Free The Quorum by Kim Newman Page B

as if it were their fault. Once the Sergeant was sure Neil was okay, she wanted to go home and not be dragged to a cop shop. Who wanted to be detained all night, dressed as a mercenary monkey, not be able to give a decent description, for something not serious?
    When the Gorillas trooped off, Sally was left with Neil. She should take him to Fortis Green Hospital. A flappy hand pressed to his face, blood smearing between his fingers, he was pliable. He followed meekly as she led him up towards Woodside Avenue. This was another New Year’s Eve she wouldn’t look back on fondly.

2
NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1993
    ‘A re we quorate?’ Mark asked.
    Mickey gave an ‘aye’ and wrapped thin hands around his coffee mug for warmth. His shoulders shivered in his immobile fringed, white jacket. Despite the log fire, the country cottage froze in winter.
    Michael raised a languid hand and eased himself into the best armchair. He wore last night’s tuxedo, loose tie-ends on silky lapels. He’d been chubby as a child; sleek now, he still had a fat boy’s manner.
    ‘Three of Four,’ Mark said, formally. ‘Most but not All. We are a Quorum.’
    He pulled his forefinger cracking the knuckle. The ring, looser on him than on Michael, felt momentarily strange. As host, Mark was the new Ring. He stood in front of his fire, warmth seeping through the back of his jeans, and looked to the outgoing officer. Michael was Mark’s oldest friend; they’d met in September 1970, minutes before Neil came along, a full day before Mickey.
    ‘Open the fuckin’ shampoo, mate,’ Mickey said. He spoke BBC English to his parents but addressed the rest of the world like Bob Hoskins playing a football hooligan. It came from mixing too much with rock musicians.
    ‘Zhust getting up speed,’ Michael said, shaking the magnum. He had trouble with ‘J’ and ‘Y’ sounds; thanks to television, it had gone from defect to mannerism to distinguishing mark. The Spitting Image impressionist had the trick better than Michael.
    Michael eased off the stopper staunching an explosion under a teacloth. He tipped champagne froth into three tankards, then, after bubbles settled, poured overly generous measures.
    ‘Our Absent Friend,’ they said, clashing tankards like Musketeer swords.
    Mark would have chosen Chateau Pétrus (’82 should be about drinkable), but Moet was classic beyond vulgarity. Michael was the traditionalist, inclined to inherited complacent confidence. Mickey was the anarchist, a vegetarian in a £3000 leather jacket. Self-made Mark balanced the triad, careful, precise and right. They’d always been a perfect diagram of the class system; upper (Michael), upper middle (Neil), lower middle (Mickey) and working (Mark). Fortune, the Deal and attempts to rewire social genotypes hadn’t made a difference. Neil might be a street away from cardboard city, but their old headmaster, Chimp, would still rate him above a proletarian interloper like Mark.
    Settled, Michael knee-perched a slimline briefcase designed to be as much like a high-powered laptop computer as possible for an item of luggage. He tapped out an entry code, the case hissed open. Three red folders were produced, sealed with gold tape and old-fashioned wax.
    ‘Photocopied, sad to report,’ Michael said.
    Mark rubbed the seal. Imprinted was a stylised Q, descendant of the colophon Mickey designed, one art lesson at Marling’s, for their earliest documents. The seal matched the red-gold device inset in black marble on the ring. At the end of the day Michael would hand over the seal and the other instruments of office.
    Mickey finger-snapped wax away and riffled through the pages.
    ‘There’s a fuckload here,’ he commented.
    ‘Ms Rhodes is admirably thorough. One of our more efficacious footsoldiers. I recommend we hold her over for a further zhear’
    Mark ummed the suggestion. As Ring, that would be his decision.
    ‘This ante-meridiem, Ms Rhodes faxed me. I infer one of zhou will know