Not Gonna Happen Read online

“That’s why we need an experienced comedian to carry the show.” The eyes of the two men hung in silence for several moments; then Castle said, “Just kidding. Come on, let me show you how it all works.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  They were after him. They had been after him for a long time. That was why he had to get rid of his girlfriend; that was why he had to end things as quickly and as tidily as he could. Richard Starke wanted closure, needed closure, and he could not obtain such a thing if he was constantly looking over his shoulder.

  He had returned to his shop. He had got rid of the flat a month earlier. They knew where he lived anyway; she knew where he lived. There was no point in going back there. At least in the shop he felt safe. He had fortified the exterior as much as he could, had placed barbed wire across the walls at the back and set an alarm system to the whole building. He kept cash on the premises, hidden in a special place where no burglar would ever find it, and left the shop only when it became absolutely necessary. His groceries he could get on-line and delivered, his money he made within the building, so technically there was no reason for him to ever leave the shop again.

  Unfortunately, he knew the time would come when he would relax his guard just that small bit; and then they would pounce.

  Starke had not seen a wolf for some time now; it had been at least a week. He stared nervously from the inside of the window, wishing the steady throng of people moving through the street outside could see them, but they could not. The wolves were hunting, they were stalking their prey even now, and everyone in the world seemed oblivious to them. Everyone but Richard Starke.

  There was talking, even laughter, behind him. He had no customers, although there was talking behind him. Starke moved slowly from the window, taking firm hold of a hardback copy of War and Peace, knowing that one good thump would be enough to send any intruder into next Wednesday. He slunk behind a rack of light romance and worked his way across to the true crime. Why he had the two together he could not say, and began to wonder upon whether he should perhaps perform something of a shuffle with his genres when he remembered why he was among them at all.

  He stopped, crouched lower and listened. The voices continued, the laughter repeated itself. The sounds were not growing in intensity, but nor were they fading. Whoever was in his shop was staying in exactly the same place. Nor could he discern how many intruders there were. One moment there seemed to be two people, the next a dozen. Steeling his nerves, Starke leaped free of the true crime and with a brutal “Ha!” curling his lip did he stand with the hardback volume raised above his head.

  He was confronted by the television, the image portraying two people seated and discussing some trivial matter. There was a canned-laughter track upon the show.

  The door opened at that moment and Starke lowered the book and did his best to make himself appear as though he was simply engaged in a little novel rearrangement. There were two people who had entered the shop, an elderly man and woman, and he could not see that he had much to fear from either of them. Of course, those about whom he would let down his guard would make for the best assassins.

  He concentrated upon the television screen, keeping a candid eye on the elderly couple. The screen showed him nothing of interest, it was just some lame talk show, although the subject matter written in bold typeface at the bottom of the screen informed him as to the content of the show.

  “Women who can’t let go.”

  Starke’s thoughts turned back to his girlfriend, he had already forgotten her name, and he hoped she would not become one of the growing trend. He had made it quite clear to her at the time that he wished nothing more to do with her, although if indeed she did persist he knew he would have to have something done about her. Thus far she had not proven herself too much of a problem, but Starke was prepared for her should she change her attitude.

  His thoughts turned quickly to the woman he had trailed back to the fish-and-chip shop. He had not seen her in some time and he worried. However, he knew where she worked and believed that perhaps it would be better for all concerned were he to take the initiative in this instance.

  He kept his mind upon the television until his two customers left the shop, then quickly locked the door behind them and turned the sign to the closed position. It was only three o’clock, although he did not care about closing early. Moving to the back of the shop, Starke gathered together all the equipment he would need and threw it all into one handy bag. He checked his torch batteries were not running low before tossing that in also, and slung the bag across his shoulder. Leaving the shop, Starke quickly made his way down towards the fish shop. There was an alleyway behind it, and he ducked down there to deposit the bag of tools, tucking it away discreetly between two black sacks of food waste. No one had noticed him dart into the alley, and as he left it he took a deep breath and entered the fish shop.

  The atmosphere was stifling, the cooking area making it even hotter than it was upon the street, and he worried that he had been deceived into coming in at all. However, he was there and had to make the best of the situation.

  There was a large and balding man behind the counter and Starke told him he would have some haddock and chips, no salt. All the while his eyes were roving, searching for the woman who had come into his shop. The balding man expertly wrapped his food and Starke paid for it. It was just as he was about to walk off that he noticed the rear door open and then she was there. The same eyes, the same hair, the same sheer ambiance; it was without doubt the woman who had come to him before.

  Starke kept his head down and moved away, not wishing to make eye contact.

  Once upon the street, Starke headed back to the alley that he might retrieve his bag. It was still where he had left it. Armed with his tools once more, Starke crossed the road and walked into an alleyway opposite the fish shop. Reaching its end he found a drainpipe, and through some effort managed to clamber to the roof. Fortunately the roof of the building was flat, and it was here that he proceeded to lie on his belly and gaze down at the fish shop below him. His view was perfect; he could see through the window and could even see the woman who was the source of all his troubles.

  Retrieving a pair of binoculars from his handy bag, Starke remained lying there, simply watching, wondering when she would leave. After only a few minutes, however, his stomach began to growl and he chanced eating the fish he had purchased. It may well have been poisoned, although he was hungry and concluded it was worth the risk. Perhaps not the soundest of judgements, but when Richard Starke was hungry there was no such thing as sound judgements.

  Seven hours passed. Starke had remained in the same position all that time, had even dozed off once or twice, although for the main part his attention had been kept focused, for he was determined not to mess this up. This woman would not elude him; he would find out just who she was and what she wanted no matter what it took him. Seven hours had passed and finally, at just after ten o’clock, the door opened and a figure stepped out. People had come and gone from the shop all day, particularly around dinner time, although in this instance his attention was suddenly riveted upon this single figure, for he recognised her face even beneath the canny disguise of the coat. He followed her with the binoculars, although she did not approach any of the parked cars nearby. With a slight wave back into the shop, the woman proceeded to head farther down the street, and Starke knew he had her at last.

  Abandoning the long-dead remnants of the fish he had bought earlier, Starke took up his bag and flew back down the drainpipe. His legs were stiff from underuse and his stomach was growling again, although he could not quit now. He knew he had to follow this woman in order to make the whole thing worthwhile, for otherwise he had been lying atop that roof for so long entirely without reason. He did not harbour any desire to repeat the activities of the night and so knew he had to get it right this time.

  Besides, he didn’t think he should be eating too much fish from her place, for a number of reasons. For one she might grow suspicious of
his continued presence, and for another she might try actually poisoning his food, assuming she had not done so already.

  Or perhaps the balding man?

  Starke would investigate further.

  The woman was easy to follow, and Starke kept careful observation of the nearby alleyways and shop doors. There were still people on the street and he tried not to appear too conspicuous in their presence: after all, they might get the wrong impression of why he was following someone in so subversive a fashion. They did not know, and he found he could not blame them for their ignorance.

  Eventually, after a time which seemed destined to push the night away and bring daylight in its place, the woman arrived home. Starke had in his efforts to remain unseen failed to take any real note of his surroundings, although he did so now. The road name he saw to be Kelshaw Road. He strained to read the number upon her door as she fit the key to the lock and saw that it was eleven. Peering further from his cover of a conveniently parked white van, Starke watched her have terrible problems getting the key to turn. She was muttering something, he could guess the nature of the words, and Starke wondered whether he should himself approach. After all, it would be all over so quickly were he to finish this tonight. Unfortunately he did not know who else was in the house, and how many were watching him even now.

  He looked over the house carefully. It was fairly small in appearance, although Starke knew from past experience that appearances could well prove deceptive at best. It was a terraced house with two floors. The paint was peeling out front and the windows did not seem particularly sturdy. He noted they were in the style of the old sash-windows and was amazed that people even still had them any longer. He knew he would be able to enter the house relatively easily should he so wish, although perhaps, he reasoned, this was what she wanted. Perhaps that was why she had sash-windows to begin with; perhaps this was all a deception to lure him in.

  He thought of what it could all have been about. Uncle Pete would have known, Uncle Pete would have been able to advise Starke on what he should do.

  But Uncle Pete was gone, living now in New Zealand where they had filmed the Lord of the Rings. Pete had got out while he still could, leaving his terrified nephew to pick up the pieces and deal with those who would have done him harm.

  Starke considered going to the other side of the world and finding his uncle, although he knew their enemies would only track them down. Starke had to remain in England and keep them here, or better yet face them and deal with them permanently.

  He was resolved to dealing with this woman tonight, for he did not wish to allow her the opportunity to destroy his life further. He was just taking his first step from behind the van, however, when the woman managed to open the door and she disappeared into the house. Starke dropped back behind the van and thought once more through his options. They were limited to breaking into the house or waiting for another day. He knew the answer even before it had fully formed within his mind, for he could not play into her hands this night. He knew where she lived now and that would have to suffice him for the moment. Until he was better prepared he could not fight this madness.

  Starke flitted back into the shadows. There were other nights to come, but for now he would need to find a place to hide; and wherever that was, it could no longer be in the shadows.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The big night had come. Technically it was not the big night, because they were filming during the day, although Corsac would not have felt more nervous were he standing before an entire big top filled with happy circus-goers. He had not seen Castle all morning, although when last they had spoken, the day before, Castle had offered him a firm thumbs-up and had told him to go crack some heads. Corsac was certain he should have been talking about breaking legs, although felt Castle meant well. In the main was Corsac left in the capable hands of the floor manager.

  He had met Diana Troupe only a week or so earlier, and the introduction had been brief. She was around the same age as his daughter Sam and seemed an entirely no-nonsense individual. She wore her dark hair short and yet still managed to get a full rounded effect from it. Her expression was always hard, although her features were soft; her eyes were to be the measure then, although they tended to flit between the two. Corsac never knew quite what to make of her. “She’s damn good at her job,” Castle had said when Corsac had asked, “for a woman, of course.”

  Corsac remembered smiling at the comment his boss had made. As a lifelong comedian, Corsac had been exposed to every form of ism, and had tried to make them all sound funny. Sexism was always the best because you could get away with so much more. No one could stand on stage and make racist jokes and not expect death threats to follow; similarly no one could stand on stage and deliver a series of ageist jokes and expect the same applause as one might with sex. Mother-in-law jokes Corsac had always tended to avoid, although traditional roles, or the established perception of traditional roles, was always something worth a laugh to the right crowd.

  “Stop smiling,” Troupe said, deadpan. “Your make-up will run.”

  Corsac had just been touched up for what seemed the thousandth time, although he could still taste the smell of the stuff. Taste the smell? Now there was a strange thing to say. He filed the comment away for future use. Aloud, he said, “I never wore much make-up on stage. Never saw the point of it.”

  “Television’s different. The camera picks up everything. All the details, all the little imperfections, and all the big ones of course.”

  “Never did much television, either.”

  “Just remember everything you learned in rehearsal and you’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Troupe hesitated, seemed to sense he was nervous, and laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “You’ll do fine,” she said, and this time her eyes leaned her towards softness.

  Corsac swallowed. “I’ll be fine,” he replied. “Just need to get out there and get started.”

  Courage was something Corsac had never lacked, although this was something new for him. It was not standing in front of two hundred people, most of them drunk beyond words, and as such it was not something with which Corsac was immediately comfortable. However, he knew his words were not spoken hollowly, for he fully expected that once he was underway he would be fine.

  He ran onto the set, all smiles and gaiety, and he stopped when he reached the pedestal from which he would host the show. The backgrounds were gaudy whites and creams and he did not care for them at all, but he was not a designer and knew he should not have opinions of his own on such matters. The pedestal behind which he now stood was a simple affair: a block rising from the ground upon which his question cards could be laid. There had been talk of having a computer screen upon which his questions would appear, although he had claimed that the format of the show was so simple that it did not warrant such a thing. He preferred to be able to have something in his hand, something solid, and as such did he ask for cards. After all, there were no answers per se and it did not hurt should the contestants see the questions. Castle had asked him why he intended to be so close to the contestants to begin with, and Corsac had had to remind himself once more that this was not like anything he had ever done before.

  There were two people standing some way from him, each behind pedestals of their own, although this seemed more to allow them something to lean upon rather than to serve any useful purpose. One was a man of perhaps seventy years with thin wispy white hair. He wore a suit and clearly thought more of the show than Corsac did. He seemed genuinely happy to be there and Corsac worried that he had spent his life moving from game show to game show, like the man who went around the country visiting every Tesco.

  The other contestant was a woman of around twenty-five years. She was young and petite, with a pretty smile, and Corsac could not help but feel that in the studio’s selection of first-time players they had opted for both ends of the spectrum; the young and the old, and making sure the young was also pretty with it.


  Still, Corsac could not complain, for he wanted this to succeed far more than they did.

  He remembered he should be saying something, and smiled into the camera. Corsac had never much liked cameras, although they were a necessary evil for this day and age. In twenty years’ time he did not doubt something would have come along to replace them, assuming of course nothing already had without his knowledge.

  “Hello, everyone, from us here in TV land.” It sounded trite, although it was a line Corsac had not written himself. He intended to ad-lib most of his material so he could appear spontaneous. This was not like one of his regular shows where he would have every detail of his script planned out, leaving room for changes along the way, but he did not see why he should not do things differently here. If it did not work, he was sure he would have an opportunity to change back to his old ways, assuming the show made it to the second episode. He did not know how these things worked, and to him a pilot was someone you hoped was flying your aeroplane.

  He thought about how he might work such a comment into the show, although did not have the time to waste on such thoughts.

  He continued speaking into the camera. “You’re here, we’re here, so let’s play ... Deadlock.” He was certain Bob Holness used to say something similar, although again that had not been his own line.

  There was music of some form, and he had been told that the real music would be added during post-production. Corsac had no idea what that meant and assumed they would be doing it later. The camera swivelled about, various other cameras moving into wide panning shots of the studio. The studio itself was circular, and very uninteresting. Aside from the three podiums there was one large piece of furniture: a great screen behind him which showed twenty-six squares, each square offering a representation of a different letter of the alphabet, all in order. Five fives were twenty-five, six fours were twenty-four, and there did not seem to be any perfect way of arranging all the letters. As such the idea had been to place them in the shape of a pyramid, which just about worked.