The Quorum (44 page)

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 Superior. 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.

He felt newly awake, as if he had dreamed pleasantly for a year.

Several people stood at the foot of a spiral staircase, ready to start up and help him.

‘No,’ Leech said. ‘He can get down on his own two feet.’

‘I’m fine,’ Neil reassured.

Carefully, he climbed out of the Device.

* * *

A Ford Escort stopped and the driver called over, ‘Wanna lift, mate?’

Mickey stepped from grassed verge to damp asphalt.

‘Fab gear, pal,’ the driver said, chuckling. ‘Who does your hair, Stevie Wonder?’

He trudged to the door and put a hand to the handle.

‘Hahhahhahhah,’ the driver laughed, and drove off.

The next car stopped and the door was opened for Mickey to get in. The driver told him to belt up.

‘Michael Yo?’

* * *

Alone in the back of the cab that had been sent, Mark was tense. He didn’t like to be away from the telephone. Sally might call. The machine was on but she might not want to leave a message. Many people didn’t like to pour out their souls to machines.

He had to talk with Sally. He had to explain. In the end, it had been Sally. She was the keystone.

‘Sally, I love you.’

‘Mark,’ she said, softly,
‘yes.’

The cab drove through empty streets. It was Sunday evening in winter. Everyone else was indoors. He might have been all alone in the city.

Where was Sally? He thought of her face, trying to interpret every feature, every expression. She must understand.

* * *

‘Darling,’ Ginny said, ‘you should see your face.’

Michael had no speech. Inside, he burned.

The Pyramid ballroom was crowded. He recognised most faces. Some had worked on
Colin Dale.
Others were familiar from earlier projects. He saw the producer of
I Scream,
even.

‘Zh-you,’ he said to his wife, ‘zh-you were a collaborator.’

‘Of course, dear,’ she giggled. ‘We’ve been creeping around for weeks. It’s been such fun.’

Melanie asked if there were any sprouts.

‘Even Melly helped.’

His daughter gave him a gap-toothed grin.

‘But it’s been worth it,’ Ginny said.

One in five of the guests had dyed (or real?) white hair. Ginny took off her turban to reveal a milky fuzz-cut.

‘Do you like it?’ she said. ‘I’ve decided to go natural.’

Melanie mimicked her mother. She had the same hair.

‘Look at this,’ Ginny said, popping her contacts. She opened pink eyes and snorted like a rabbit.

Melanie followed suit.

* * *

In the foyer of the Pyramid, Mickey ran into another of the walking dead. They didn’t recognise each other for moments. They were both too weary to conceal their shock.

Mark’s bald blotch had spread. His face was deeply grooved with pain. His clothes were assembled at random.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Mark said. ‘I can imagine.’

So could Mickey.

Attendants helped them through into the ballroom. They both looked for the third ravaged face.

Michael, lost like a child dressed in his father’s dinner suit, was standing a little way from his wife and daughter.

In the crowd, they were alone.

They were seated together at a strange table shaped, Mickey realised, like a Q. They had nothing to say to each other.

* * *

Neil, comfortable in the clothes provided, followed Leech along the corridor to the lift-cage.

It was as if he’d dozed off in 1978 and dreamed a life that didn’t matter.

The doors hissed open and they stepped in.

The glass lift, suspended under the roof of the Pyramid, was a balcony in the sky. Below, in a sea of light and darkness, swam hundreds.

‘From up here, they look like one beast,’ Leech said. ‘So many, with one purpose.’

‘Me?’ Neil asked.

Leech said, ‘This is your night, Neil. Enjoy it.’

* * *

Was Sally here?

Mark looked around. He recognised many of the guests. There was his cellmate Dolar, with Janet of the Planet and two young girls. A woman with a striking white dash in her black hair was Anne Nielson of
The Scam,
ten years on. There was a table flagged with a Union Jack for the ELF, who sat with stiff backs as if stranded in enemy territory. Next to them were a couple of black guys, one with an absurd 1972 hat, and a white guy in a shell-suit, all wondering what they’d done to get here. Michael told him a nervous-looking family group were the Gregorys of Cranley Gardens. The guitarists in the house band were Denny Wolfe and Karl Garr, the singers were Grattan and Tamsin.

‘Where did they get all these people?’ he asked.

At a table alone, Tanya Gorse chain-smoked. Pippa gaggled with a cluster of Mickey’s shag-hags, avoiding Mark’s eyeline. Others: Hunt Sealey and Allan Keyes, Penny Gaye and Brie Simon, Kendra and Gwen, Farhad Z-Rowe and Timmy Chin, Ayesha McPherson and Laura-Leigh, April Treece and Richard Pierpoint, Trevor Skelly and Fats Waller, Raimundo and Father Menzies, Desmond Dennett and Candy Dixon, Carole Wolley and the aged remains of Chimp, Dick Karsch and Eivol Manoogian, Morag Duff and Barry Gatlin, Eugene Reilly and Steve Dass, Zafir Azmi and Pel, Rachael Rosen and Ingrid Tell, Constant Drache and Heather Wilding. A fancy-dress corner was packed with heroes and villains: Amazon Queen, the Streak, Blubber Boy, the Riddler, a smaller Dr Shade, Max Multiple, Dead Thing, some Gorilla Guerillas.

At one quiet table was an elderly couple it took Mark a full minute to recognise as Neil’s parents. The actors who played Colin Dale and Ken Sington were in their telly costumes, chatting up Ginny Moon and her mother. There were others: footsoldiers, minions, bystanders, associates, victims, celebrities, lords and ladies.

Sally, alone, wasn’t here. That made the evening meaningless.

The scenic lift began its slow crawl down the inside of the Leech Pyramid. Inside, Mark saw two figures, faces in darkness.

The lift landed like a space capsule and opened. Derek Leech and Neil Martin emerged. Balloons went up and sparkle-dust flew into the air.

* * *

Michael noticed TV cameras perched around the ballroom like machine gun nests. There was no escaping.

Gary Gaunt was in charge. The world was lost. The conspiracy prevailed.

Red dots glowed on the cameras. It was all live. The house band performed a Nina Simone number, ‘You’ll Go to Hell’.

Pris Wilding wound through hushed crowds, carrying a remote mike. Spotlights followed her course. Her hair, under a pearl-dotted mantilla, shone whiter than the sun. She wore nouveau Elizabethan costume, with a breathstopping bodice and taste-gagging flamenco sleeves.

Looking to camera, she smiled...

‘Hello, lovelies everywhere. Tonight, we have a very special triple edition of the show everyone’s gabbing about. Taking the Grunge Plunge are three young men who’ve been together for many, many years. Ahhhhh. They thought they were gathering here for a testimonial, but we knew different.’

She worked her way to the ‘Q’ table.

‘We’ve gone back further than you’d believe into the pasts of these pesky personalities, and some of the slimy sleaze our daring dirt-diggers have surreptitiously unshovelled will make your hair go white as a nun’s conscience. Everyone has a teensy-tiny smidgen of sordid sin in their deepest past that shames them to the quivering core of their being. But these famousoid fellers don’t seem to have anything
but
shame on their collective CV.’

* * *

Mark looked at Michael and Mickey. Finally, they understood the Deal. Truly, they had presented themselves as Perfect Sacrifices.

‘It’s us,’ Mark said. ‘Not Neil.’

‘How long?’ Michael asked.

‘Leech said we’d all live past ninety.’

He saw a future stretching past the middle of the twenty-first century.

‘Sally,’ he said to himself. The name no longer meant anything. It was not attached to a person but to a condition, an absence in himself. He wound down.

‘Lovelies, lovelies,’ the strange American woman gasped. On a monitor, her breasts were positioned behind Michael’s head like Mickey Mouse ears.

Between them, the Quorum had the whole story. Michael made angry fists, while Mickey was slumped in resignation.

‘Hold this moment,’ Mark told them. ‘This may be the last time we understand anything. Tomorrow, it’s back to the trenches.’

Mark looked up at the American. He was ready to take his medicine.

‘Tonight,’ Pris Wilding said, ‘we look at Michael Dixon, Mark Amphlett and Mickey Yeo, celebright cephalopods who have achieved so much in so many fields. Tonight we look at these three and say...’