The Quorum (26 page)

This was a moment for the Quorum. As Ring, it was up to Mark to arrange the conference call. First he got through to Ayesha at the studio where Michael had just finished the technical rehearsal for tonight’s show. He came on the line and banished his PA from the room. He said he was on a mobile phone in the scenery dock, surrounded by canvas castle walls. Then Mark made the call to Mickey’s New York hotel. The switchboard put him through to the Apex Suite, where the phone was picked up by an American with a honey voice.

‘One moment, please,’ she said, summoning Mickey.

‘Ta, Heth,’ Mickey said, picking up. ‘Go down and get me some fags, would you. Marko, Michael?’

‘We have a Quorum,’ Mark said. ‘Are you free to talk?’

‘Yeah yeah.’

‘Zheah zheah.’

The cost of this call would exceed the total amount the Quorum spent on their moves in 1978. Money made things easier, but also encouraged a certain slackness Mark despised.

‘Who was that?’ Michael asked Mickey.

‘I’ll explain later. I think I’m in sex.’

Michael laughed. Mark called the Meet to order.

‘Mickey,’ he said. ‘What can you tell us about Dr Shade?’

Mark could tell Mickey was surprised by the question. ‘My favourite British comics character. Guy named Moncrieff created him, using the name Rex Cash. A rip-off of The Shadow, but rougher, nastier. Popular in the thirties and during the War, then disappeared until our sponsor revived him in the
Argus.
Guy named Greg Daniels draws the strip now. What’s this about?’

‘Sally seems to be haunted by Dr Shade. His car keeps creeping around after her.’

‘A Rolls-Royce Shadowshark?’

‘Train spotter.’

‘This is my fuckin’ job, Marko. You’re the one who wrote a 2,000 word essay on the centenary of the airbrush.’

‘What does Ms Rhodes think of the penumbral interloper?’ asked Michael.

‘She hasn’t really commented. She doesn’t strike me as neurotic or paranoid.’

‘I don’t think Dr Shade is likely to give us any stick,’ Mickey said. ‘Derek Leech owns him too.’

‘We are
not
owned by Derek Leech,’ Mark said evenly.

‘Tell him that,’ Mickey muttered.

‘We’d best just watch out then,’ Michael said. ‘What about the opening moves?’

‘My judgement as Ring is the ELF thing seems most promising.’

Michael was pleased. He had nurtured the move in his usual style.

‘They’ve started nagging Our Absent Friend. They phoned him in a pub, just to prove they could find him anywhere.’

‘I followed up first contact with a fusillade of drunkenly abusive calls zhesterday. Our man there is a Stan Gull, staunch defender of white virtue.’

‘Stan Gull?’ Mark prompted, writing down the name. ‘I’ll have Sally get some background on him.’

‘As far as the combatants are concerned, shots have been exchanged. It shouldn’t be too difficult to contrive an escalation of the feud into a little war.’

‘Nazis,’ Mickey said, ‘don’t you just love ’em!’

‘Actually, no,’ Mark commented. ‘I don’t trust stupid people with rigid ideologies.’

‘I can stage manage the ELF. Should I get on the shop floor? I could zhoin up with the
fascisti
and prod them towards anti-Neil
blitzkrieg.’

Michael loved disguises. In the early days of the Deal, he’d delighted in moves which involved dressing up as a vagrant, a postman or a government inspector.

‘Your face is too well-known now,’ Mark said. ‘False whiskers won’t work.’

Michael muttered disappointment.

‘If we need Nazis, we can buy some,’ Mark reassured. ‘What I’d like to establish during this Meet is exactly what our priorities are for this year.’

‘To stick it to Neil-o, of course,’ Mickey put in, voice crackly over the ocean.

‘But to what end? As I see it, our options are to concentrate either on getting him kicked out of his flat or losing him his parttime job.’

‘Better safe than sodomised,’ Mickey said. ‘Go for the double.’

Mark wasn’t sure. ‘Homeless and jobless.’

‘And hunted by Nazis,’ Michael added. ‘Sounds creamy.’

‘Take the money, open the box,’ Mickey said.

Mark imagined Neil as a rat in a maze, pursued by terriers.

‘Sally’s been talking with Our Absent Friend. He’s in a strange mood. Close to the edge.’

Mickey cackled like static. ‘Give ’im a shove, then.’

‘Have either of you ever considered how much the Deal depends on Neil?’ Mark asked. ‘We are happy because he is not, we are successful because he is not...’

Both lines were quiet.

‘We all try, but Our Absent Friend fails,’ Michael said. ‘That’s the Deal.’

‘What would happen to us if Neil didn’t try? Or if there were no Neil?’

‘How do zhou mean?’

Michael would understand but Mickey wouldn’t. Mark needed to share the thought.

‘If Our Absent Friend were to snap, become hopelessly insane, do himself severe damage? Or walk under a bus? Or just sit down in a corner and never get up again? Where would we be without Neil?’

‘Game over,’ Mickey said. ‘And we win, right? That’s the Deal.’

‘Is it?’

O
utside, the skies darkened over Farringdon. Mickey sat at the bar of The Ironmill, stinging his mouth with brandy as if he were back at the Rat Centre a minute before curtain-up. Tonight, the show would have to kill ’em dead. This was the Quorum’s most costly move to date. He’d put up the last of his cash, and the others had matched his £1,500. If the Deal was off forever, they were all on the road to the twentieth-century equivalent of debtor’s prison anyway. They couldn’t be
more
broke.

Regulars might be fucked off to find the pub closed to the public this evening. If anyone gave too much aggro Ken, the quiet lad on the door, was to let them in. The stage was set and staffed but extras wouldn’t hurt. Arguments at the door would distract from the main event.

Mark was upstairs by a window, binoculars to his eyes, directing the move, finger on the intercom button, a phone within reach. Mickey reckoned Mark found the Deal a perfect substitute for chess.

He revolved his head, loosening the stiff neck he’d developed hunched over drafting tables. He was dressed to party: tight striped trousers, cowhide jacket with the collar up, black leather Confederate forage cap. He’d even programmed the juke box for the whole evening, non-stop fuck music. The Blues Brothers sang ‘Do You Love Me (Now That I Can Dance)’.

Michael had found The Ironmill and hired the pub for the evening. The landlord thought it was a Valentine’s party. Over the weekend, Mickey had made enough red crepe hearts to clog a tunnel of love. Footsoldiers, girls with ra-ra skirts and bobbling antennae, had spent a happy afternoon with the staplegun turning the dingy bar into a no-taste romantic’s wet dream. They were pulling down fifty pounds each for the evening, with bonuses for rough stuff. He’d recruited the footsoldiers from his pool of shag-hags. They were pleased to be in on something, even if they didn’t understand it.

He checked his Timex and slopped down the last of the brandy. The intercom behind the bar buzzed. The signal meant Mark could see Neil’s cab in the street.

‘Rock and roll,’ he said.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the pub into Sekforde Street. As he passed, Ken - an out-of-work actor Michael knew -clapped him on the shoulder and said ‘break a leg’.

Neil, a huge art folder under his arm, was on the kerb telling the driver to wait. Mickey hadn’t been face to face with him for three years. Neil had changed. From his posture, Mickey could tell he’d developed confidence. He could be drawn with a few pencil strokes, strong lines; the last time Mickey had seen Neil, he’d been floppy and angular, rubbed-out sketch-marks and scribbled stresses.

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.