The Quorum

by Kim Newman

  Finding himself at liberty outside a large bookstore, he went in and searched out graphic novels. They didn’t have Choke Hold or any of his stuff. Not even The Nevergone Void, for which there was a poster of a disappearing Amazon Queen. There was a tall stack of new Alan Moore and more Neil Gaiman than the human mind could stand. He looked at the Nevergone poster and noticed his name was mispelled ‘Mickey Yo’.

  ‘Yo Yeo,’ he thought. ‘Yo-yo.’

  Wandering back to the entrance, he came out in time to be picked up by Raimundo. Without explanation, he was ferried to the Plaza. Crowds parted to let him through.

  Heather waited just inside the lobby. The WoFBReIGN teepee was gone.

  ‘They packed up over the weekend,’ Heather explained. ‘There’s a rumour Marvel are doing a lesbian serial killer storyline in The Fantastic Four and they’ve gone to protest that.’

  He felt light-headed, disoriented. The absence of protesters should have been pleasant, but he kind of missed them. It’d been nice to know he had an effect. Everyone else in the building rolled over and let him do what he wanted; only the WoFBReIGN Wimmin even tried to fight back. Didn’t anybody care any more?

  * * *

  Timmy Chin was in a meeting and they had to wait. Heather posed on a chair and said nothing, a switched-off robot waiting to be reactivated. Mickey sat with a cup of cooling coffee (last week, he’d rated real espresso - with a swirl of cream - now he got instant muck) and looked about. His night of weariness crept up and anchored him to a couch. He looked around the reception area.

  He would have sworn his first Circe cover was among the framed classics displayed behind the receptionist’s desk. It seemed to have been replaced. He couldn’t tell with what. He thought he remembered the Sergeant Grit, the Vindicator and the Teensy Teen. Some of the comics now valued in hundreds of dollars he’d bought for nine old pence when he was first reading ZCs. He remembered buying a missing Dazzling Duo Stories from Neil Martin for twenty pence in 1972. Who’d have thought then he’d be the one to kill Amazon Queen?

  The Vindicator, a Vietnam vet cyborg created as a villain in the late seventies, who grew to be ZC’s most popular character in the eighties, never seemed as real as the forties stalwarts. Vin came along after he had stopped reading comics, and was an established usurper when he returned to the field. The Nevergonners were going to alter the past and make sure the grunts who fragged the cybernazi in the first place did a better job of it.

  His mind was crammed with ZC factoids. Neil and he had debated them for years. He couldn’t have written The Nevergone Void if he hadn’t cared deeply about the four-colour, twodimensional characters. For him, the game was to destroy the ZC Universe while being true to its trivia. He remembered Teensy Teen was Blubber Boy’s cousin; their secret identities were high-schoolers Carrie Kilian and Bubby Boyd. Why nobody guessed Bubby Boyd was Blubber Boy was one of those questions even eleven-year-olds ask.

  Amazon Queen had a sister. What was her name? She was on the wall in a clean-lined fifties cover, menaced by Max Multiple. Amazon Queen’s sister? In his mind there was a small blank space where the name should be written. He scrolled through a ton of adjacent information. His New Year’s Eve shag-hag in 1978 was called Denise Brierly. The entry code to Michael’s London office was 2150. In the TV series, Catwoman was played by Julie Newmar and Eartha Kitt, but in the movie she was Lee Meriwether (Michelle Pfeiffer didn’t count). Loud Stuff’s breakthrough album was Pusher X.

  And Amazon Queen’s sister was...?

  The tiny white gap gave him a headache. He tried not to think about it, sure it would spring to him automatically as soon as he forgot it. He tried to think of something else entirely. He wondered about this year’s moves. Should he call Michael or Mark?

  Persephone? No.

  It was like trying to pick up a pin with boxing gloves.

  Proserpina? Pandora? Philomena? Penelope? Pippa?

  Pippa? Where did she come from? It was ages since hed seen Mark’s toffee-twat girlfriend. She disapproved of the Quorum.

  He looked up at the ceiling, memories leaking through a pinprick in the back of his head. Soon he would forget who Cary Trenton was...

  Timmy’s office door opened and Timmy appeared, showing out a young black man with an Egyptian eye shaved into his hackles. He carried an art-folder. Timmy was excited, hovering close to the kid - he must be only about twenty-one - restraining himself from touching.

  ‘Mickey,’ Timmy said, finally noticing, not apologising, ‘this is Farhad Z-Rowe. He’s going to be big.’

  Z-Rowe looked at him, obviously knowing who he was, and kept his free hand in his baseball jacket pocket.

  ‘He’s the new you,’ Timmy said, grinning.

  Z-Rowe showed perfect white teeth. His eyes narrowed to slits.

  ‘Yo Yeo,’ he said. ‘Yo-yo.’

  ‘You’ve got to see his stuff,’ Timmy enthused. ‘We’re giving him his own book. It’ll be a breakthrough.’

  Z-Rowe nodded. He was small but his shoulders were broad. Under his jacket he wore a T-shirt stretched taut over muscles. His stance said he could break Mickey in two.

  ‘You used to be hot shit,’ Z-Rowe said, and left.

  Heather was expressionless. He wondered if she were meditating.

  ‘I can only spare you five minutes,’ Timmy said. ‘I’ve got an interview. There’s nothing much we have to talk through, is there?’

  * * *

  The maitre d’ at Chiodo’s had no reservation in the names of Karsch or Manoogian, and neither Dick nor Eivol had got to the restaurant before them. Heather negotiated. A table was found in the leper colony by the kitchen door.

  ‘You will be four?’ the maitre d’ confirmed. Two could be seated with much less agony.

  Heather told the functionary others were expected. After twenty minutes, neither Dick nor Eivol had shown and, on the fifth imperious pass, a waiter was snagged to take their order. He could do with a pile of egg and chips but was forced to have a crispy ring of spinach garnished with bitter red sauce.

  Heather, who’d said very little today, ran out of conversation. If anything she looked more perfect than usual but the motor inside was running down.

  ‘That Z-Rowe geezer,’ he asked, ‘have you glommed him?’

  She hadn’t.

  He could imagine: young, ethnic, brilliant. The new Mickey Yeo. Sorry, the new Mickey Yo.

  He would be Hot Shit.

  ‘What was the name of Amazon Queen’s sister?’

  ‘Priscilla.’

  Even before she said it, he remembered. His mind was whole again. The scrap had been the keystone of his memory.

  ‘Fuckin’ right. Priscilla.’

  They finished their appetiser and main course. Heather slipped off to make a call to Dick Karsch’s office to be sure there was no mistake. Dick had picked the restaurant and given precise instructions. Left alone, Mickey sagged in his chair. It was one o’clock in the afternoon in Manhattan, six o’clock in the evening in Camden Town, and hours past midnight in his brain.

  Looking across Chiodo’s, he saw Eivol Manoogian with a group of six or seven men and women. He was cracking open and consuming a crab, laughing at something that was being said. The maitre d’ had fouled up completely and, with a vicious determination, he vowed to have the poltroon’s job for it.

  He got up to cross to Eivol’s table and Heather returned.

  ‘I couldn’t get through. Everyone is out to lunch, including Dick. I’m to try again.’

  ‘There’s that Manoogian fucker over there,’ he said. ‘We’ve been exiled to fuckin’ Siberia.’

  Eivol’s table was surrounded by an almost mystic glow. It wasn’t in a bow window, exposed to the gawp of passersby, but golden light fell around it. At that table, people dined with the angels.

  He made a move, but Heather held his arm, almost fearful.

  ‘No mistake,’ she said.

  His brows clenched. ‘What’s up, Heth?’

 
Heather wouldn’t let him move.

  ‘Let’s do dessert,’ she said, with brittle sweetness.

  Eivol laughed again, lustily. His portion was huge, delicious steam rising from it.

  ‘Knickerbocker glory,’ Heather suggested.

  * * *

  The afternoon interview was scheduled at the hotel. They checked at the front desk and found the journalist had cancelled, leaving no explanation. He was probably crawling up Farhad Z-Rowe’s arse, or having venison fritters with Eivol Manoogian.

  Heather made a call from the desk, to discover whether the interview was to be rescheduled. Mickey wandered about the cavernous lobby in a special orange twilight. In a far corner, surrounded by a fortification of suitcases and instruments, he found Grattan of Loud Stuff, drooling slightly, eyes as red as Dracula’s.

  ‘Hey, Grat,’ he said, ‘fuckin’ yanks, eh?’

  ‘Fuck yes,’ the musician said, head rolling up with his eyes, ‘fucking fucking yanks.’

  An eleven-year-old dressed like a hooker pounced on Grat with an autograph book. He made a huge effort and talked to her, running wearily lecherous eyes up her long, bare legs. Excluded, Mickey drifted back to the desk. Heather was gone.

  A twinge of panic came and went.

  ‘The Ms said shed wait for you upstairs, sir,’ the desk clerk said. ‘In her suite. 1908.’

  He had no idea Heather had a suite in the hotel. The clerk handed over a cardkey and directed him to the nineteenth floor. Limbs heavy, he dragged himself to the elevator bank.

  * * *

  At the end of an unfamiliar corridor, he found 1908. The key opened the door, and he stepped in. It wasn’t the Apex, but it was luxurious enough. The curtains were drawn, sunlight penetrating the weave. Water was running in the bathroom.

  ‘Having a soak, Heth?’ he asked, tempted to join her.

  He was shagged out. Looking at the four-poster bed, his first thought was to get a good eight hours’ kip and wake up to sausage and bacon and fried bread with brown sauce and a mug of creosote tea. His scalp itched under his braids.

  Shucking off his jacket, he sat on the bed. Bending at the knees, he lay down as if on a guillotine, looking up at the blade of the canopy.

  Amazon Queen’s sister was called Priscilla. His mind was still there.

  He kicked off his boots, undid his belt and wriggled backwards out of his jeans. An afternoon of sleep was what he needed, followed perhaps by a refreshing blow job about teatime.

  Heather came out of the bathroom. He heard her and couldn’t work up the strength to lift his head. Fuck, he was shattered. She leaned over him, hair tickling his face, and he opened his eyes. She wore a black and yellow domino mask and red lipstick.

  He eased himself up on his elbows, pain rippling down his spine between his shoulder-blades. Heather had changed her clothes. Besides the mask, she wore a one-piece yellow swimsuit cut high on her thighs and low in front, with missing panels showing circles of tanned skin. A leatherwork whip dangled from a six-inch black leather belt. She had matching spike-heeled thighboots and elbow-length gloves. A yellow cape was fastened around her neck by a jewel cameo.

  ‘Amazon Queen,’ he said, unbelieving.

  She slapped him lightly, a backhand that bumped his skull off the headboard. She laughed self-consciously and apologised. Then, solemn, she uncurled the whip and flicked his inner thighs with its point. She’d not become skilled enough to do that without a lot of practice.

  ‘You never were,’ he said.

  She kissed him, gloved fingers working up his body from thigh to armpit then pushed herself away and laid a stroke across his stomach. It stung like a bastard.

  ‘Heth,’ he said, ‘sorry love, but I’m just about dead on my feet. Couldn’t this wait?’

  The next stroke hurt more.

  ‘This’ll teach you to kill me,’ she said.

  He tried to sit up again but all the strength had gone out of his arms and back.

  * * *

  Afterwards, he escaped. Bruised and tingling, remembering real pain and pretend pleasure, he staggered alone to the elevator. Heather, changing, agreed to leave him be for a few hours. Having gone through the charade, she was almost embarrassed. In the end, despite a burst of willing on his part, she’d finished herself off with the whip-handle. It was hard for mortals to keep up with superheroines.

  He leaned against the wall of the Apex elevator and chanted the name Priscilla over and over. If everything else went, he would remember Amazon Queen’s sister.

  Did all Pyramid employees get their own superhero costumes?

  The Apex elevator halted and the doors opened. In the antechamber he fumbled his own cardkey out of his jeans and passed it through the slot. Nothing happened. He tried again, experimenting with different sides of the card. Still, the inner door wouldn’t open.

  Fuck.

  He turned to the elevator to find it had gone down. Private for the Apex Suite, it was no use to anyone else. He stabbed the button, but it didn’t return. His knees felt like giving out. He tried the cardkey again. He ran it through the slot several times rapidly, as if trying to strike a damp match. No joy.

  A tiny cut on his back was dribbling into his shirt, sticking the fabric to his skin. Heather getting enthusiastic.

  He tried the elevator button again. The indicator which could only indicate the first floor - the ground floor in English - and the Apex Suite, said the cage had descended to the lobby. It was staying there for the foreseeable future.

  There were stairs. He could go down a floor to the Presidential Suite and grab one of their elevators, or go down even further and find Heather. Maybe this time she’d let him sleep in her bed.

  He tried the door once more. Bastard!

  Incredibly, the Apex Suite had a private staircase too, winding infinitely, never connecting with the rest of the hotel. He staggered, hand weakly on the banister, down through numberless, featureless levels.

  His ankles ached in his boots. Cold seminal fluid scabbed inside his foreskin. Drawing pins behind his eyes jammed into the sockets. Down and down he went. This Monday was different.

  Finally he came out of the staircase in a sub-basement bowel and had to make his way past deserted function rooms and a disused kitchen. Wandering into a sunken ballroom that listed strangely as if on the Titanic, he thought he saw a man in black by the orchestra dais. The shadow turned out to be a long fold of curtain trapped on a music stand. The ballroom was as cold inside as a fridge and he left quickly, looking for stairs.

  He emerged into the lobby. Musak tinkled in the gloom. Grattan was gone, luggage and groupie with him. Late afternoon sun spilled in from the revolving doors but was squashed after a dozen feet.

  There was a new desk clerk, another efficient young man in a blue blazer. Before he took his problem to the clerk, he’d sit down on one of the couches for a few minutes and get his breath back. Maybe he could subtly take his boots off.

  Grattan had looked like a wino and nobody had bothered him, except the pre-pube shag-hag. He took the rocker’s old post and sank into slightly warm upholstery. He did not fall asleep exactly, just switched off.

  2

  11 JANUARY, 1993

  She hadn’t left the flat in two days. She regularly fed the Invader but not herself. She slept in spells of a couple of hours, mainly with the baby. For the first time since the hospital, she couldn’t bear to let her child go. The warm unquestioning loving bundle fit perfectly against her body. Together, they stayed in her bed.

  It was possible she’d cracked up.

  The telephone rang and her own voice - younger, brighter, stupider - told the caller to leave a message. It was Ayesha McPherson, asking her to call Top Hat. She shuddered, cold. Just now, she never wanted any more to do with any of them. The Quorum. Neil. Leech.

  The Invader gurgled warm fluid over her neck. With her left hand, she extracted a man-size kleenex from the bedside dispenser. After easing the baby aside, she wiped herself off. Then she app
lied a spit-damped tissue corner to the soft, tiny face. It’d be walking soon. Then the long, slippery slope that leads to leaving.

  ‘Mother, I feel it’s my duty as a citizen to report you to the Secret Police...’

  How would she feel when her baby grew up and joined the English Liberation Front? Or was responsible for the repopularising of Barry Manilow? Or struck a Deal with whoever Derek Leech was in the next century? Maybe next time, he’d ask someone to make a Perfect Sacrifice of their mother, their child...

  She shook with hatred.

  The Invader bawled and she was overcome with a rush of guilty love. Cooing and humming, she jollied the baby back to sleep. The offspring was sensitive to Mummy’s Moods.

  The telephone rang again.

  ‘Ms Rhodes, this is Michael Dixon. Could you call me, at the office or at home? It’s the Gary Gaunt situation. I’d like to take action.’

  He didn’t sound different. He didn’t sound like a man who’d spent fifteen years wrecking a friend’s life.

  Outside, darkness was accumulating. Upstairs, music was playing. She had a cramp from so much lying in bed. Her dressing-gown was starting to smell of more than baby-sick.

  Neil Martin had collaborated, then given up. There was no reason for her not to go along with him.

  Mummy, are there really monsters?

  She’d always known creatures like Leech were in the world. She’d met them. She could hardly even pretend to be surprised or disgusted. In person, he embodied a dark purity that could even seem admirable.

  It was the Quorum. She tried to stretch her mind around what they’d done. It was disturbingly easy to imagine, a fascinating game. So many details of Neil Martin’s life, puzzle-knots she’d combed against, now made sense. And so many things she’d picked up from her meetings with Mark and Michael. All the clues had been there.

  The Deal must have been an enormous challenge, especially at first, when they were students. If it could be done with no financial resources and few contacts, how much easier was it for the men they became? Men with influence and power and friends and money. She’d done her time as a footsoldier. How many moves had been prompted or abetted by her reports?