Not Gonna Happen Read online

  “I think I’d best go,” he said distantly.

  “Not down to the bookies, I hope,” Frank said sternly.

  “No. To be honest, mate, I don’t think I’ll ever place another bet so long as I live.” For he had at last begun to see just why his life was becoming so quickly unravelled, and he was not liking what he was seeing. He was not liking it one bit, and resolved to do something about it, before it was too late.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I know not how I know,

  It’s my heart which screams, you see,

  I know not how to show

  My love to you from me.

  There are many different ways

  In which you I could approach,

  There are many different words

  Which you could then reproach.

  But what are words to we

  Whose hearts do speak as one,

  Whose sole reality

  Is the loss of all that’s wrong?

  And yet we never speak,

  Although I’ve known you many years,

  Because my heart is weak

  And my soul afraid of tears.

  I could tell you how I feel,

  I could split my whole heart wide,

  Although even should I kneel

  The truth I know inside.

  The truth of you and he,

  The other of your life,

  The one who I can see

  Is soon to make you wife.

  And so I do not act,

  Only look upon you now,

  But shall not my love retract,

  ‘Though my heart shall take a bow.

  Richard Starke paused at this point and considered what he had written. There was something wrong with it, this much he knew. It had taken him a grand total of nine minutes to write the whole thing down, and that was only because his pen could not have moved faster. When he conceived poetry it was a swift and dangerous process, yet once he got the words onto the page before him, he no longer liked what he had written. If he attempted to alter anything, the rhythm would be instantly lost and the entire purpose of the poem would be destroyed, irretrievably so. Nor did he ever do research for a poem, if he could so help it, for he believed very forcefully that if something was not conceived from the heart then it was not worth repeating at all.

  He looked back over the poem he had just written and toyed with the title, the most obvious for it being ‘I Know Not How I Know’, although he was not happy with that as it simply was a line from within the poem, the first line at that, and as such did he consider this to be a very lazy answer. It was a poem about something he could not have, someone he could not have, for otherwise he would have written himself into the equation a little more happily. It was not a poem, therefore, concerning a man speaking directly to the woman he loved, but to a woman to whom he could not say such words.

  And quickly did it come to him and he penned in the two words above his poem: ‘The Unattainable’, crossing out the title he had written previously. It seemed to work best in this regard, and he supposed he should be happy with the way the poem had at last turned out. He decided, eventually, that he was content. Contention was akin to happiness in a certain kind of way, and as such he was happy to be content. Then he wondered upon whether it was better to be happy to be content, or to be content to be happy.

  Then he decided he didn’t overly care and went to make himself a cup of tea.

  Richard Starke had lived alone for a long time. It was not so much through choice, although he had all but convinced himself that this was the case. His parents had divorced when he was young and he had been forced into a father role for the family. He had two younger sisters and felt overly protective of them, often to the exclusion of his own life. Starke would tell himself he did not mind, that he was happy to have surrendered much of his time for their benefit, but now he was beginning to wonder upon whether he was indeed happy to have done that, or merely just content.

  He was beginning to wish he had never begun comparing those two words in the first place.

  The phone rang at that precise moment and Starke jumped. He had fallen so far into his writing stupor that he had almost forgotten there was another reality out there. He picked up the receiver after the third ring (or what he presumed to have been the third ring since he didn’t realise it was even ringing at first) and said hello.

  “Richard, that you?”

  The voice was entirely familiar to him, and he half-smiled, half-frowned. “Of course it’s me, Liz. It’s my flat, my phone, my voice. Who else is it likely to be?”

  “What are you doing in your flat, at your phone?”

  Starke thought a moment, closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Whoops.”

  “Yeah, big whoops,” Liz said dryly. Starke had been going out with Liz for two years, which meant they had been together since he turned twenty-one, and in all that time he had proved himself to be perhaps the most unreliable partner a girl could ever have. If he said he would meet Liz somewhere, he was invariably still in his flat. If he said he’d go somewhere, he’d invariably be at his flat. If he said he’d head somewhere after work, he’d invariably be at his flat. In short, wherever Starke was supposed to be, he was invariably at his flat. Except when he was supposed to be at his flat, which was when he would have popped out somewhere. He was reliable only in his unreliability, although that was not especially a good thing.

  “Uh,” Starke said, “where was I supposed to be again?”

  There was a moment of silence upon the other end. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Well I figured if you’re phoning me with that look, it means you’re waiting for me somewhere, but I can’t remember where.”

  “What look?”

  “Where you scrunch your eyes together and that little scar just above your left eye flares.”

  Silence again.

  Starke waited, then said, “Hello?”

  “I am not laughing,” Liz said, which meant she was.

  “Oh.” Starke paused. “Someone on your end is.”

  “I’m angry,” Liz insisted.

  “Oh.”

  Liz coughed, and Starke could tell it was just to mask her giggling. He had not achieved outright laughter this time, and was disappointed. He knew he really shouldn’t stand her up so much, but he always managed to make Liz laugh, and that was (so she said) the reason she kept him around. That and he was cute. Apparently. Starke had never before considered himself cute, although nor had he ever understood girls, so he didn’t suppose it really mattered that much that they would think something entirely different to whatever he was thinking at the time. Under this reasoning it didn’t even matter that he stood Liz up every time they were meant to be going out somewhere; since he thought it a bad thing to do, she no doubt considered it ... well, cute at the very worst.

  “Stay where you are,” Starke said, “I’ll come to you.”

  “I haven’t even told you where I am yet.”

  “You’re at your mother’s, right?” He had remembered a few moments earlier, although had tried very hard to forget again. At least he wasn’t taking her out somewhere and had stood her up. Again.

  “Oh, H.M.’s finally remembered something.”

  Starke had long assumed that this was the reason the two of them had stayed together for so long. He was himself at heart a poet (or so he liked to tell himself) and she had an avid interest in the formation of the English language. As such they were both well-read and when one of them would mention an obscure metaphor the other would usually be able to pick up on it. Starke, at this point, quickly tried to think of the name of another famous amnesiac, although couldn’t remember one. Which, to his mind, was quite funny.

  “Sinclair,” he said at last.

  “Who is?”

  “He couldn’t remember stuff, could he?”

  “Who?”

  “Jeffrey Sin ... ah, forget it, actually.”

  “Ookayy,” Liz said, not certain she had j
ust understood a word he had just said. “Anyway, you coming over?”

  “I left five minutes ago, I’m almost there now.”

  “Strange that this is your home phone number.”

  “So I decided to bring my house with me, sue me.”

  Liz laughed again, despite herself, and coughed once more to disguise it. Starke was suddenly starting to realise why she kept stopping herself from laughing and said, “Ah, I get it. Your mother’s told you to phone me and tell me off, so laughing down the phone’s not going to look very good to her.”

  “Mmmn,” Liz said. “She’s looking at me through the glass of the living-room door, although she thinks I can’t see her. Means I can say what I like, because she can’t hear me, although so long as I look cross she’ll think I’m giving you a good telling off.”

  “Tell her I was on my way and stopped because I saw a bear with his foot trapped in one of those metal trap thingies with teeth.”

  He could all but hear Liz upon the other end blink. “You want me to tell her you were delayed because of a bear?”

  “And when I set him free, he had the nerve to take a swipe at me, which missed me but shore through the support pillar holding up a day care nursery. So I had to hold up the nursery while fending off the bear with my foot until help could arrive.”

  “And you want me to tell her this because?”

  “Because she’s not going to believe me whatever I have to say for myself, so you might as well tell her something she can’t disprove.”

  “I’m not so sure she’ll really have to try to disprove that one, Rich.”

  “Well, it’s getting late, so maybe I should just stop here and wait for you to get back, yeah?”

  “You are not getting out of coming over here,” Liz said. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d suspect you forgot all about this on purpose.”

  “I think I may have done, if we’re being honest with each other.”

  “When aren’t we?”

  “Is that a jokey comment or an accusation?”

  “Depends whether it needs to be an accusation.”

  “I’m going to assume that wasn’t a question and ignore it.”

  “So, when you going to get here?”

  “Uh, give me an hour.”

  “We’re only ten minutes away.”

  “I fancy the walk.”

  “I meant a ten-minute walk.”

  “Well I was talking about the scenic route.”

  Liz did not laugh, and suddenly Starke realised he was pushing this too far and that he should at this point simply surrender. “Ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll bring the bear, I mean beer.” And he hung up the phone. His mood, far from jovial, had taken a turn for the worst. It was not that he did not like Liz’s mother, it was just that she did not approve of his poetry. By trade Starke was a shopkeeper, or at least he worked in a shop, although at heart he was a poet. It was the poet in him of which Liz’s mother disapproved, because she had some strange outdated belief that all poets were sleazy individuals whose poetry was in effect composed only that they might get into the knickers of young ladies. It didn’t seem to occur (or perhaps matter) to Liz’s mother that he and Liz were already living together, so he didn’t need to try his poetry on her. (He had lived alone for a long time but had been living with Liz for a short while now. He tended to forget that for some reason. Often.) Liz’s mother didn’t seem to care. Add to that the fact that he had a problem remembering the woman’s name and continually had to refer to her as Liz’s mother, and their relationship was somewhat turbulent. He could never remember whether it was Anne or Anna, and he knew that she hated being called the one it wasn’t. All this time he had been going out with Liz, and he still couldn’t remember her mother’s name.

  But then, he supposed that was one of the things which made him cute. Whatever.

  Starke toyed with the idea of not going and making some excuse later, although from Liz’s final tone he knew this would be a bad idea. If there was a means by which he could make her laugh through it, he would do it, although he knew when he had pushed her too far and supposed he had no choice now but to go.

  Sighing, Starke headed out the door and began to walk. It was a couple of minutes before he realised he was walking slowly, and he knew that it was because while his brain had surrendered, his body was still holding out the vain hope that there was a way out of this. He found himself standing before his shop and noticed he had actually stopped. Surely he had not meant to stop? But then, surely he had not meant to come to the shop anyway, considering it wasn’t exactly on the way to Liz’s mother’s house.

  The shop was nothing special so far as bookshops went, and he did not particularly like working there, although he had inherited it from his Uncle Pete. Sort of. The truth was that it was actually his uncle’s shop, and Starke just worked there. It was just that his uncle had taken off to New Zealand a year ago and still hadn’t come back. Starke was officially in charge until he returned, although was under no false impression that Uncle Pete was ever coming back. He had formed a part of the mass exodus to see the sights of New Zealand after the Lord of the Rings films came out. The thing was, most of those people had come back by now.

  Starke quite liked the Lord of the Rings. Not the films, and not the book especially, but the film sold some of his books, so made him money. He also found he quite liked New Zealand since it had left him in charge of a shop.

  The material they (he) sold varied. They were supposed to sell antique books, although Starke had found it too constricting. He had too many people come in asking for the latest Harry Potter, only to have to tell them that his books for sale were all really old. They would pause and ask him whether he had the first one, then. After several such encounters he had looked into what it would take to be able to sell newer books and found it a surprisingly easy process. He did not believe Uncle Pete would mind, so changed his regime. The antique books sold reasonably well, although Harry Potter sold better.

  Starke did not mean to enter the shop, although the next thing he knew he was standing inside and quietly closing the door. It was eight in the evening of a Friday and as such the shop was closed, and everything was just as he had left it only two and a half hours earlier. Which was comforting because it meant he had not been burgled. Not that a burglar would be able to steal anything in only two and a half hours, because first they would have to work their way through the clutter before they even had a chance of finding the safe. And to top it all off, there was no safe, and no cash kept on the premises after hours.

  After hours? Now where did that phrase come from? After which hours? Surely every time of the day was after hours of some sort.

  He knew that to begin such a self-debate would last him an eternity and so stopped himself before he could develop it. He took a grand look about the shop. There were freestanding shelves formed into aisles, with larger books on the bottom sections because when he had put them on the top ones the shelves had collapsed. It had looked better, for he loved dragging a large dusty volume from the top shelf (you couldn’t drag one from the bottom shelf, it just didn’t work as an image), although with shelves collapsing it didn’t seem viable. He also had shelves across the sides of the one room, and a little alcove leading to a specialist section which was really just a very small cavern containing all the old cookery books. Once someone was in there, it was difficult to turn around and get out, so they had to make it appear as though they were looking at the books while they tried to get out in order to prevent embarrassment. It was the only way Starke could think to make people even glance at an ancient cookery book.

  His new ones were close to the till, a whole two rows of them, which was enough to keep him in money.

  His biggest sellers at the moment were the children’s books, which had surprised him. He knew that the old Rupert Bear and Winnie-the-Pooh stories were popular, and if ever he acquired any of them he found he could charge whatever he wanted, so long as they were old enough. (The
books, not the customers.) He longed for the time when he would find a Winnie-the-Pooh first printing at a boot fair, for then he could likely retire, or at least in his imagination. Doctor Who annuals, now there was something else worth its weight in paper.

  Worth its weight in paper? Starke cringed. It was a weak pun linking paper from books to paper from twenty-pound notes, and he decided never to use it again.

  It was at this point that Starke began to wonder just what he was doing at his shop. He was not open, he had nothing to tidy, no finances to sort out. Indeed, the only reason he could possibly conceive for his being there was that he was hiding. It seemed like a good enough reason now that he had actually confessed it, although at the same time he could not see it holding up particularly well once he had to explain it to Liz.

  There was a noise from the front of the shop and Starke half-turned to see what it could have been. He tried to remember whether he had remembered to lock the door, although it did not matter, for he could see the door from where he was standing and it was still closed. The noise sounded again, and this time he listened that he might be able to identify it. It sounded very much like the clawing of nails upon rock, as though there was a dog outside scratching at the paving stones. If that was the case, Starke knew it did not concern him and as such turned his attention back to his books; then remembered his attention had not been on his books to begin with because there was nothing he needed to do with them. Perhaps, all things considered, his best option would be to go and make sure the door was actually locked. He had no particular fear of dogs, although if there was some rabid animal outside trying to get in, it was best not to get bitten.

  He strolled over to the door, entirely conscious of the fact that there was no danger, when he heard a sound stranger than the scratching. It was the moan of some animal, something which was certainly not a dog. In fact, he could not place the sound, although knew he had heard it before. He stood there prone and silent, working through his mind as to what it might have been and hating not being able to remember something when he knew he should.