The Quorum

by Kim Newman

Sally!

  The receiver was in his hand. ‘Hello,’ he gasped, ‘Ss...’

  ‘Mark?’

  It was another woman’s voice. Not Sally, but familiar...

  ‘Mark, it’s Pippa.’

  ‘P-p-p...’

  ‘Mam says you’ve been hassling her.’

  He tried to remember Pippa. It wasn’t easy. There was something about her: Scots girl. Editor. Geology major. She said Neil was a really nice bloke.

  ‘It’s been months, Mark.’

  ‘Pip...’

  She was all right, he supposed. If you liked the type. But she wasn’t Sally Rhodes.

  ‘I want you to stop. I want you to grow up and stop.’

  ‘Pippa?’

  ‘Just let it go, Mark. Just let go.’

  * * *

  A dozen slates shot off the roof, jets of steam escaping. They clattered and smashed in the street. Life flickered through his mind. Moments stuck and repeated. Random moments.

  He looked at two unfamiliar boys in the assembly hall, indicated the man at the lectern, and said ‘Chimp’.

  People pressed around a rupture in the Device, ignoring steam that lobstered their faces, and fixed plates over a fissure.

  He stood on stage in the Rat Centre, dressed as a jester, and recited ‘and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges’.

  The Device’s fires poured together a ball of inferno.

  He sat in the kitchen at Michael’s Gramma’s, talking with Mark’s girlfriend, wondering where the others were. Surprisingly, Philippa leaned over and stuck her tongue down his throat.

  Girders wove around the fire.

  He sat up in bed as Rachael broke the door down. This wasn’t how he’d fantasised the moment. His typewriter bounced off his headboard, grazing his cheek, falling on the floor. Rachael’s mouth was a circle of fury, her hands bird talons.

  The Device was nearly finished.

  ‘Lois Lane?’ he asked. ‘Olive Oyl,’ she said.

  On the monitors, he saw Leech. Impassive but approving. His one-eyed familiar was excited, raving at the success. But Leech expected no less.

  He stood on his doorstep and faced the Nazi who put the screwdriver to Sally’s eye. He gave up.

  A rain of sparks fell past his face.

  * * *

  A living pool outside the Fershluggenheim Museum gathered, extended arms to streetlamps and pulled itself into human shape. Blubber Boy shook off amorphousness. The Creech, Dead Thing and Circe had combined forces to defeat him, but he’d win. In Coastal City, good guys always won. A tiny sprite chirruped from a nook in the sidewalk. Mickey waded through the dispersing glop of the hero’s sloughed-off mass, the last of Blubber Boy pulling at his knees. Circe’s Enchantment of Bewilder made it hard to coordinate. The whole city stumbled.

  The Effect passed and he was back in a New York night, somewhere near the Guggenheim.

  ‘Yo,’ someone said.

  He assumed a fighting stance as a preparation for getting the shit kicked out of him again.

  ‘Yo,’ someone else confirmed.

  A man in uniform approached cautiously, as if expecting Mickey to turn feral.

  ‘It’s him,’ the uniform said.

  He recognised Raimundo, the Pyramid chauffeur. And clocked Raimundo’s supervisor. She stood by a small van, arms folded, watching.

  ‘Heth?’

  He didn’t say anything else. Raimundo grabbed his arm and forced his wrist up between his shoulder-blades.

  ‘Careful,’ Heather warned. ‘He might be rabid.’

  Something hot bit into his lower back. His brain frazzled and he heard and smelled the singing zzzztt of something electric. Pain came and went and his last strength vanished.

  Raimundo shoved him towards the van. When Heather looked down at her clipboard, a curtain of hair shadowed her face.

  ‘Get him into the light,’ she ordered.

  He gave no resistance. Heather compared his face with a photostrip on the clipboard.

  ‘Check, get him into the compartment.’

  She went round to the back of the van and opened a door. The interior was a windowless box, hardly big enough to hold a man. Raimundo helped him up and showed him how to bend his useless limbs to fit the space. There was a light in the ceiling but, like the one inside a fridge, it went out when the door was closed.

  He sat in the dark, rocked by aftershocks. The container was soundproofed. The van began to move.

  * * *

  The end-of-run party was noisy. He could tell from the rapid, hollow cheer of their patter which of his staff were with the gray gaunts. He found a spot where he got his back to a real wall and watched traitors conspire against him.

  The Dixon’s On set was crowded with Top Hat staff and Cloud 9 brass, picking at canapés hed paid for, sloshing his wine. They clowned with the cameras. The house band blundered through numbers. His minions, freed of the shackles of the series, danced in a strobe-lit pit.

  He saw a length of white hair whipping, burning his retinas. Ayesha had dyed her hair a very, very light blonde. Everyone said it was striking, but Michael got the real message. They could get so close to him he would never suspect.

  Little did the gray gaunts know just how vigilant Michael Dixon could be, how ruthless. They had badly underestimated his character when they set out to ruin him.

  A ruptured beer-barrel sprayed the Cloud 9 Vice-President of Light Entertainment and everyone cheered. The bigwig stood, Armani dripping froth, and laughed like a drain. Roily, a toady in search of a patron, handed over a towel.

  April was drinking profusely, snorting relieved cackles, hugging people she’d see in eight weeks as if they were to be parted forever. He’d thought her reliable but now wasn’t sure. She was loyal but weak. She could be bought.

  ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says you’re all sacked,’ he muttered.

  He wondered if Gary Gaunt himself were here, somewhere. A hat and some glasses and he could pass for normal. Hair dye and contact lenses, even.

  There were many faces he didn’t recognise. Even those he knew well were not ruled out of suspicion. The albino might have spent years getting into place, preparing for the final assault.

  Gary Gaunt could be anyone. Anyone anywhere.

  ‘Mikey,’ said a big scene-shifter smiling, arms spread, ‘what can I say...’

  The scene-shifter stuck a quick fist into Michael’s gut. Air shot out of his lungs in a gasp.

  ‘That’s with love from Basildon.’

  * * *

  He replayed the conversation, certain of what he should have said, imagining how her reactions would have differed.

  ‘Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you.’

  ‘I tried to get out of the Deal. I was the one who tried.’

  She half-turned, listening.

  ‘It could have been me, not Neil. It could have been any of us. We’re all victims.’

  She saw the depth of his suffering, and got closer to him on the bench. Her clear eyes were forgiving.

  ‘We didn’t really understand. We were tricked. We were just kids.’

  ‘You sacrificed Neil?’

  ‘No, we sacrificed ourselves. We are the Perfect Sacrifices.’

  ‘Perfect?’

  ‘Like Aztecs elevated above the tribe for a year, granted their every wish, honoured and loved. They lie willingly on the altar as the priests cut out their hearts.’

  She was shaking, moved.

  ‘Why is it so much worse for me? So much worse than for Mickey and Michael?’

  ‘Because you understand.’

  She was right.

  He reached for her.

  ‘Sally, I love you.’

  ‘Mark.’ she said, softly, ‘no.’

  He went back to the beginning, and thought it through again, taking more care, thinking out what he wanted to say. Eventually, it must work out.

  * * *

  The door opened and he was hauled out of his co
mpartment. Raimundo made a face. Mickey realised he must smell awful.

  ‘Remove him from his clothes,’ Heather said.

  Raimundo attacked with a pair of tailor’s shears, snipping his kiddie coat and Wile E. Coyote T-shirt into removable sections. There was a light drizzle, icy but not clean.

  Adjusting to the blobby light, he realised he was in a carpark at an airport. Queues of travellers with baggage watched without interest as he was stripped.

  When Raimundo dug the shears into his waistband, he capitulated. Indicating that the chauffeur should back off, he undid his fly and unpeeled jean-legs.

  In happier times, he’d left his underpants in Heather’s bed. Now, she looked at his skinny, shrivelled nakedness with unconcealed distaste.

  ‘Shame we can’t clean him up,’ she said, sliding a tartan bag across the tarmac. ‘Have him get into these.’

  Raimundo unzipped the bag. There were clothes inside. Warm, clean clothes. His luck was changing. He was almost fully-dressed before he realised he was wearing a bank clerk’s turquoise suit from the early seventies. Lapels wider than the shoulders and flares like crinolines.

  ‘I’ll look a dildonian,’ he complained.

  Raimundo raised a device that looked like a high-tech stapler, and a tiny arc crackled.

  ‘Fine by me,’ Mickey conceded.

  He was allowed to keep his once-yellow socks - they’d have to be surgically removed along with 90 per cent of the skin - but was given a pair of stack-heeled platforms a size too small, which he painfully hauled on.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

  Heather ventured close and examined him thoroughly. Her eyes were dispassionate and dangerous. She’d either forgotten or was deliberately ignoring whatever had passed between them.

  Raimundo gave her the shears. She took his braids in her fist and neatly snipped off the lot.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now, let’s get this package out of the country.’

  * * *

  ‘It’s been dayglo dream, Mikey,’ Pris said. Her smile made dimples deep enough to lose a coin in. ‘We’ll do our bestest to keep your slot warm for when you come back in September...’

  September!

  ‘...I’m sure we’ll work together again. Bye-now, kiss-kiss, love-love.’

  Pris made a puckermouth at the air, gave a cheery little paw-wave, and sashayed out of the party. Five silent minders, whod been blending with the minions, took note and followed her, looking back for assassins.

  His stomach still hurt. He looked around for the VP/LE -whod told him Dixon’s On would return in March - and saw the beer-soaked exec bopping with April and Ayesha in the pit.

  Ignoring grinding pain, he made his way to the pit and shouted at the VP/LE. Eventually, he penetrated the man’s head.

  ‘When are we on again?’ he yelled.

  ‘Pardon,’ the VP/LE shouted, tugging his ear.

  ‘When is Dixon's On back?’

  The VP/LE heard this time.

  ‘Can’t we schedule an interface next week?’

  He wondered if he was ruptured. Nearby, Ginny grind-danced with Roily. April leaned against the side of the pit, holding her head. Ayesha listened quietly, glowing white hair falling half-way down her chest, eyes flashing red.

  ‘Tell me now,’ he insisted.

  The VP/LE tried to seem sober. Stinking stains spread on his shoulders and lapels.

  ‘Cloud 9 wonder if we shouldn’t rest the format. Devise something more relevant to the nineties.’

  ‘Like What a Fucking Grunge?’

  ‘Demographics on Grunge are highly positive, Michael. Advertiser response is startling. We see a 35 per cent improvement on slot profitability even before the first of the run.’

  He saw the hand of the gray gaunts in this.

  ‘Mr Whippy-Wobble-Willie of Crab-Apple, Abergavenny says... stitch that!’

  Michael headbutted the VP/LE.

  * * *

  In the dark, he thought back further. By his talk with Sally in Docklands, everything was lost. Nothing could have been changed.

  It was 1983. That was the turning point. Mark should have coralled the others, forced them to endure the setbacks. Simply not turning up at the Meet wasn’t enough; he should have gone, and taken the others through the argument.

  When they all crawled back to the Deal, they drew dotted lines across their own throats and said ‘cut here’.

  If he had explained to Mickey and Michael, 1983 would have been a short-term disaster. By now, they would all be better. Not great, but good.

  Michael would have written a few decent books, cult successes. Mickey would be drawing the Dr Shade strip in the Argus. Neil would be assistant editor of The Shape. Mark would be engaged to Sally Rhodes.

  None of them would have any complaints. Though maybe they’d all be haunted by possibilities.

  Mark thought of other paths not taken.

  In the bathroom mirror, if he turned the lights out, he could see the sub-Mark who might have been if he had gone directly to Achelzoy on Twelfth Night. The Mark who had suffered, but would be redeemed. In his eyes, Mark saw a repellent righteousness.

  Twelfth Night is also Epiphany. The night Christ manifested Himself to the Three Wise Men. The night Leech manifested himself to the Three Stupid Boys.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid...

  If they had said no, they would have been heroes. Obscure, perhaps, but heroes.

  But their courses were set even before Sutton Mallet.

  His ring finger had no feeling at all. He could only bend it with an extreme act of will.

  He thought over and over the first days at Marling’s. He could have made friends with Alan Ward, the first boy who talked to him. He could have ignored his first-form peers and hung around third years, becoming Spit’s jester. He could have tried harder and been in the rugby team.

  He didn’t have to be part of the Forum. He didn’t have to be a geek and a freak.

  He could have failed his eleven-plus and gone to Hemphill. No one really expected anything else of him. His brother had gone to the Secondary Modern and left school at sixteen to work in a garage. Now, Christian had a recession-proof motor parts business in the Backwater. Like Mark’s sisters, he was married, had kids, a mortgage, an accent. They all had lunch with the parents every Sunday.

  He hadn’t had to do anything.

  * * *

  At the security check, they made him take off most of his clothes again. There were useless bands of metal inside his lapels. Every time he walked through the magic door, a ping sounded. On the other side of the barrier, Heather gave Raimundo a packet containing Mickey’s passport, deportation papers and boarding pass. The airport was impressed with Heather.

  ‘Do you work for the government?’ an official asked.

  ‘I’m with Pyramid,’ she said. ‘Ease and Convenience.’

  The official’s back straightened.

  ‘I’ll be glad when this one’s terminated,’ Heather said.

  Mickey was further prodded and poked and conveyed to the departure lounge. A crowd of students and tourists waited, surrounded by mountains of carry-on luggage, red-eyed already for the overnight flight.

  Raimundo and a steward took his arms in a firm grip and guided him through the tube into the airliner.

  ‘Look,’ said a student, ‘they always take the scum on first.’

  * * *

  Saturday’s Basildon Echo had nothing about Michael at all. He wasn’t fooled. The campaign had gone underground.

  He worked on his Open Letter for ten hours, not getting up to eat or drink or use the toilet. He had his priorities. This must get finished.

  Ginny was off with Melanie. They’d probably gone over to the gray gaunts.

  His keyboard was dotted with bloody fingerprints.

  * * *

  Raimundo slept in the next seat and snored, sprawling into his personal space, invading his nose with strong aftershave.

  Heather was up in Sup
erior. They were at the back of the plane, by the bogs. Mickey’s seat didn’t recline. His spine, still prickling from stun-shock, wouldn’t bend to fit the contours.

  The in-flight movie starred Dudley Moore and Patsy Kensit. Supper was a packet of peanuts and a thimble of orange extract laced with washing-up liquid. Cheek frozen against the cold of the window, he managed flickers of sleep. Cruel dawn woke him.

  * * *

  The Device settled, stabilised. Power thrummed in every strut and rivet. Metal roots burrowed into earth, reaching down for wet warmth.

  He looked down at Leech. He wore a dark suit and a hat. Drache, the disciple, was prostrated in the mud, praying to the Device. Neil and Leech knew better.

  At last, he was empty. Soon, he’d be free.

  * * *

  In the dark, Mark sat and did nothing. He tried to think nothing. Tried.

  * * *

  At Heathrow, he had to queue for two and a half hours. Raimundo, impassive and uncaring, stood with him. The musak loop came round five times. When he was finally processed, an official confiscated his passport and cut it in half like a credit card.

  ‘Your right of international travel has been revoked,’ he was told.

  Finally, he was ejected from the airport. Heather and Raimundo stood by the main doors and watched him venture out into the cold day. Mickey had no money for a cab, a bus or a tube.

  * * *

  ‘Michael,’ Ginny said, ‘the car will be here in an hour. You must get dressed.’

  ‘Not zhust now,’ he said.

  On the screen, he had Gary Gaunt staked out in the sun, eyes skinned, ants swarming over honeyed wounds. The albino would not survive the Open Letter.

  It had grown in the computer memory, eating up space, edging the Mai DaVale files into limbo. It took precedence. He was writing for his life.

  ‘Michael,’ Ginny said, determined. ‘Look at me.’

  He swivelled. His knees, locked in place after another day at the WP, cracked.

  Ginny wore an evening gown and a matching turban.

  ‘It’s your testimonial,’ she said. ‘You can’t not go.’

  Melanie peeked around her mother’s skirts. She was dressed as a miniature Ginny.

  ‘All your friends will be there.’

  ‘What friends?’

  * * *

  Contacts were broken. With mechanical whirs, the supports were withdrawn. Neil stood shakily on the platform. He had lost track of time inside the Device.