The Quorum (20 page)

‘I want you off the premises,’ Zafir said.

Neil’s heart congealed, but Zafir was talking to Gull.

‘Go on, old man, off out of it...’

‘Comes the day,’ Gull muttered.

Zafir stood aside to let Gull escape. He bent down, with the painful creak of a man who had done his best to stand up straight for sixty years, and retrieved his magazines, shuffling them tidily, putting them back in his bag.

‘Treason will not be forgot,’ he said, darkly. ‘The ledger is writ in scarlet and stays open so long as the last Englishman’s alive.’

Mumbling, he carefully trudged past Zafir and down the steps. Neil watched him go, noticing a rip in the back of his anorak.

‘Ought to be reported,’ Neil said, too quickly. He had to impress on Zafir that he hadn’t invited Gull to present him with nauseating literature.

‘He’s got a point about arranged marriages,’ Zafir shook his head. ‘You should see the old dog Dadiji wants to lump on me.’

* * *

A buffer who gave off madman vibes marched past on the other side of the road, hugging a shoulder-bag. The guitar hero was still at work, a hazard to passing traffic. Sally quickened pace as she passed Neil’s house. He was outside, in the trough between the dustbins and his windows, with a good-looking Asian youth, explaining.

She caught a few snatches.

‘...no idea who it could’ve been...’

‘...bloody expensive. Dadiji will have kittens...’

‘...colder than Tibet...’

Out of their sight, she stopped and took stock. Someone had broken Neil’s windows. He didn’t know who. He was trying to get someone (probably his landlord) to have them fixed before he froze solid. Cranley Gardens was at war, evidently.

* * *

In the late afternoon, Neil scrounged cardboard boxes from Pel. They’d originally been for dishwashers, so he could slice out sheets the size of the broken windows. He did his best to jam cardboard into empty frames. It was hardly sufficient but the worst of the wind was excluded. He was supposed to make a statement for the insurance. Zafir said he’d get an estimate for a glazier within a week. Of course, he’d also been promising for three months that ‘Dadiji’ would replace Neil’s missing dustbin.

As he worked, preparing the flat for nuclear attack, Hendrix’s guitar atrocities insinuated themselves into his head. While he was taping the last sheet in the last pane, the same pair of legs walked past twice. Nice legs.

This was another day he would write off for experience. All good material for that wryly humorous novel of contemporary urban despair he kept threatening to start. Of course, Michael Dixon had already done a wryly humorous novel of contemporary urban despair,
Colin Dale.
He wondered where Michael was and if he ever thought of his old mate. Last year, when Mickey Yeo had been at the Planet for
Choke Hold,
he mentioned he still saw Michael (and Mark Amphlett) so it was possible he’d told Michael he’d met Neil again.

Finally, the job was done. As he stood back to assess his handiwork, Hendrix’s chords rose in a tumultuous crescendo and, at the peak of pain, miraculously fell silent. Either his mother had come home and shot him dead, or he’d ventured out in search of a tuna-and-puke sandwich. A last paracetamol lulled the pain. He touched his bruised face and didn’t wince. Slowly, he was healing. Then, spontaneously, a Volvo parked directly outside the flat began to whine. The shrill caress of noise, ground against Neil’s mind like a rusty saw. The car alarm didn’t shut off until four in the morning; Neil wouldn’t stop hearing it for three days.

W
ith Pippa, a geology major away on a field trip, Mark was free to turn their sea-front flat into a command centre. Mickey insisted on a blackout, curtains drawn tight. It wasn’t likely Neil would float past the fourth storey and happen to glance in, but the others treated this as a game. Mark was increasingly aware of the responsibilities he’d have to bear if the Quorum was to fulfil its side of the Deal. In the end, it was down to him.

In a kitchen the size of a phone box, he made tea. According to the Code Michael, the Ring was required to supply provisions but the others had kicked in £10 apiece. This was a tightly budgeted operation and his grant cheque was already overcommitted; if the cost to Mark went above £35, he’d have to crap out. There was half a loaf left in the cupboard and the remains of a fund of biscuits. Last night, Mickey had gone through a whole packet of ginger nuts.

They had from the New Year to Valentine’s Day. Mickey thought it foolish to delay the moves until the last specified moment, but Pippa’s absence afforded the only possible launch window. No matter how close they’d become in four months, she was an outsider. Even before Sutton Mallet, there were things he hadn’t been able to share with her.

He took breakfast to the front and only room, where Mickey and Michael slept in bags either side of the double bed. A male smell (sweat, smoke, curry, beer) permeated the flat. A takeaway food carton had been used as an ashtray, a glut of dogends stubbed in the last of the sauce. Despite the cold, Mark had heaved open the windows.

‘We have a Quorum,’ he said. ‘Wakey, wakey.’

The others stirred; Mickey grumbling and scratching, Michael sitting up straight and stretching. Michael, funding the expedition with Christmas money, had taken a coach to London and a train to Brighton. His parents were relieved to get him out of the house. Mickey had spent Sunday hitching from Yorkshire, a sleeping bag in his backpack, a knife in his boot. He had tales of adventures on icy motorways with psycho lorry drivers. They had met in the fish cafe on the corner and waited for Mark, who was seeing Pippa off at the station, to collect them.

Mark handed out mismatched mugs. Michael pulled on his trousers and made it to the table, but Mickey hopped in his bag and worked his way into a chair. Michael attacked bread, pasting butter and jam on an inch-thick slice, while Mickey rolled up the first cigarette of the day, not saying a word until he had smoke into his lungs.

Michael picked up a library book, Thomas Mann’s
Doctor Faustus,
and flipped pages.

‘Rather you than me,’ he said.

‘We’re on Marlowe in Tragedy,’ Mark explained. ‘I’m reading around the subject.’

Clean cold seeped into the flat, deadening last night’s fug. Nothing had happened yet. Nothing real. After a long breakfast, Mark convened the Meet. He put the new-cut key on the table.

‘As promised, a key to Neil’s room.’

‘How did zhou get it?’

‘I missed the last bus from campus one night and crashed on his floor. The key was on his desk.’

‘They didn’t change the locks?’

‘No, just gave him a new key and asked for a bigger deposit. To be on the safe side, I had it copied and dropped the old one in his common-room.’

Mickey picked up the key and looked at it as if it were a diamond.

‘You done us proud, Marko,’ he said. ‘We’re in.’

It had been surprisingly easy. As they combed the carpet looking for the key, Mark suffered paranoid spasms, but Neil was so irritated - ‘I was sure it was here’ - he hadn’t noticed. When Mark turned up at Tadcaster House, Neil was pleased to help out with floor-space. ‘We don’t see enough of each other,’ he said as Mark left for his lecture. ‘We go back too far to lose touch.’ He asked after Pippa, whom he’d evidently had a talk with at the party the Quorum never managed to reach.

‘I’ve checked his timetable,’ Mark said. ‘This afternoon, he has a lecture in the Humanities Block followed by a tutorial in the same building. The last three weeks, he’s gone straight from one to the other without nipping back to Tadcaster House. That gives us two hours.’

‘What if he needs a book or something?’ Michael asked.

‘It’s a risk,’ Mark admitted, ‘but it’s our best shot. At no other point can we
guarantee
he’ll be out of the way for more than an hour.’

‘I’m convinced,’ Mickey said. ‘
Vamanos!’

* * *

After midday, they took the bus. From the top deck, Mark pointed out the landmarks in Brighton and on the road to the University. Michael was surprised the campus was so far out of the town.

‘It’s a village,’ Mark explained. ‘Like a holiday camp.’

Nearing their stop, Michael got more fidgety, Mickey more controlled. There was a chance Neil might see them walking around. They had a contingency excuse (a surprise visit on Mark for his birthday) but weren’t happy with it. Michael had tried to disguise himself by changing his image, growing a sparse moustache, wearing an Army surplus greatcoat, a woolly hat and dark glasses. Mickey rolled his bus ticket into a tiny cigarette tube, thin lips set, eyes unrevealing. If the Deal fell apart, he’d be the one to explode.

Even Mark, least at risk, was uncomfortable in his stomach. He had no tutorials today but might have to skip a lecture late this afternoon. If anyone from his Tragedy seminar noticed him, the absence would be questioned. Since Twelfth Night, he wore gloves even in the flat, which Pippa said was funny. Most nights, he returned in his dreams to Sutton Mallet and woke up shivering under the continental quilt.

The bus halted and students piled out, late for things, hurrying off across campus. The Quorum sat together until the bus was empty and debarked cautiously. Like a team of undercover assassins, they looked about, wary of venturing into a line of sniper fire. They clustered between the bus and the shelter.

Mark outlined a way of getting to Tadcaster House, Neil’s hall of residence, by skirting the campus, staying off the main routes. It was a pleasantly wooded walk, earth-and-grass areas dotted with stubborn pancakes of frozen snow.

They proceeded with exaggerated stealth, like spies they’d seen in films. Mickey darted from tree to tree imitating a cartoon coyote, lagging behind, then catching up. If anyone noticed how prattish they were acting, they didn’t get in the way. There were always geeks and misfits on the prowl. Michael had wanted them to get-up in masks and costumes and pose as a rag troupe but Mark explained the Brighton Students Union didn’t believe in rag weeks. Charities only encouraged the government to devote less resources to the needy.

Tadcaster House was a red-brick structure, seventy rooms piled around a courtyard. Neil’s room was at the end of a corridor, next to a kitchen on the nearside of the first floor.

‘See why I moved out?’ Mark said.

‘It’s not so ghastly,’ Michael muttered. ‘I’ll be confined in a medieval college with a curfew and no women.’

They ambled up and grouped against a wall. The sun came out but the light that fell against them was unwarming. Mark checked his watch. Neil’s lecture was at two; it was now 1.45 p.m.

‘We’re a bit early,’ he said.

‘Quel signifié ça?
Michael asked.

‘Watch out!’

The doors shoved open and a gaggle of students emerged, talking and walking. Mark’s anus turned outside-in as he saw Neil among the crowd, the satchel he’d carried since Ash Grove slung over his back. Michael and Mickey backed around a corner and flattened against the wall. Mark edged with them, eyes on Neil’s back. He peeped around the brickwork. Neil tried to keep up with a tall girl: he did a ridiculous lope to get in front of her, half-turning to talk, then getting left behind again. Each time Neil turned, Mark’s bowel knotted. Neil’s focus was completely on the girl; to him, the Quorum would be background fuzz. He was trying to be funny and sophisticated but coming across as gawky and goonish. It was hard to believe Pippa described him as ‘a really nice bloke’.

A minute trudged by like an hour-long lecture on rhythmic patterns in Elizabethan verse. Then Neil disappeared under a bridge, headed for Humanities. Mark’s rectum relaxed. He shook his head. The Deal was tougher than he had expected.

Mickey grabbed him by the shirt and jostled him against the wall.

‘You fuckin’ cretin,’ he said, pupils shrunk to furious pinpoints. ‘A bit fuckin’ early!’

Michael took Mickey’s shoulders and eased him off.

‘Steady on, old thing. We’re all new at this lark. It’s not Mark’s fault.’

‘It fuckin’ is,’ Mickey said, calming in spite of himself.

‘This is really inconspicuous, guys,’ Mark told them.

Mickey shook off Michael and adjusted his shoulders in his jacket. When they were twelve Mickey had a fist-fight with Mark over some reversal in the Game. They didn’t speak for nearly a month, until Neil negotiated a reconciliation. As a kid, Mickey was too keen to use his skinny knuckles; in too many ways, he was still a kid.

‘Are you speeding?’ Mark asked.

Mickey shook his head, disgusted. There were chemicals in his head that did the job of most drugs. After a few calming beats, breath clouding around them in white gusts, they advanced around the side of Tadcaster House and strolled into the lobby with shaky confidence.

* * *

Mark led them to Neil’s corridor. A Nigerian in a thigh-length dressing-gown wandered past from the bathroom, rubbing a towel into wet curls. Michael stared; having lived in the Backwater all his life, he’d probably never seen a half-naked black man before.

‘Zhou have coons here?’

‘We don’t use words like that any more,’ Mark said.

Michael shrugged, more surprised than offended. In theory he was a liberal, but had never been called on it. The Nigerian went into his room. It was quiet. Mark could hear distant noises. He led them to Neil’s door.

Mark produced the key and held it up. He took a breath, then let it go. Michael guided Mark’s hand to the lock. Mickey touched his fingers.

‘This is silly,’ Mark said.

‘Together or not at all,’ Michael replied.

It was awkward, but they managed to unlock the door as if with one hand. They jammed into the room and Mark shut the door behind them. His gut wasn’t churning now.

‘The curtains,’ Mickey said.

‘What’s more suspicious,’ Mark asked, ‘three kids in a room or drawn curtains in the afternoon?’

Mickey conceded.

Mark was familiar with the room but Michael looked around with interest. Mark noticed his attitude to student life was still torn between envy and intrigue.