The Quorum (21 page)

‘Smells better than zhour place.’

‘They have a cleaning staff.’

There was a bed, a washbasin, a chair, a desk and a wardrobe. On the desk, files and papers were stacked either side of a typewriter. Notes, maps, timetables and pictures clipped from magazines covered a corkboard.

Mickey sat on the neatly made single bed and waited for orders. They had discussed what they might find and what they might do.

First, the typewriter. When he left home, Neil’s parents gave him a portable. It was common knowledge typed essays were automatically graded higher than handwritten submissions. Michael, the literary expert, took the cover off the machine. He depressed the ‘e’, and reached into the typewriter’s works to grip the key.

‘Commonest letter in the language,’ he said, twisting.

‘Don’t break it,’ Mark said. ‘That’s too obvious.’

‘Surgical precision,’ Michael said, twisting further. He jammed the key back. It grated against the others. He stabbed the ‘e’ again and the key ground. ‘One good “e”-word and it’s farewell to legibility.’

‘Do the “s”,’ Mickey said.

‘Exaggerating the point, surely?’

‘Do the fuckin’ “s”,’ he insisted.

Michael shrugged, and, sheepish, repeated the operation. Smiling at his handiwork, he carefully replaced the cover.

Michael shook his head. ‘We vandalise a typewriter and all our dreams come true?’

Suddenly, together, Mickey and Michael laughed. It began as a giggle, then became choking hysteria. Mickey held his abdomen and rolled on the bed. Michael covered his face with his hands.

Mark couldn’t laugh.

‘Come on, guys. If we do this, we do it properly, right?’

Mickey recovered first. Michael wiped his face with his hat and agreed to go on with due solemnity.

‘I’m nineteen. Zhou can’t expect me to do anything properly with my raging hormones and lack of experience.’

‘That’s not an excuse you’ll be able to use forever,’ Mark said.

‘If this doesn’t work, Neil is going to piss himself laughing, zh’know.’

‘I doubt that,’ Mark said, looking at the typewriter. ‘Since about thirty seconds ago, Neil isn’t our friend any more. You better remember that.’

The hilarity evaporated. Mark realised Michael had lost babyfat in the last four months. He had visible cheekbones.

‘Watergate time,’ Michael announced, standing away from the desk.

This was Mark’s province. He was most familiar with the University, and so best able to identify what was important.

‘It’s too early for him to have many notes,’ Mark said, rifling through the files. ‘He’s doing two foundation courses this term, one fresh and one continued from last year.’

He found a ring-binder with Introduction to Marx on the cover. It was filled with squiggles that must be lecture notes. There were thirty-eight handwritten pages of notes. Mark detached every fifth sheet. He handed the pages to Michael, who put them in his cavernous inside pocket.

‘It’ll take a while to notice,’ Mark said. ‘It won’t be crippling until it comes to his assessment.’

‘It’s only a couple of pages,’ Mickey said. ‘You sure that’s enough?’

‘Believe me, we’ve thrown away three solid weeks’ work.’

‘You bastards,’ Mickey grinned.

‘No,
we
bastards.’

Mickey cackled again. He sorted through a mess of notebooks and papers on the bedside table. Michael looked at the shelves. He took a library book, a biography of Engels. A piece of orange sticking-plaster on the spine marked it as a short-term loan. Neil had to get it back within three days or pay a fine. Michael leafed through the book, then slipped it into his pocket.

‘There’s a computer system. They’ll track him down in a week.’

‘I wonder if he’ll formulate an explanation.’

‘This place has a Library Gestapo. They’ll grill him for days.’

Mickey looked through an exercise book.

‘We’ve struck gold,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ve found his diary.’

Instantly, Mark ordered, ‘Look up Twelfth Night. See what he says about us not showing.’

Mickey turned back a few pages.

‘Nothing much. “Production a disaster. Michael sick three times. Party at Achelzoy. Talked with Mark’s girlfriend Philippa...”’

‘Nobody calls her that.’

‘Neil does. There’s an illegible bit here. “Michael, drunk, got lost, never made it.” Then, nothing. Looks like he didn’t have time to write. Once he gets back to University, the entries get longer. They mostly seem to be about someone called Rachael, who lives next door. Rachel with an extra “a”. There’s a lot of wistful angst.’

‘I think that was the girl he was with just now,’ Mark said.

Michael whistled. ‘Nice.’

‘I doubt that,’ Mark said.

‘Neil likes her,’ Mickey said, flipping pages. ‘He thinks she likes him but can’t be sure. There’s a ton of essay notes about her background, tastes, habits. Father’s an airline pilot, she’s been to America. No visible boyfriend. Long legs. Nothing to suggest the remotest possibility said long legs might ever be wrapped around Neil’s neck.’

‘It’s like he was fifteen,’ Mark observed.

‘It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow,’ Mickey said. ‘A good time for young love. Ah, but it says here he’s decided not to send a card because that would be “trite and childish”. Ooo-woo, what an adult.’

Pippa had told Michael not to bother with a card and, after wondering whether she meant it or not, Mark decided to believe her. He still wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing.

‘We can use this,’ Michael said. ‘I foresee massive humiliation. Give me paper.’

Mark tore a sheet from a ruled pad. Michael sat at the desk and took the cover off the typewriter. He fed in the paper.

‘This will be a challenge,’ he said. ‘No “e” and no “s”.’

‘“Dear Rachael” is out, then,’ Mickey put in.

Michael nodded and held up a hand for quiet. ‘Let me think, let me think... ah, yes, got it...’

DARLING
, he typed,
TONIGHT, MIDNIGHT, MY ROOM, WAITING FOR YOUR
...

‘Love? No, it has an “e”.’

‘Sex,’ suggested Mickey.

‘An “e” and an “s”.’

HOT BODY
, he typed.

‘Hot body?’ Mark said.

‘It’s the kind of Neily thing she’d expect,’ Michael protested. ‘It has to be convincing. It’s not what
I’d
put in a
billet doux’.

With his left hand, he signed Neil’s name. It was readable, but nothing like a grown-up’s handwriting. Mark found an envelope in a desk drawer and Michael popped in the note. Mickey fished out a durex from his wallet.

‘Shove this in for that final romantic touch.’

Michael cringed. ‘That’s appalling.’

He put the condom in with the message from Neil.

‘Anything else?’

‘Five pounds would be truly insulting,’ Mark ventured.

‘No,’ Mickey said, ‘this would be worse...’

He took out a pound note and tore it in half.

‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ he said.

‘I don’t get it,’ Michael said.

‘Slip half the note in with the johnny and the letter. Raunchy Rachael gets the rest when she spreads ’em for Mr Suave.’

Michael laughed again.

‘This is disgusting,’ he said, accepting the half-note. ‘Pin the other half to his board. With luck he won’t notice it, but
she
will when she comes round to force feed him his wastebasket.’

‘She looked like a big girl,’ Mickey said. ‘Athletic. Probably has a good right hook.’

‘It’s tragic we won’t be here for the fireworks,’ Michael said.

Mark checked his watch. They’d been in the room for three-quarters of an hour. There wasn’t much more they could accomplish.

‘I say we withdraw and come back in to pull the sink stunt when he’s at his seminar tomorrow. This Rachael move is too sweet to complicate.’

They agreed. They left the room and locked up. Before they left Tadcaster Hall, Mark slipped the envelope (which Mickey had pencilled a heart on in red) under Rachael’s door. The Quorum left the hall. Mark, ahead of schedule, had time to make the last two-thirds of his Marlowe lecture, leaving the others to make their way back into town.

He was working on an essay about masochism in
Dr Faustus.
If his brief omnipotence is followed by an eternity of torment, it’s hard to see what’s in the Deal for Faustus. After reviewing his undistinguished first term - he’d been too caught up with Pippa and leaving home to do actual work - Brian Ellison, his assessor, admitted Mark had really seized the opportunity of Tragedy.

The next day, Mark rapped at the door to make sure Neil was out. After sustained knocking, he used the key. The room was different. Neil’s bed was unmade and one of the shelves had been ripped off the wall, dumping books over the floor.

Mickey laughed, ‘What a woman.’

‘Zhou don’t suppose she came over and shagged him senseless?’

‘I’d doubt that,’ Mark said. ‘This looks more like the aftermath of a shouting and screaming fit than a night of unbridled passion.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Mickey said.

‘I think she chucked the typewriter at his head.’

‘Amazing, Holmes,’ Mickey spluttered. ‘How did you deduce that?’

There was a triangular dent in the plasterboard just above the pillow, and the typewriter lay face down on the floor.

Knowing Neil, Mark guessed he was wrung out with embarrassment and confusion. As far as he was concerned, the girl next door whom he fancied, but didn’t dare approach, had barged in late at night and attacked him like a fiend. She’d probably have been in no mood to give an explanation.

‘This is better than clobbering him on his coursework,’ Mickey said. ‘Neil could always muddle through by working harder. I think we’ve found his weakness. Women.’

‘Everybody’s weakness,’ Michael observed.

‘Let’s hurry up and make our move,’ Mickey said. ‘One more shot and we’re through for a year, remember?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mark muttered.

Neil’s washstand was a mess, squeezed toothpaste tube on the floor, hot tap dripping, towel in a bundle by the bed. The mirror was cracked. Rachael again. Mark found a flannel and jammed it into the plughole as if it had accidentally clogged there. He turned the tap.

‘Not too much,’ Michael said. ‘Zhust a slow trickle.’

Even at its current rate, the level rose. In maybe ten or fifteen minutes the sink would overflow. Within half an hour, water would gush into the room below.

‘He won’t remember washing his face this morning,’ Mickey said. ‘He’ll be too wound up about Roughhouse Rachael.’

‘The tap was dripping. This is a completely believable accident.’

He twisted the tap a smidgen more, the water flowed a tad faster.

C
rossing the Atlantic, he travelled forwards and backwards at the same time, losing a slice of night. Jet lag was not a problem. His bodyclock came fitted with a temporal gyroscope, he always adjusted instantly. It was a gift: some people were lucky, and he was one of them. Comfortably curled in his Superior Class lounger, lulled by the wine from the party, he snatched four hours’ quality sleep. He woke with a clear head as the plane began its descent to JFK. He shared the privileged cabin with Loud Stuff, a shaggy rock group, and a diplomat who gripped an attaché case as if it were handcuffed to his wrist. Miren, Mickey’s personal stewardess, offered a jolt of complimentary orange juice. He sloshed it around his mouth, cleaning his teeth. The landing was smooth. It always was in Superior.

He was first off the plane. Miren kissed his cheek as he left. She smelled slightly of citrus fruit. Tangy but refreshing. At the end of the carpeted corridor stood a uniformed hispanic name-tagged ‘Raimundo’. He held a sign which spelled out ‘Mr Yeo’. Mickey identified himself and was led through a womb-like passage to a sunlit VIP reception lounge. A woman with smooth honey-blonde hair and an orthodontal smile awaited.

‘My name is Heather Wilding. I’m with Pyramid and I’ve been assigned to you for your personal ease and convenience.’

He couldn’t help grinning. Heather wore a tailored business suit: a severe jacket with a short skirt. She was a career magazine cover: hands on hips, jacket wings swept back, chest out-thrust, eyes bright with determined promise.

Loud Stuff trundled in, blaming their road manager for the loss of a case of synthesiser equipment. Mickey shrugged and smiled at Grattan, the lead singer, who peered back through a curtain of hair extensions. Having heard rumours of the
Choke Hold
album project, he’d personally come over to Mickey’s lounger to ask to be considered for a slot. Mickey had assured him he was top of the list, keeping to himself that it was the ‘Not Now Not Ever NEVER’ list.

‘Have your people call my people and we’ll interface,’ Mickey said, his personal slang for ‘fuck off’.

The diplomat handed his case over to an American and walked back to reboard the plane for its return flight.

‘Mr Yeo’s luggage is being processed,’ a functionary explained to Heather. ‘Would he care for complimentary champagne?’

Heather looked to him.

‘Why the hell not?’ he said. ‘You want a blast?’

‘Too early for me, Mr Yeo,’ she said.

‘Call me Mickey.’

A cork popped, a chilled flute was put in his hand: the party never ended.

‘I have your itinerary, Mickey,’ Heather said, producing a long envelope. ‘But first we’ll convey you to the hotel and afford you a freshen-up period.’

Mickey felt the envelope.

‘I’m going to be fuckin’ busy,’ he said.

‘We aren’t inhuman,’ Heather smiled. Her eyes were the same shade of blue-grey as the sky visible through panorama windows. ‘We’ve factored breathing time into your schedule.’

‘Ta everso.’

‘We don’t wish to impact negatively on your health.’

‘Too right, John.’

‘My name is Heather.’

‘Right, Heth.’

Raimundo reported that Mickey’s luggage was stowed in the limo, and Heather led him past the queues to Immigration. He gave Loud Stuff the high sign but they were too wrapped up in recriminations to notice. The formalities were accomplished with a wave of a British passport. He almost took his barely sipped champagne through but remembered at the last moment to return the flute to the functionary. Heather had expedited the way, the paperwork was over in an instant. She could get Josef Mengele warmly welcomed into Israel.