The Quorum (29 page)

What could have happened?

One day she’d have to explain to the Invader about Connor. Wouldn’t
that
be a delight?
Mummy, why don’t I have a Daddy like other children?

She saw the dressing-gown on the back of her door as a figure. A tall man in black. Dents in the door became piercing eyes. The shadow of the lintel was the brim of a hat.

I do not love thee, Dr Shade.

She turned over and pushed her face into soft pillow, letting her head be half-swallowed. It’d be nice to have an unknown protector: a forgotten schoolfriend willing to pay anonymous money to have her watched over. Or maybe it wouldn’t be nice. Maybe it’d be frightening.

* * *

Just past midnight (Eastern Standard Time), Mickey was in an Irish bar in the Village. He commandeered an upright piano. Stubbing fingers against yellow keys, he rinky-dinked from Satie to Little Richard. He imagined he was a brutal dentist chiselling eighty-eight teeth out of a willing mouth.

After two days with Heather, he had no more feeling in his crotch. New York was a cyanide gas, but he had anxiety spasms about London. The moves were falling in strange ways. He wasn’t sure Michael or Mark could handle it. Both sounded pixilated. Mark was usually the mainstay, cool and calculating; this year, he was in Michael’s edge-of-hysteria slot.

Heather, not drunk, leaned against the joanna and stuck her hand into his hair. If there was an emergency in London, he could whip back and sort it. He could take Heather with him; she was for his convenience and comfort. She tilted his head and invaded his mouth.

* * *

Before dawn, Mark woke and listened to the quiet of the flat. All his clocks were silent. Thick walls excluded street sounds.

Pippa still wasn’t back. She might have gone straight to Herron’s Halt. She’d learned to keep out of the way for the first six weeks of the year. He wondered what she thought the Quorum did in the magic time?

He got out of bed in a grey gloom and padded naked through all eight rooms, practising his slow-breathing. He liked to reclaim his territory every morning, before the sun’s light fingers got to it. A pale ghost in the bathroom turned out to be his reflection.

He switched on the brutal light and the extractor fan whirred to life. Without windows and with the unavoidable fan, the bathroom was an isolation chamber. He stared at his young face in the mirror and wondered why he’d started to lose his hair. That hadn’t been in the Deal.

They should have asked for more. What eighteen-year-old thinks about going bald? What eighteen-year-old thinks about anything?

He brushed his teeth. Dental hygiene was a fetish of his. He flossed, relishing the bite of sharp cord into his gums. He drew a little blood.

No anomie, no nausea, no fear and loathing. Those should have been the main clauses.

His electric shaver buzzed like an angry hornet.

If they’d asked for happiness, would they have been lobotomised zombies? This was better than that. At its best, the Deal was damned good. From council estate to two homes, from obscurity to - what had Sally called him? - style guru, from geek to
chic
.

He rubbed lotion into his stinging chin and looked at himself. His musculature was well-defined. Physically, he was in better shape than ten years ago. He’d started to take care of himself, to get to the gym once or twice a week. Having the life he’d wished for meant holding on fast.

He left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. Light slices shone in. He opened the walk-in wardrobe and assessed a rack of suits. Pippa’s half was barren of all but a few summer dresses; she travelled like a Victorian lady explorer prepared to attend a formal ball in the Hindu Kush. He selected unobtrusive clothes; jeans and a jacket. He found his old Brighton scarf. It’d be cold out. Smoothing back his hair and feeling skin-skull, he realised he’d need a hat if his pate wasn’t to turn blue.

* * *

In the middle of the morning, Neil was woken by the glazier, an efficient middle-aged man with tattooed knuckles. He was making a habit of sleeping away half the day. Not that he had anything much to do at night. In the cold of his flat, he made tea for the glazier and coffee for himself; midnight black with a swirl of cream. As the workman measured the wounded windows, Neil got dressed and made toast under the grill. There was nothing for him in the post.

Saturday. The weekend starts here; for everyone else. Neil’s whole life was weekend. A long winter Sunday afternoon with nothing on the telly (indeed, no TV) and the threat of icy rain.

He chewed toast. The glazier was on the first pane. Looking through sparkling new glass, Neil realised how dusty the old windows had got. Mr Azmi was supposed to send cleaners round every other month, but no window-washer or hall-sweeper had shown up since autumn.

In the hallway, the phone rang. It would be someone urgently anonymous for Pel. Neil, after waiting out a dozen rings, would venture upstairs and drag his neighbour out from under a woman, to do business. This happened regularly. Neil worried vaguely that taking messages about dodgy deals constituted aiding and abetting a criminal offence.

‘Better get that,’ the glazier said. ‘Maybe you’ve won the pools.’

Neil grudgingly stepped up into the hall and dragged the phone off its hooks. He recited the house’s number.

‘Mr Neil Martin?’

Surprised, he stammered a yes. The caller’s voice was male, polite, unaccented, bank-managerly.

‘Good morning. This is the last day of your active life.’

* * *

After coffee, Sally armoured herself for shopping. With Sainsbury’s on the corner, less than a minute’s walk from the flat, she was theoretically free to nip out at any time, say Tuesday afternoon, and whizz around an almost-deserted supermarket. Without customers, Sainsbury’s was exactly the image she had of Her Reward in Heaven. But, as a poor sinner, she always managed to join the Saturday morning crush of nice couples with dual incomes, dawdling around in pastel herds, weighing the virtues of variant pasta sauces, clotting aisles with wonky-wheeled trolleys. If she made it to a blissful afterlife, she’d miss out on the Milk of Ambrosia when a happily cohabiting brace of solicitors grabbed the last economy-size pack to feed their designer cherubim.

Cheery musak played; though she’d have debated the aptness and good taste of narrowcasting ‘Suicide is Painless’ to shop-happy lemmings. The mix of clattering and conversational buzz echoing about the hangar-shaped building reminded her of a skating rink.

She proudly trundled the Invader forwards, having no compunction about using the flesh of her flesh to ram her way through crowds. Extensively strapped into a stroller-chair and in an oversized blue balaclava, the Invader looked like a Mercury astronaut after a trip through the time barrier. Happy dribble spotted a dinosaur bib. The stroller was subtly armoured, slung with mesh bags that became deadly when filled with snatched cans and frozen meals.

She was still woozy from a night of almost-sleep. At some point, circular thinking had turned into circular dreaming. Reaching for a can of miniature sweetcorns, she was momentarily distracted. A flurry of dark blotted the eternity-lit brightness of colourfully packaged products and showily dressed shop-in-stylers. A trail of black stealth slipped into the next aisle.

Dragging the stroller as if it were a nine-man chain gang, she pursued the shadow. The aisle was dotted with shoppers who turned like pinball flippers to let a cloaked figure pass into the distance. She didn’t know what to call out.

Dr Shade!

She rushed from pastries to preserves, shouldering through like a rugby forward, stroller before her like a runaway lawnmower. Dr Shade turned to wait, cloak spreading. Insect-lensed goggles glittered above a bloodless smile. A black-gloved finger beckoned.

She wanted answers.

Dr Shade stepped aside, whipping away the cloak’s curtain like a bullfighter or a conjurer. Two young men were revealed, bent over a freezer, looking at joints of meat.

The shadow was gone and she couldn’t curb her momentum.

The meat-gazers turned, eyes and mouths circles, as she bombed towards them. The Invader made fierce turbodrive noises.

A flare of recognition stopped her backpedalling and she put her legs into the charge. A white guy and a black guy. Salt and Pepper. The thugs from New Year’s Eve. They even wore the same clothes. Salt’s shell-suit bellied out as if he were unnaturally pregnant with something many-spined.

She rammed the stroller against shins. Salt yowled pain and bent double as she whirled around. The stroller’s wheels lifted from tiling and the Invader
wheeeed
in delight, laughing as the undercarriage collided with the stomach of the astonished Pepper.

Do that again, Mummy.

With a burst of caution, she set the stroller down gently and pushed it to one side, lining up the chair so the Invader would have a good view of Mother in Action.

Pepper, spurred by panic, hurdled the freezer and sprinted for the nearest checkout lane. He knocked over an undeserving vegetarian and slipped on a
tofu
cube. With exactly the bored voice used for price-checks, a girl put her mouth to a microphone and called for Security at Till Nine.

With Pepper taken care of, Sally turned her attention to Salt. His zip ruptured and a shrinkwrapped chicken burst from his chest like the
Alien
monster. His mean little face showed no understanding. She could almost sympathise.

‘Rhodes, Security,’ she said, gripping Salt’s throat and forcing him back, bending him over the lip of the freezer. She pulled his waistband loose, jogging a large lump of something frozen into his trousers.

* * *

At midday, he parked in the Archway Road. He was near enough to Cranley Gardens to make a swift getaway, but far enough off not to be noticed or connected. He wanted to walk, get the feel of the area. It wasn’t his beat, too far out of WC1. Highgate, Muswell Hill, Cranley Gardens, Crouch End, Alexandra Park: Neil Martin Country. Also, Sally Rhodes Territory.

High up, over the city, it was cold. The air was cleaner. It was almost not London here. Mark strolled towards Highgate Tube, wanting to pass Planet Janet. According to Sally, Neil wouldn’t be there today but it was a significant site. From her reports, he felt he knew the area better than he did.

There was a police car by Planet Janet, and what looked like a drugs bust on the pavement. Uniformed constables stood by a long-haired man who gestured wildly. Interested, Mark slowed his pace to an amble. He sank his chin into his scarf and shoved his hands into his pockets. The only hat he had found was an old tweed cap Pippa liked, which kept his egg warm even if it did nothing for his style.

The shopfront was a
kristallnacht
ruin. A cardboard Dracula, bent at the waist, slopped forwards onto the pavement. A burglar alarm nagged like a headache.

Loitering and listening, he gathered the hippie wasn’t the criminal but the victim. He’d be Dolar, owner of Planet Janet, host of the New Year parties, father of two. Someone had attacked his shop. He’d been a witness and was giving a description.

‘...it was a kid, man, about thirteen or fourteen. Baseball cap on backwards, blue Mothers T-shirt, red zits, dark hair. Spotty-faced, reverse-cap, metalhead T-shirt, stone-throwing motherfucker if you ask me...’

A constable nodded, taking notes.

‘Teenagers today, man,’ Dolar moaned. ‘All fascist earthlings.’

One of the policemen agreed.

Scenting a Michael move, Mark crossed the road. He wanted to swing by Neil’s place then call in on Sally. She’d be off duty and he wanted to talk with her again. He wanted to see where she lived. There was real wisdom in the woman. Somehow, she had explanations he needed. Or if she didn’t have them, she could get them.

* * *

Real security people - a crew-cut in a brown jacket and his middle-aged female supervisor - converged on the freezer. Salt emitted little squally whines which the Invader found highly entertaining.

‘Unnnhgg ahgggg,’ the baby said, flapping paws together as if applauding. She was proud her child’s first spoken word was an approximation of ‘scumbag’.

The security people laughed.

‘Who are you, miss?’ Brown-jacket asked.

‘A concerned customer,’ Sally said, squeezing the shoplifter’s throat as if she wanted a half-pint of adam’s apple juice.

She looked about. Pepper held upright by firm hands, was being steered their way. Dr Shade - or whoever - was nowhere around.

‘Rhodes, isn’t it?’ the security woman said. ‘I remember you from the Sunderland Agency.’

She had worked seven months at Sunderland. Her big assignment was hanging out for weeks in a sporting goods shop where nobody stole anything. Bored enough to exceed instructions and jump from watching to snooping, she’d discovered an employee fiddling the till. Since he was the owner’s nephew, it hadn’t gone to court. There are eight million excuses in the Naked City; this has been one of them.

‘Katie Castle. I was your supervisor.’

‘Of course,’ Sally said, not really remembering. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Keeping in practice?’

‘I’m on my own now. Sally Rhodes Security Services. Clod-head here has cropped up in an investigation. I’d like to question him. And his friend.’

Brown-jacket wasn’t enthusiastic but Katie smoothed it over. For once, a situation was developing to Sally’s advantage. If she ever wanted to get back into loitering without intent, she’d be sure of a friendly reception here.

‘Five minutes, and no torture,’ Katie offered.

Salt tried to wriggle loose. Sally crunched a satisfying heel into his instep.

‘Thanks a heap.’

* * *

It was nearly lunchtime but Neil wasn’t at all hungry. He felt sick in his stomach, with familiar dread. He looked up and down the Gardens, wondering where the attack would come from. This year, he’d made an offering, but the Norwegian Neil Cullers were merciless; their noose was drawing close around his neck.