Tom
surreptitiously slipped the tie from his neck and slid it into his
jacket pocket. A club jam-packed with expectorating punk rockers
clad in leather and safety pins was not the venue in which to sport
a necktie. Nor was it the place to wear a blue blazer with a
college crest, rumpled grey cords and Hush Puppies. Not for the
first time in the uncomfortable half-hour since he had arrived Tom
wondered why he had come.
The reason was
a pair of caramel brown eyes that still, a year on from his last
sight of them, followed him in his dreams. The note in his pocket
was mysterious - which, of course, was one reason why he had
rearranged his life at short notice to stand in surroundings he
found deeply disagreeable.
'Tom,' it
said, 'will you meet me at the Singing Bird on Friday night? Any
time after 9.30. There's a ticket in your name on the door. Please
come - I need your help badly. Christina.'
The name
'Slack' had been added in brackets after 'Christina' but it had
been unnecessary. Tom had often thought of the slim schoolgirl at
the bottom of the stairs on his last visit to the home of Professor
Slack. Almost all of those thoughts had been guilty ones.
He had sold the compromising photo of Lionel Slack to
the
Sunday Skunk
and at the time it had seemed like an inspired move. He had
driven a hard bargain - it had been the first real test of his
negotiating skill - and the money which subsequently lay in his
deposit account was earmarked to bankroll his off-campus schemes.
'Hold the front page,' remarked the newspaper executive who had
signed the cheque.
'Whore Stuffed
By Virgin sensation. If we can afford it, we'd better put this
chiseller on the payroll.'
But the
Skunk
- 'Never scared to raise a stink!' - had gloried in its pound
of flesh. 'LECHEROUS LECTURER'S DEN OF VICE!' ran the banner
headline, 'Meet Professor Lionel Slack' - dirty old man of
letters!'
Naturally the
Skunk
had garbled the facts. It improved the story no
end to say that Elvira was one of the Professor's pupils and not
his au pair. Tom, his identity masked as 'a concerned student', was
quoted, claiming that the Professor 'always looks up girls' skirts
in tutorials' and 'it's common knowledge that some female students
leave their knickers off to gain better marks.' With the stolen
photograph (judiciously cropped) as its centrepiece, accompanied by
pictures of a tearful wife accosted on the doorstep by a reporter,
Lionel didn't have much of a leg to stand on.
What Tom had
not foreseen and what now lay at the root of his guilty conscience
was the fall-out from this affair. The Professor disappeared from
the university almost overnight - rumour had it that he had flown
to Italy with Elvira - and the large sunny house on the green was
suddenly occupied by a new Professor of English, a tight-arsed
martinet whose passion was Anglo-Saxon poetry. A couple of months
later Tom saw Mrs Slack in a supermarket in the city centre. She
was standing in front of a shelf of baked beans with her hair in
rat's tails and her blouse buttoned up wrong. It was only then that
Tom realised exactly what he had done.
Now he stood
in the uncomfortable surroundings of the Floating Turd - as it was
known - squeezed on all sides by a leaping shouting crowd of his
own age who dressed and spoke as if they came from outer space.
Which they might well have done for all Tom knew. Of the cool and
beautiful nymphet Christina there was no sign - until the band came
on.
Tom didn't
know much about music - any music - and the complexities of
contemporary pop styles were a foreign language to him. This hadn't
stopped him volunteering to manage his friend Sebastian's student
band but he had seen that as a financial opportunity and acted
accordingly. So, when five girls jumped on stage and began to
thrash their instruments and shout, he took no interest in the
noise they made. But he took a lot of interest in the crowd's
reaction and in the band's appearance.
He spotted
Christina at once, though her hair had been pulled up into spikes
and was streaked with pink. She stood at the back in a torn white
T-shirt and army boots, a ring gleaming in her left nostril as she
banged at an electric guitar.
The other
members of the group were dressed in a similar fashion though they
managed to show a great deal more flesh. Tom's attention was caught
- as was every other observer, he imagined - by the singer at the
front of the small stage.
She was older
than the others, a woman among schoolgirls. She wore a leather mini
and a black halter top which displayed the body of a showgirl. Her
legs were long and strong and, from Tom's vantage below the stage,
they seemed to go on forever, up into the dark mystery beneath her
abbreviated skirt.
Unlike the
other girls, her hair flowed about her face and shoulders in a
black mane. As she sang she ran her fingers through the dark mass,
tossing and shaking it as she thrust her face up into the
spotlight. Her features were big and exotic: a long nose, a firm
jaw and broad full lips. Whatever she was singing, it came from the
heart and she had the audience of scruffy, sneering kids eating out
of her hand.
After the set,
Tom pushed his way to the door, his ears ringing. When he'd gone in
he'd shown no interest in the advertised list of performers. Now he
noted that he had been watching Shani and the Shagbags. Christ,
what a bloody name.
He'd assumed
finding Christina would be a hassle but, at the front office, he
was simply pointed towards an unmarked door which led
backstage.
She met him in
the corridor. Close up the eyes were as magical as before though he
couldn't say the same about the rest of her.
'I saw you in
the audience,' she said. 'You're a bit straight for a place like
this.'
'You're not
kidding. What's this all about, Christina?'
She stepped
close. 'I need a favour, Tom. I know we don't really know each
other but my dad always liked you and I can't think who else to
ask.'
'Ask away.'
Those sincere brown eyes made him feel like Judas. Whatever she
wanted he knew he would help.
'We need a
manager. Will you do it?'
He was struck
dumb. He hadn't expected this.
'You handle
The Scholars, don't you, and they're doing really well. Please,
Tom.'
'But that's
different. That's just student union gigs. You're in a bigger
league.'
'Do you think
so?'
'To be honest,
Christina, I might have cloth ears but, judging by your singer, you
should be top of the hit parade.'
'Hey, Tina, I
like him already!' The soft voice came from just behind Tom.
Shani looked no less overwhelming up close. A loose white
shirt covered her shoulders but hung open to reveal her sumptuous
curves, still glistening from her on-stage exertions. Her skin was
a pale
cafe au lait
and her eyes were as black as midnight.
Tom put out
his hand. 'You were fantastic,' he said, doubtless it was expected
of him but nevertheless it was true.
Her touch was
warm and dry and she kept hold of his hand, pulling him into the
band's dressing-room. The other girls were sitting around smoking.
They weren't wearing many clothes.
The lead
guitarist was naked, teasing her spiky red hair in front of the
mirror. From the rear, the two halves of her arse were spread wide,
white and firm.
The drummer
was towelling her hair, naked to the waist. She made no attempt to
cover her small high tits as Tom entered. The keyboard player was
rolling a joint, her bare breasts dangling, the nipples long and
red.
'Hey, girls,'
said Shani, 'meet our new manager. He says he's going to put us on
top of the charts.'
There was a
silence. The lead guitarist swigged from a beer bottle and
belched.
'He doesn't
look old enough,' said the keyboard player. 'I suppose he's going
to fuck us over like those other sleaze balls.'
'I hope he can
fuck, at any rate,' said the drummer. 'The last one had no staying
power.'
'Meet the
Shagbags, Mr Manager,' said Shani. The dark shadow of her cleavage
beckoned him. The broad swell of her hip pushed against his. 'Do
you think you can handle us?'
'Come clean,
doc, is he putting it on?' Claire Quartermain's voice was
low-pitched and confidential. Nevertheless Madeleine Flint had no
doubt that they had reached the crux of the phone call.
'I don't think
so,' said Madeleine into the mouthpiece wedged between her shoulder
and chin. She was using both hands on a computer keyboard and at
the same time her eyes flicked backwards and forwards across a bank
of monitors above her head. Dr Flint believed in making the best
use of her time.
'So he really
has lost his memory?' said Claire.
'It's only a
partial loss and it's returning fast. As of now he can recall his
entire life up to the age of twenty more vividly than he has done
for years.'
'Huh.' The
inspector was unimpressed. 'How long's it going to take until he
remembers last Friday night?'
'I can't say.
This kind of thing is unpredictable.'
'Can't you
hurry him along? Give him extra elephant juice or something?'
'Claire,
please.' Dr Flint introduced a hint of exasperation into her voice.
'This is strictly experimental treatment and I'm taking enough
risks already. You must realise that I'm working on the cutting
edge of neurological drug assistance. If he overdosed he could end
up stuck in some particularly potent episode of his past.'
'Some
particularly potent bonk, you mean?'
'Well, yes.
Given that we are aiming to stimulate his sexual memory and use
that as a trigger to recall past events and emotions. It's like
asking a word processor to—'
'—search for a
key phrase in a document - I know all this crap, doc, you've dinned
it into me before.'
Madeleine
Flint sighed loudly, she was weary of this conversation.
'So you're
saying,' continued the policewoman, 'that we have to wait till he's
caught up with all the fucking he's done between the ages of twenty
and thirty-eight? Christ, woman, at that rate this case won't make
court till next century!'
On the monitor
to Madeleine's left, Tom Glass stirred feverishly on his bed. A
gentle hand reached out to soothe his brow. Nurse Biscuit was at
her station, a notebook and pencil in her lap.
'Be patient,
Claire,' said Dr Flint. 'We're getting some excellent material. I'm
going to hand him over to you stuffed and plucked, ready for the
oven.'
'Thank God for
that.'
'Just do me
one favour. Petra Rosewater, Glass's number two, is threatening to
move him.'
'What!'
'She's talking
about transferring him to a neurological unit elsewhere so she can
get other opinions on his condition. Can you have a word with
her?'
There was
silence on the line, followed by a sly chuckle. 'I'd love to,' said
Inspector Quartermain.
It was all
very well for Tom to say he trusted her, thought Petra as she sat
glumly at her desk, but there were some decisions she couldn't take
on her own.
For the most
part she knew what she was doing. Though the executive officers of
the reporting divisions of Glass Mountain would have preferred to
deal with Tom himself they accepted that, for the moment, she spoke
for him. Furthermore, a lot of time was spent in figure work,
reviewing performance against target, calculating growth and
compiling an overview of the group's position - areas in which she
specialised. Trouble-shooting the various divisions also took her
time but she'd had three years' worth of experience watching Tom do
it and, if she got stuck, she wasn't too proud to seek advice.
What gave
Petra most concern was the new stuff. Tom's future plans.
Innovations. That's what made men like him special, of course. They
saw an opportunity and went for it with conviction. It needed the
kind of skill and vision she didn't have.
Which is why
she was staring in confusion at the document in her hand. It was an
agreement from a firm of solicitors in Scotland declaring the
conditions under which Glass Mountain would purchase their clients'
glass-ornament business for five million pounds. At first Petra had
treated the matter as a joke and had rebuffed Messrs Mitre &
Gauze politely. It was when they sent her a copy of a covering
letter signed by Tom and guaranteeing the deal personally 'if it's
the last thing I do as Chief Executive of Glass Mountain' she began
to feel uneasy.
The agreement
was dated Friday 9th July - the day of Tom's accident. Harriet, his
secretary, had denied preparing it for him and indeed there was no
record of it on her word processor. However, they had discovered a
copy of it on his desk.
By now, Petra
had a sick feeling in her stomach. She couldn't credit that Tom
would have any interest in a glass-ornament business but the papers
in her hand told her otherwise. Maybe he knew something that she
didn't. He'd played crazy but profitable hunches before. But why
would he offer five million pounds for a concern that, as far as
she could tell, last year turned over something less than fifty
thousand?
It was almost
a relief to turn her mind to other matters though her pulse
quickened and her jaw set as Inspector Quartermain and a TCD
sidekick walked unannounced into the room.
'Sorry to drop
in on you like this,' said the policewoman.
'I'm very
busy,' said Petra in a voice that even to her own ears sounded
nervous and prim. 'I thought you'd finished here.'