I’m Neil,’ Neil said.
‘Got the boards?’
Neil held up his burden. ‘Where’s Joe?’
‘Joe’s nights,’ Eugene said.
Neil handed over the art folder and Eugene held up a clipboard for his signature.
‘This a drug deal or something?’ Mickey asked, distracting Neil.
‘I’m working for The Scam. You know, the fortnightly.’
‘I’ve seen it.’
Eugene nipped back into the printer’s. He was to wait until Mickey and Neil were in The Ironmill. Neil opened the door of the cab.
‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’ he asked.
‘I’m just up the road,’ Mickey said, thumbing over his shoulder. ‘On the piss. Fuck, you gotta stay. Know who I’m meeting? Michael. Michael Dixon, remember?’
Neil’s eyes were creepily wide with delight.
‘He’d never let me hear the last of it if I let you bugger off without dragging you in for a swift half.’
‘Michael?’
‘Yeah, Michael, man.’
‘The Fat Git?’
‘He’s lost weight, pal. They call him the Trim Git now.’
Neil was still torn. Mickey had seen pictures of Anne Nielson, and could imagine the trim waiting for Neil at the party.
‘What you got will wait,’ he told Neil. ‘How often do we get a chance to hang out?’
Neil let the cab go, paying the driver and picking up a receipt. They had him. Mickey led Neil to The Ironmill, keeping up a barrage of chat, asking questions to which he knew the answers, disgorging titbits of information. Neil knew roughly what Michael and Mickey were doing and had read Krazy Glue.
Ken, at his post by the door, let them in and they went to the bar. The footsoldiers had been sitting in silence waiting for the big entrance and only now started to rhubarb amongst themselves. It was impossible Neil wouldn’t notice everyone was faking but he didn’t. Mickey kept talking, and ordered two double whiskeys without consultation. Frank, the paid-for bartender provided generous shots. Mickey made sure Neil got the glass with the blue ring. They had debated LSD but decided in the end straight liquor was more effective. The trick was to ensure Mickey got the watered-to-near-innocuousness drinks while Neil downed at least a gallon of the hard stuff.
‘Hell and Damnation,’ Mickey said, tapping his shot on the bar and downing it in one. After a pause, Neil imitated him.
The hook was in the back of his throat and he was doing his best to swallow it. Neil even ordered refills before Mickey could suggest it. Frank poured.
They talked about their old shared interest, comics. Neil thought the term ‘graphic novel’ pretentious. Mickey would have agreed but for the marketing fact that a graphic novel sold for ten times as much as the flimsier items they used to call ‘giant-size annuals’ and thus brought in a much higher royalty for the same work. If you were hard-nosed enough to negotiate a royalty deal with the heart-eating scum who ran the industry.
Neil, into his third drink, started telling Mickey how much he’d like Anne. The shag-hags got rowdy, as pre-arranged. In a dancing space, they ground to soul music. The Ironmill got loud and smoky. In the Ladies, Mama Death, Mickey’s dealer was cutting complimentary lines for the extras. Neil didn’t note the odd bloke slipping in for a tampon.
‘Look at that sweet stuff,’ Mickey said, pointing to his favourite rent-a-slut, Ingrid Tell. Her jeans were frayed at knees and buttocks, her top didn’t come down to her hip-slung belt. She threw herself about.
‘Jailbait,’ Neil commented. ‘Besides, I’m a married man.’
‘Nobody’s that fuckin’ married,’ Mickey said.
Ingrid weaved from side to side, navel winking. She unstuck her sweaty top from her tits and, smiling, fanned air down into the valley. Mickey moaned and shook his head.
‘Nipples like top hats.’
Frank lined up more drinks and said, ‘Compliments of the lady.’
Mickey waved a thanks and Neil, after a lingering look, turned away.
‘It’s hot in here,’ he said.
‘Nahh, it’s just cold outside.’
By now, Eugene would have done his business. He was supposed to leave a message with the printer’s and then meet Steve, who was waiting by the phone box on the corner to pick up the boards. Eugene was off home to collect his Academy Award and wait for his career to pick up.
Ingrid was dancing with another girl to ‘Shotgun’, darting her tongue at her partner’s nose.
‘Both ways, man, fuckin’ incredible,’ Mickey said, nudging Neil.
Ingrid the Animal wasn’t acting. Their best-paid footsoldier at £650, shed probably do this for free. She hadn’t asked for an explanation. The one time Mickey went back to her place to fuck, he’d been surprised to find a neat row of Penguin paperback Sartre on the shelf over her bed.
The intercom buzzed twice and Frank pretended to answer it. Mark was signalling that Eugene was through.
Michael came into the pub and overacted incredulous surprise. More drinks were provided. Neil, spluttering slightly, downed his in one again.
‘Zh’know what we’ve got?’ Michael said, eyes alight. ‘A quorum!’
They all laughed and drank again. Neil moved away from the bar to go to the toilet. As soon as he was unsupported, he began to sway and put h
is hand to his forehead.
‘Oooh,’ he said, ‘I can feel that.’
He made it across the room to the Gents. When the door shut behind him, everyone stopped talking and looked to Mickey and Michael.
‘Fine, everyone. Keep it up. Zhou’re getting an extra tenner apiece.’
There was a boozy cheer.
‘The switch at the printer’s was perfect,’ Mickey told Michael. ‘I nearly shat my spinal column, but it was a dream.’
‘He’s far gone, isn’t he?’
‘You know Our Absent Friend. Remember when we were kids? How about the college rag day when he sat in the Blake Street Annexe trying to nut himself with a hammer? Guy shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of alcohol.’
Neil came back from the bogs, noise picking up as he emerged. Another drink was ready for him.
‘I should make this my last,’ he said.
‘Nonsense, my boy,’ Michael said. ‘This is reunion. Nothing takes precedence over us...’
‘There’s Anne,’ Neil said. ‘You could come to the Scam party. Anne would love to meet you.’
Mickey leaned out of Neil’s eyeline and shook his head at Michael.
‘One more libation here,’ Michael said. ‘Bartender, further liquid dynamite is required.’
Mickey was fed up with the thin taste of whiskied water, but started sipping his next shot as Neil gulped his. A gaggle of Michael’s chorus boys, kitted as bikers, mingled with the shag-hags, bumping and groping. A tall black guy with a gold earring stripped off his net shirt and started rolling oiled pecs about. He was a model, Mickey knew. Ingrid slithered against his chest and started playing with her own top.
‘Get your tits out for the lads,’ the pretend-bikers chanted. Ingrid flirted with the idea, chewing a strand of stray hair.
The intercom buzzed three times.
Mickey and Michael clunked glasses. Mark had just placed a telephone call to the Scam party, claiming to be from the printer’s and wondering where the boards were. There was a slight risk the real printers had already done that, but they were less likely to have the number of the club where the party was.
Steve Dass, an ex-convict who’d written a book about prison edited by Mark’s girlfriend, slipped in unnoticed. He had wrapped the boards in a large sheet of brown paper.
Mickey nodded. Ingrid peeled her T-shirt off and held up her skaggy tits. She stole someone’s drink and cooled herself off by pouring cider into the hollow of her throat and letting it trickle.
‘That zhoung lady’s carried away.’
‘She ought to be,’ Mickey said.
Neil was actually almost the only man whose attention was completely on the act. He was too drunk to notice the oddness. Ingrid begged several of her dancing partners to lick her dry and they tentatively complied.
‘Where is this place?’ Michael asked Mickey. ‘It’s wildlife,’ he added, redundantly.
Mickey laughed and turned to Frank, easing his body away from the bar to make space between his stool and the footrail. Steve, standing next to him, steadily slipped his bundle onto the rail, sliding it behind Neil. Mickey leaned in close as Steve took away the brown paper. As instructed, he’d unzipped the folder leaving it hanging slightly open. Mickey could see the boards inside.
Ingrid smooched the black guy and quickly pushed him away. She face-fused a girl with antennae and staggered on, obviously intent on tongue-wrestling every man, woman and dog in the pub.
Neil wasn’t arguing they should leave. At crucial moments, he always went along with the moves. As ever, he was part of the Forum. Steve edged towards the door. Ingrid caught him and sank fingers into his slickered hair; spiking it as she mouthed the lower half of his face.
Several other shag-hags had divested themselves of outer garments. Peggy Lee sang ‘Fever’ and the scene, apparently set for an orgy, was ready for a St Valentine’s Day massacre.
The intercom buzzed four times. Anne Nielson had turned up, presumably in a state approximating high dudgeon, and barged into the printer’s. There, if Eugene had delivered it properly, she’d be given a message that Neil awaited her violent wrath in the pub down the road.
Ingrid had been listening for the signal and, in an instant, swarmed over to Neil and comprehensively rubbed herself against him. He put up a token resistance, drunkenly flapping arms as she tipped his stool against the bar, unzipping his fly and wrenching apart the front of his jeans.
‘Baby need some juice,’ she muttered.
Mickey and Michael moved aside to give the girl room. Neil held the bar and wriggled, trying to escape. She chewed his T-shirt out of his belt and exposed a lightly hairy belly. Frank pulled a pint and left it for Mickey to tip over gently. Bitter cascaded down the back of Neil’s jacket, slopping into the art folder; soaking the boards. Two weeks’ work ruined.
The pub doors pushed in. Mickey held his breath.
Neil looked up as Ingrid sucked a mouthful of flesh from his bare stomach and made a chewing motion. His jeans were around his thighs. He couldn’t help but laugh, though there was a seam of panic in his tickled giggling. Jerry Lee Lewis sang ‘Breathless’.
Anne Nielson had shorter hair than in her pictures. Her face was a blank sheet of fury. Mickey was glad he wasn’t the one who’d have to give her an explanation.
Michael hooked with his foot and Neil’s stool shot out from under him. He collapsed badly, the art folder breaking his fall, wet boards cracking under his weight. He gargled a scream as Ingrid pressed down like a wrestler, shoving tits into his face.
Michael turned away, unable to look. Mickey sat on his stool, cold sober, watching Anne walk across the room. Ingrid got out of the way and, hugging her chest, squirmed into the background. Neil, surprised again, half sat up and, seeing Anne, closed his eyes to make a wish.
16
8 JANUARY, 1993
‘Where would we be without Neil?’
Good point, Michael thought. Trust Mark to think of the really scary question. If the Absent Friend gave up, would everything else in the Deal fall apart? Like Dorian Gray after stabbing the picture?
No time to worry now.
* * *
Returning from the scene dock - he’d said he was nipping off for a pee - he was besieged by minions.
Meaghan, the make-up girl, dabbed his face, filling in tiny lines around his eyes. She reshaped his hair and whisked a cloud of spray around his head. As he shut his eyes, April gave him a rundown of technical glitches. The sound man wired a mike into Michael’s flowery waistcoat and screwed in his earpiece. He was wired to the control-room. The director buzzed in his ear. Messages were handed to him, signatures were required of him, jokes were passed on.
Quarter of an hour to go.
* * *
Out there in the viewing audience were people he needed to reach. Before talking to them en masse, he had to make direct contact.
He had April bring him a mobile phone and stabbed out the number of the Tottenham Command Post of the English Liberation Front. He found a studio corner and hunched down, keeping outsiders away.
A weak-sounding old lady answered after several rings and he asked to speak with Stan Gull. After a half-minute of enervating -twelve minutes to air time! - doddering, Corporal Jones came on.
‘Gull here.’
‘You don’t know me,’ Michael said in a Northern purr, enunciating the ‘y’ in you, ‘but I’m a supporter o’ yewer cause.’
‘Cause?’
‘Keeping them blackies down, laura norder.’
‘Good man,’ Gull spluttered.
‘I’m with t’ Muswell Hill Police Station, and I thought you should know there’s someone making trouble. I’ve done my best to bury t’ complaints but there’s nobbut a little I can do. Ower sergeant is one o’ them loony lefties...’
‘Vermin,’ Gull snapped instinctively.
‘Too bloody right. Birching and hanging’s too good for ’em.’
Gull grunted approval.
‘Any
rate, this troublemaker’s name is Neil Martin. His address...’
‘I know his address,’ Gull said, indignant. ‘We know all about Mr Neil Martin and his friends.’
‘T’ lads think he’s one o’ them journalist pooves, researchin’ a big exposé...’
‘Journalist? That is a new one. Fear not, the problem will be dealt with. Dealt with, with ruthless efficiency.’
‘Good,’ said Michael, hanging up. He stood and made April, who had been loitering, jump.
‘They want you on set,’ she said.
‘Coming, coming,’ he replied, tossing her the mobile phone.
* * *
He took his throne in the centre of the studio, between a young female politician and an elderly male pop star. The audience, who sat in ranks of raised seats, applauded, but the floor manager waved them quiet, telling them to save their hands for the on-air signal. Four cameras hovered like Daleks.
‘Chuffed to have zhou, Denny,’ he told the pop star. ‘Zhou were the idol of my childhood.’
The singer, shirt open to reveal a mat of dyed chest hair, grinned. Since the sixties, he’d only touched the charts in a duet with an alternative comedian, sending up one of his smouldering kitsch ballads. According to April, who’d researched him, Denny Wolfe had been a good guitarist with Tamsin’s first band before he struck out on his own. He had spent the last two months playing Buttons in Bolton.
‘And Morag,’ he said to the politician, ‘great to have zhou back.’
Morag Duff, severe jacket over a feminine dress, smiled exactly as her publicity agent advised. A humourless middle-of-the-road disciplinarian, she had an image problem. Doing Dixon’s On made her seem more approachable and disposed towards youth. She’d be a pussycat.
The studio clock gave them ninety seconds. The main lights went down, putting everyone in shadow. On a monitor he saw the last of the ads give way to a misleading trail for the late-night adult movie and a station ident as the disembodied continuity announcer (he assumed they were grown in vats in the Derek Leech Pyramid) plugged What a Grunge!, a soon-to-debut Cloud 9 series, and read out the lead-in. As the director counted down, Michael nodded along with the numbers.
