Free The Quorum by Kim Newman

when they teamed up in Dazzling Duo Stories) look down on. A nerd avant la lettre, Cary had unruly hair, bottle glasses, and a habit of falling over that prevented anyone from deducing he was the superconfident and dextrous Streak.
    ‘Superheroes,’ Neil sneered. ‘Amazon Queen, Popeye, Dr Shade, all of ’em. Flying overhead, getting between us and the sun. Why can’t they bloody grow up?’
    The stool balanced miraculously against the edge of the counter; he took a gulp and held it in his mouth, letting it seep down his throat. Sally was held, fascinated. What would she think, she wondered, if she didn’t know anything about this man?
    ‘Shaggin’ Streak,’ he said, flapping fingers at Janet. ‘I was at school with the bloke who draws the Streak, you know.’
    Sally did know.
    ‘Mickey Yeo. Smart biscuit. Wasting himself.’
    There were pictures of them all in the file. Dr Marling’s Grammar School for Boys, 1970-1973; Ash Grove Comprehensive, 19731975; West Somerset College, 1975-1977. In school uniforms, then clothes more antiquated than fashions of the Roaring Twenties. Grouped together, studied in seriousness or goofiness.
    ‘The Streak,’ he burped. ‘One whoosh and the bastard’s gone, gone, gone...’
    * * *
    In the dance room, a TV was on with the sound down. Running up to midnight, Clive James sprinkled wryness between news clips. Derek Leech’s face appeared, squeezed between breasts as he introduced the Comet’s Knock-Outs of the Year. Dancers paused to hiss; a fanboy complained that since the tabloid tycoon devoured ZC Comics, the stable of superfolk had been reduced. Amazon Queen, Sally was appalled to learn, had been sucked out of existence by a time-warp; not just killed, her whole life revoked.
    A 1969 compilation rattled ancient speakers and Sally’s teeth. She bopped with the smaller Dr Shade to ‘Dizzy’ and Tamsin’s ‘Aquarius’. Dr Shade was another Leech property: a strip in his ‘heavy’ paper the Evening Argus. In her TV researcher days, she once stepped into a life and came face-to-face with Derek Leech. He’d not seemed fiend-like, though she gathered most horror stories about him were, if anything, understated.
    Deserted by a temporary hero presumably not speeding off in a Rolls-Royce Shadowshark to combat Forces of Evil, she fended off the Fat Slags, who slam-danced to Thunderclap Newman. She was pleasantly squiffy: the music was loud enough for her not to have to talk; the Invader was at home, love-tentacles slopping out for her heart. Tomorrow, they’d go to Highgate Wood: fairy frosts and frozen trees; ten months wasn’t too early to experience the world outside the flat.
    1993 approached. ‘Israelites’ was interrupted; Dolar turned up the TV sound and channel-hopped. As she stopped dancing, Sally felt muscles pop in her legs. Since the Invasion, her exercise class had lapsed. Among celebrities on Channel 4, she glimpsed the client. Was it possible to enjoy a party in front of cameras? Dolar found Big Ben: the preliminary chimes had started. Everyone linked arms and waited for the peals.
    ‘That’s it,’ a Fat Slag said, ‘goodbye Czechoslovakia, hello European Customs’ Union.’
    Pumping arms, they remembered most of the lyrics of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. The song collapsed: Sally was kissing and being kissed by people she barely knew. She broke contact when a gorilla put a hairy glove on her bottom. Party streamers rained in the overpopulated room. The taller Dr Shade, mysterious in wide-brimmed hat and concealing goggles, delicately pressed cold lips to hers. She kept her eyes open: across the room, Neil leaned against a door-jamb, barely supported by an Amazon Queen. Sally shrugged off Dr Shade, who enveloped a Ninja girl with his cape: she considered kissing Neil but he radiated grouchiness even to the Amazon Jailbait who stuck a chaste smacker on his cheek.
    Dolar, robes pungent with dope, came from behind and hugged Neil. He wished him a Zappy New