Free The Quorum by Kim Newman Page A

Year. Neil managed a chuckle.
    * * *
    Within a quarter of an hour exhaustion set in. Her psychic link with the Invader gently tugged. A deadline-at-dawn, rock-around-the-clock, this-is-much-better-than-what’s-in-the-charts-nowadays, who’s-been-in-the-bog-for-an-hour?, neighbours-round-to-complain, sick-in-the-street, busted-by-the-police, joints-rolled-on-album-covers, empty-the-fridge party was shaping up. She’d do well to miss the dregs. To ‘Goo Goo Barabajagal’ she unearthed her coat.
    Waving a general goodbye, she slipped out. Neil sat on a low brick wall at the boundary of the front garden, holding his head, radiating the helplessness she associated with the Invader. He lived on her route home: in Cranley Gardens, of mass-murder fame, a large bedsit partitioned into a cramped flat. She’d walked past, attentively, dozens of times.
    He looked up at the skies with unfocused eyes. It would be foolish to get to know Neil Martin. He was responsible for her moderate prosperity; that she’d been able to restart her agency so soon was a fluke. Without the client’s interest in this befuddled kitchen-sitter, she’d be a single parent queuing at the Department of Social Security.
    ‘Olive,’ he said. ‘Had your spinach?’
    He stood up, limbs not quite synchronised.
    ‘I’m walking down Muswell Hill Road. I’ll see you home.’
    He’ll tumble, Mummy. He’ll wonder how you know where he lives. It’s suspicious.
    Nonsense, darling child. When you’re older I’ll explain about hangovers. Tomorrow, he won’t remember my name.
    ‘You’re a heroine, Olive. Not like those supershits.’
    ‘Hurry up. This is a one-time offer.’
    Crisp cold air cleared her mind. Neil took a moment to coordinate, a dinosaur with separate brains for knees and elbows. From observation, she knew he was like this even without a pint of Jack in him.
    They crossed Archway Road and walked past the steps that led down to Highgate tube. A scattering of people were on the streets, mostly alcohol-fortified. The road, broad and well-lit, curved and dipped slightly as it threaded from Highgate to Muswell Hill, separating the forested patch of Highgate Wood from the smaller Queen’s Wood. Sally, confident there were enough huge and threatening forces in her life for her not to be bothered by ordinary dangers, walked at all hours. Dennis Nilsen, the local serial killer, had worked in the DSS, not lurked in the park.
    Almost out of the wood, Muswell Hill up ahead, Cranley Gardens a turn to the right: Neil concentrated on making his legs work.
    ‘Got any fags?’ someone asked, quickly. Suddenly in front of Neil, standing too close.
    Nearby: another young man, ungloved hands not in his pockets.
    ‘Cigs?’
    The questioner prodded Neil’s jumper. Neil looked puzzled at the pavement. He patted his pockets.
    ‘Smokes?’
    The questioner: jutting teeth, shell-suit. Eyes glittered, hostile. His friend: black guy, moustache wisp, oversized flat cap. Neil, half a head taller, looked sad.
    ‘Don’t smoke,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
    The questioner jabbed. Head turning, Neil missed getting a broken nose. He folded against railings, blood blurting from a nostril. The black guy loped forward and tilted on one hip, jabbing a shoe-toe above Neil’s ear. He spun and stumbled. Sober and tense, Sally looked into the white man’s little face and made fists.
    People were coming from behind, interrupting. The black guy knelt to punch Neil in the side, then pulled his friend’s sleeve. They ran off without trying to take anything or touch her. A long dark car cruised by, fanning light on the road. Fleeing shadows became spider-limbed straggles. Dr Shade in pursuit of evil-doers?
    She let out steamy breath. Neil gulped porridge into the gutter. People around: Gorilla Guerillas, costumes and make-up half gone. Sergeant Grit waited for Neil to finish being sick and helped him up. A tissue wiped a rope of clear fluid from his mouth.
    The gorillas apologised