The Quorum (6 page)

The lift was still out of order, so she had to take the works up the stairs. First she went up and circumvented the suite’s personal alarm. With some deft fiddling and her electronic key, she got the doors open. The Penthouse was dark and empty. It took three quick trips to get everything into Tiny’s office and she arranged it all on his desk, working by the streetlight.

She felt ill. Since realising what was going on, she’d been more sensitive to the gloom trapped within the walls of the Mythwrhn Building. It was a miasma. The water in the pipes smelled like blood.

Had Bender been trying to break the Device when he smashed the windows? If so, he’d made a mistake.

There was a hatch directly above the desk, just where it was indicated on the plans she’d borrowed. Above would be a crawlspace under the lead shield. She put a chair and the now-untenanted statuette stand on the desk, making a rough arrangement of steps, and climbed up to the ceiling. A good thump dislodged the hatch and she stuck her head into smelly dark.

She’d assumed this was where all the energies would gather. The cavity didn’t feel any worse than the rest of the building and she had a moment of doubt. Was this really crazy?

After ferrying up the four buckets and the other stuff, she jammed through into the crawlspace. Here she could turn on the bicycle lamp Connor had left in her flat. She shone the beam around. She almost expected to find screaming skeletons and the remains of blood sacrifices, but the cavity was surprisingly clean. Meccano struts shored up the lead shield and criss-crossed the plastered ceiling. There was a slope to the roof, so the crawlspace grew from a two-foot height at the street edge of the building to four feet at the rear. If she placed her buckets near the rear end, the blast should neatly slide off the lead shield and dump it into the square. With luck, not on the heads of innocent passersby.

She crawled carefully but still opened her palm on a protruding nail. The floor was studded with spikes, either one of Drache’s devilish frills or a defensive feature. Crouching at the rear of the building, she pushed up, testing the shield. It was unresisting. Prominent bolts were spaced around the walls. With a monkey-wrench, she loosened as many as she could reach. She banged her elbows constantly and skinned her right knuckles. Her hair was stuck to her face by sweat. This was not usually prescribed for expectant mothers.

With enough bolts loosened, she tried to push the shield again. It creaked alarmingly and shifted. Sally found she was shaking. She thought she could almost dislodge the lead without the bombs. But it was best to be safe.

She’d hoped the joists would be wooden, so she could screw in hooks to hang the buckets from. However, the metal struts came equipped with handy holes, so she was able to rig up the hanging bombs with stout wire. In each bucket of packed-down goo, she’d used Sexton’s recommended dosage for disabling a Russian tank. She stuck the long cigarettes in each bucket and flicked a flame from her disposable lighter.

Once the fuses were burning, she intended to get down to her desk and alert the skeleton overnight staff. She’d say she’d seen smoke pouring down the stairs. With five minutes, she should be able to evacuate the building.

She lit the four cigarettes and wriggled back towards the hatch. Down in the Penthouse, lights came on and voices exclaimed surprise. Knowing she was dead, she dangled her legs through the hatch and dropped into the office.

* * *

‘What, no Leech?’ she said.

Tiny was between the others, shaking and pale. The Device had been eating at him as much as his employees. Sally guessed he was only in the consortium as a judas goat.

Quilbert was in charge, Drache was along for the ride, and the non-descript man holding Tiny up was the muscle. He was also the van driver who’d knocked down Connor and the balls-squeezer who’d pressured Roebuck. He looked more like a plumber than Satan’s Hit Man.

‘Ms Rhodes, what are you doing?’ Quilbert asked.

‘Raising the roof.’

Tiny shook his head and sagged into his chair. Drache strode around the office, examining his handiwork. He had a black leather trenchcoat and showy wings of hair like horns.

‘The stand should be here,’ he said, pointing to the dust-free spot where it had stood. ‘For the proper balance. Everything is supposed to be exact. How often have I told you, the patterns are all-important?’

Quilbert nodded to the muscle, who clambered onto the desk and stuck his head into the crawlspace.

‘Smells like she’s been smoking,’ he said.

‘It’s a secret,’ she said. ‘I quit but backslid. I have to take extreme measures to cover up.’

‘I think I can see...
buckets?’

Quilbert looked at Sally as if trying to read her mind. ‘What have you done?’

‘I’ve forestalled the Device,’ she said. ‘It was all wasted.’

Quilbert’s clear blue eyes were unreadable.

‘Only an innocent can intervene,’ Drache said pompously. ‘You’ve taken blooded coin.’

‘He’s right,’ Quilbert said. ‘You don’t understand at all. Everything has been pre-arranged.’

‘Not everything,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a baby.’

Drache looked stricken but Quilbert and Tiny didn’t get it. She supposed they found it all as hard to believe as she did.

‘There’s something burning,’ a voice mumbled from above. ‘In the buckets...’

Drache flew around in a cold rage.

‘If she’s carrying a child, she’s washed clean,’ he said, urgently. ‘It’ll upset the balances.’

‘What have you done?’ Quilbert asked.

Sally smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘Put out the fires,’ Quilbert shouted up, ‘at once!’

She should tell them not to tamper with the buckets in case the burning fuses fell. For the sake of her child, she couldn’t die.

‘Careful,’ she said...

The ceiling burst and a billow of flame shot into the office, flattening everyone. A dead human shape thumped onto the desk, covered in burning jelly. Sally’s ears were hammered by the blast. The stench of evaporating goo was incredible. Metal wrenched and complained. Hot rivets rained onto the fitted carpet. She heard screaming. A raft of steel and plaster bore down on Quilbert and Tiny. The windows had blown out, and the air was full of flying shards, glinting and scratching. She felt a growing power deep inside her and knew she would survive.

The cloud of flame burned away almost instantly, leaving little fires all around. Drache stumbled, a bloody hand stuck to half his face, and sank to his knees, shrieking. Sally was flat on her back, looking up at the ceiling. She saw night sky and felt the updraught as the accumulated misery of months escaped to the Heavens like prayers.

* * *

They kept her in hospital for weeks. Not the same one as Drache and Quilbert, who were private, and certainly not in the department that had received the still officially unidentified van driver. She only had superficial injuries, but in her condition the doctors wanted to be careful with her.

She read the media pages every day, following the ripples. In the week before the auction, the consortium fell apart. Mausoleum Pictures, wildly over-extended, went bust, bringing down yet another fifth of the British Film Industry. Tiny promised
Survival Kit
would be back as soon as he was walking, but he’d have to recruit a substantially new staff since almost everyone who had worked in the now-roofless Mythwrhn Building was seeking employment elsewhere. Most wanted to escape from television altogether and find honest work.

The police had interviewed her extensively but she pleaded amnesia, pretending to be confused about what had happened just before the ‘accident’. No charges against her were even suggested. Mythwrhn even continued to pay her salary even though she’d given notice. After the baby, she would not be returning.

Derek Leech, never officially involved in the consortium, said nothing and his media juggernaut rolled on unhindered by its lack of a controlling interest in a franchise. GLT, somewhat surprised, scaled down their bid and fought off a feeble challenge at auction time, promising to deliver to the British Public the same tried-and-tested programme formulae in ever-increasing doses. On
Cowley Mansions
, Peter the gay yuppie had a son-brother and, salary dispute over, the ghost of Ell Crenshaw possessed her long-lost sister.

Apart from the van driver and Drache, who lost an eye, nobody had really been punished. But none of them benefited from the Device either. All the gathered misery was loose in the world.

The day before she was due out, April and Pomme visited. April was taking it ‘one day at a time’ and Pomme had discovered a miracle cure. They brought a card signed by everybody on
Survival Kit
except Tiny.

The women cooed over Sally’s swollen stomach and she managed not to be sickened. She felt like a balloon with a head and legs and nothing she owned, except her nightie, fit any more.

She told them she’d have to sell the flat and get a bigger one or a small house. She’d need more living space. That, she had learned, was important.

Born of filth, he stood on the river-bed, feet anchored, completely submerged. A lily of hair floated on the surface. His buoyant arms rose like angel wings. Though weak, standing by the dock current streamed at his back. The river worked to uproot him.

He opened his eyes; his first image was green murk, shadows filtering down. Before the murk, there was nothing. He was new-formed. Yet his mind was full: he had language, knowledge, purpose. He had a name: Leech.

For a moment, he hesitated, suspended. The water was warm. It was all he had ever known. To leave would be a peril, an adventure.

A newspaper passed by, sliming his face like a heavy eel. Experimenting with his face, he constructed a tight-lipped smile that grew to be a skull-wide grin.

The adventure began.

He took his first steps, lifting his feet and wading through scratchy silt. His head slowly broke the surface. He blinked away water. A rush of noise poured in: the backwash by the dock, gulls, distant traffic. Nose and mouth clear; he filled his lungs and began, evenly and deliberately, to breathe. He did not gulp or choke.

The Thames coughed him up. Covered in an oily film, he walked. The tug of water passed down his body, pulling at his chest, his groin, his shins. It was the work of minutes to get ashore.

Emerging from the dock’s shadow, he stood on a stretch of mudflat at the foot of a grey wall inset with rusty giant rings. Water-smoothed chunks of glass and snapped lengths of clay pipestem pricked the soft soles of his feet.

He wiped sludge from his face. Carefully, before muck could dry on him, he washed. Naked and clean, he squatted by the river. He considered his wavering white reflection a moment, then scattered it with a swirling dip of his fingertips.

The flat was littered with gifts. He collected a pair of empty spectacle frames, a bottleneck with a blade of sharp glass, a stub of pencil, a cellophane crisp packet and a squeaking rubber teddy bear.

A gull alighted on the dock and watched him with disinterest. It beat its wings once. He imitated the movement, shaking his head, straining his shoulder-blades. The bird reached up and flapped into the air. Unblinking, he watched it spiral to the sun.

A ropey twist of cloth, stiff with sewage, unwound into a long overcoat, its pockets exploded, its buttons a memory. He did his best to wring out the dirt and covered his nakedness. He found a length of material, once a school tie, and used it as a belt.

His first meal was a soggy breadcrust with a stone-hard core and a ripe dog turd. He had no taste or smell, but knew his current appearance and habits would give general offence. Soon, he must moderate them. He tore an arm off the bear and chewed it, mouth filling with saliva, sharp teeth grinding. He needed to keep his jaws working, lest his teeth outgrow his mouth.

On top of the wall, something tiny fluttered. It was a pound note, paperweighted with an egg-shaped stone. Using a ring as a foothold, he eased himself up and claimed the prize.

He held up the note and looked through it at the sun. Green light shone through a young woman’s face.

His first spoken words were ‘I want to bet.’

‘You got no shoes, mate,’ said the man behind the window.

‘I want to bet,’ Leech repeated, smoothing the note on the formica counter.

‘It’s your money.’

‘Dog Number Six.’

‘Twenty to one, mate.’

‘Dog Number Six.’

The man shrugged and took the note. He scribbled a ticket and slid it under the grille.

A man in a cap, slouching by the steam radiator pointed and laughed, low-hanging belly shaking. Leech took out his spectacle frames and put them on. Receiving a quick glance, the man stopped laughing.

While he waited for the result, he chewed the severed bear arm. He ignored people who stared at him.

Dog Number Six came in at twenty to one.

‘Lucky Jim,’ someone said.

Leech told the clerk to let his winnings ride and picked Dog Number Four in the next race.

By closing time, he had nearly £400. Outside, men waited to take his money from him. He put the banknotes into the surviving inside pocket of his coat and took out his treasure trove. In one hand, covered by the long sleeve, he held the bottleneck. In the other, concealed by his palm, the stub of pencil. He left the betting shop and protected his winnings.

He insisted on sprinkling his own
cappuccino.
Without the distraction of taste, he was able to create a perfect image of chocolate-spotted froth.

‘You’re a connoisseur
signor
,’ Mama Gina said. She brought him his pastry. He would crumble it and eat slowly, making it last. He kept food in his mouth to have something to chew.

Leech did business from the rear table in Mama Gina’s on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. His suit had no lapels, his shoes were shined to black mirrors. His hair just grew down over his ears. He wore midnight-black sunglasses and, a distinctive touch, a wide-brimmed hat. They called him ‘pilgrim’.