Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  “Repeat S,” Corsac said, saying only as much as he had to in order not to slow the process down.

  Beth continued, shifting voraciously on her feet. “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin ... oh ...uh ...”

  Corsac could tell she was struggling. “Can I have some more, please, sir?” he said.

  “Oliver Twist! Uh ... Great Expectations.”

  “Another G.”

  “Lord of the Rings.”

  “Too many words. Ah, Jim lad, where be that gold I hid on that land over there?”

  “Uh ... Treasure Island. Forrest Gump, My Girl, Wild Wild West, Jurassic Park, uh ...” The gong sounded at this moment, telling them both the round had ended.

  “Ooh, out of time there, Beth,” Corsac said. “Let’s see how well you did.” He turned to the pyramid, which was flashing the squares she had previously turned dark. “By my count, there are thirteen flashing squares, which means you’ve just earned yourself two hundred pounds.”

  The studio audience cheered, the music started up and Corsac said, “Well done, Beth, I hope you spend your money wisely.” He turned to the camera and said, “And I hope you at home will be joining us tomorrow for another exciting edition of ... Deadlock.” He waved. “Night, all.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The thumping on the door was deafening, but Starke did not answer. Moving permanently into the shop had been an effort to save him money, although in truth was it merely making him an easier target. He was behind on his rent and had been for a long time, although he could not believe the people outside were bailiffs. If such was the case, he was certain they would have forced the door by now. That they merely stood outside shouting for him to come to the door made him suspect they were people far more insidious.

  Starke remained perfectly motionless behind the counter, having made himself as small as humanly possible. He was not an overweight man and folded easily, although still did he wish he could take up just slightly less space. His hope had been that the angry shouts of his antagonists would have drawn the attention of the neighbours, and then the police, although no one seemed to care about the noise. It was as though they were aware of the identities of the men outside and knew better than to interfere. Starke had never before considered his neighbourhood as being one where people would bury their heads to the problems of others, although he supposed there was very little difference when people were concerned for the safety of their families.

  “Go away,” Starke muttered to himself. “There’s no one home.” He thought about saying it louder, although doubted they would believe him. He did not know whether the woman from the fish shop was a part of this, or whether she had some other grief against him, but such details hardly seemed to matter at that precise moment. He even began to wonder whether he had judged her wrongly and that she in truth had come to his shop to buy a book and not to scout him out for her employers, although again this did not seem to matter presently.

  The point was several people were outside right now hammering upon the door, and he could do nothing about it.

  The thunder at the door increased for but a moment, and Starke knew the sound of splintering wood when he heard it. There had been no sound of shattering glass and he assumed the door had come entirely away from the frame. He did not dare risk a peek over the counter for fear they would see him, although he could hear people moving about the aisles of the shop. A terrible crash indicated where someone had purposefully shoved over a display, and Starke attempted once more to make himself smaller.

  “He’s not here, Al,” someone moaned at last. “I’m telling you, we should try his flat.”

  “And I’m telling you, Lance, that he don’t have that flat no more.”

  “So we try his work.”

  “This is his work, you mook!”

  “Maybe he’s at the park,” a third voice suggested. None of them seemed particularly intelligent to Starke’s reasoning.

  “And why would he be at the park?” Al asked.

  “I don’ know, but I like to go to the park sometimes. Feed the pigeons. It’s soothing.”

  “You go to the park to feed the pigeons ‘cause you find it soothing, Sor?”

  “Sure.”

  There came the sound of someone being struck across the side of the head and Starke knew it had been Al who had struck the man named Sor. Or at least he thought he was called Sor; Starke couldn’t quite hear properly where he was scrunched up, and could think of no name for which Sor could be a shortened version.

  “Idiot,” Al, clearly in charge, said. “Just keep searching, boys, and we’re bound to turn up something.”

  “Where’s the cash register?” Lance asked. “Mebbe he’s got some money there.”

  “Not a bad idea, Lance,” Al said. “You two keep searching out here, I’ll go over to the till.”

  Starke’s heart froze: he had taken the underside of the till as his hiding place.

  He bunched himself in tighter and held his breath as a pair of black-trousered legs appeared before him. He could see only from the knees and below, and noted the dark shoes shone with new finish. Al was rough with the till, jerking it from its position and forcing the lock easily, even expertly. “Not a lot here,” Al noted. “Business not doing so well lately, boys.”

  “Figger that’s why he’s not been paying lately, Al,” Lance said.

  “Yer not paid to figger, Lance, just to do what you’re told.”

  The legs did not move, and Starke wondered why. Then one of the knees bent and the grinning, rancid features of Al were staring down at him. “Well, what d’we have here, boys? A little rat hiding in a corner, perhaps?”

  Starke attempted to bolt from his hiding place, although Al caught him by the collar and turned him around. Before Starke knew what was happening he had been grabbed by Lance from behind, and all his struggles were counting for nothing. “Al, I can explain,” Starke began, but Al merely laughed.

  “He can explain, boys, ya hear that? He can explain.” Al’s face became serious as he regarded Starke icily. “Explain it to the boss, Starke.”

  “I can give you money,” Starke said quickly. “I can give you money, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Till’s empty,” Al said. “Wasn’t a minute ago, but is now.”

  “I have more money. I can give it to you,” Starke said.

  “More money, here on the premises?” Al asked. “And what say I don’t believe you?”

  “I have it,” Starke protested, “but I’m not giving it to your boss.”

  “So what’s the point in mentioning it, Starke?”

  “I mean I’ll give it to you.”

  Al blinked twice before he answered. The smartest of the trio of thugs, Al himself was hardly a scientist, although since he had the time in which to think he also had the time in which to understand what Starke was saying. “Mebbe we can make ourselves a deal here, Starke. You give us the money and we fergit we saw ya tonight.”

  Starke was already nodding vigorously. “Deal, Al, deal.”

  “We what?” Lance asked, stupidly.

  “Don’t you start asking questions now, Lance,” Al berated the taller man. “You just remember what I told you about keeping that mouth shut and we’ll all be better off.”

  “Right, Al.”

  “So,” Al said, still far from convinced, “where’s this pot a gold you got for us, Starke?”

  “It’s out back.”

  “You mebbe wanna go fetch it while me an’ the boys stay here and mind the shop?” A light came into Starke’s eyes and Al laughed. “That there was a little joke, Starke. I should apologise for my somewhat dry sense a humour.”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  “Good,” Al said, his disposition changing. An aggressive light came to his eyes and Starke knew he was in trouble. “Sor, stay here and mind the shop. We wouldn’ want anything bad to happen to Mr Starke’s place while we’re gone. Lance, bring ‘im.”

  Starke didn’t have much choic
e but to obey; after all, he couldn’t resist when someone as huge as Lance was holding him in a bear hug. The three of them headed towards the back of the shop until they came to a staircase. Al raised his eyebrows in question of whether this was where they would have to go and Starke nodded grimly.

  “Tell ya what,” Al said. “Save you havin’ to go ta all the trouble of fetching the money yerself, just tell me where the money is and I’ll go get it.”

  Which meant, from Starke’s understanding, Al would shove half into his pockets before returning to split the remainder with his cronies. Al certainly was the smartest of the three, especially since Lance hadn’t reached the same conclusion.

  However, Starke couldn’t see any point in informing Lance of his partner’s duplicity. He could not guarantee Lance would lash out blindly, since there was every chance Al would be able to put his silver tongue to use and calm the situation before it got nasty. And then Starke would really be in for it.

  “Sure,” Starke said instead. “Under the bed, metal box. Key’s on top of the cupboard.”

  “See?” Al said with a beam to Lance. “Reas’nable guy.” He patted Starke affectionately, only a fraction too forcefully, upon the cheek and disappeared up the stairs. Starke thought about making his daring break for freedom, but knew he wouldn’t be able to overpower Lance. Once Al had the money, perhaps he would leave Starke alone, give him a reprieve at least; a chance to get out of town. Instead of taking action, Starke took the moment to appraise his antagonists. They were all well dressed in their suits and all wore dark hats. He had no doubt they had an equally dark car parked outside, and knew without doubt it would not have been anything from this century. These men were mobsters who had seen one too many gangster films and there was no doubt in Starke’s mind they were dangerous men. He had no idea that such men even existed in this day and age, yet here was the proof before him, and holding him in an unbreakable grasp.

  Al returned a short time later. He had the box in hand and Starke could see he had opened it. “Not a bad haul,” Al commented, daring Starke to challenge him over how much had been in there even though the gangster wasn’t prepared to name the figure out loud. “Back to Sor, Lance.”

  “How much we make?” Lance asked without moving.

  “Enough, I think, to say that Mr Starke here has earned another hour or so out of hospital.”

  “An hour?” Starke exploded.

  “Sure, an hour. An’ we’ll be keepin’ tabs on you the whole way. So you got any more money, you get it together, but I sugges’ you do it quickly.”

  “But ... I don’t have any more. You’ve got it all already!”

  “Oh, then you gots yourself a problem, Starke.” Al paused. “Or, in an hour you do, anyway.” He laughed and nodded to Lance to let the man go. Lance obeyed and Al straightened Starke’s clothes. “There,” Al said. “Wouldn’t want to ruin a guy’s attire, would we? Man has to look his best at his funeral.”

  Starke almost fainted on the spot.

  There came a terrible commotion from the shop: a loud crash followed by a shout and further crashing. Al and Lance exchanged worried glances. Then they looked at Starke. “You expectin’ company?” Al asked.

  “I ... I ... I ...”

  “Wait here,” Al told Lance. He drew a pistol – a Webley, Starke noted – and approached the door leading to the shopfront. Starke could see Al silently count to five, before throwing himself against the door. Al disappeared into the shop and instantly cried out “What in the ...?” before the shop filled with the harsh sound of gunfire.

  By this point, Starke was on the verge of collapsing in death but knew that whatever was out there it couldn’t be much worse than what he was facing in here. After another couple of shots there followed a series of almighty crashes, after which there was silence.

  The silence stretched on.

  “Uh, Lurch?” Starke asked. “Hadn’t you best go check on your guys?”

  Lance was in two minds of what to do (which was at least one more mind than he actually possessed) and finally decided to drag Starke along with him. Starke was not overjoyed by this, for the prospect of meeting something viler than his current situation was hardly appealing to say the least. However, he had little choice in the matter (or none, actually) and together he and Lance barged into the room.

  The shop was a mess. Books were strewn everywhere, shelves were broken or splintered, even the light was swaying nervously. Starke could not help but fret over how much it would cost to repair all the damage and wondered whether he had his insurance up to date.

  His attention to such fiscal detail was redirected when Lance repeated Al’s earlier unfinished question of “What in the ...?” Starke followed Lance’s gaze, but recognised what was happening the instant before he actually saw anything. The thing which offered Starke this insight was a strange and familiar noise which he instantly recognised.

  Chewbacca.

  Starke dropped and rolled to one side as the bear came for Lance. The big man reacted quickly, grasping the bear in a hold from which no human would have been able to escape. Fortunately for the bear, it was a bear and it smacked him around the head with a sharp paw as only an enraged bear can. Starke, meanwhile, was crawling through the romantic pulp section, avoiding the smattering of fantasy raining down everywhere around him, and sought cover behind the science fiction bargain bin. From here he could observe the fight and root for his old friend the bear. Clearly the animal had remembered his earlier kindness in removing the trap about its foot and had come back to help him in his hour of need.

  Of course. It all made perfect sense.

  Lance was fighting valiantly with the bear, but also in futility. The bear had clamped its jaws about his shoulder and there was little Lance could do to dislodge it. Starke saw Al hiding off to one side, using the contemporary fiction as a shield, and the gangster levelled a pistol. Starke knew he had but moments in which to act and propelled himself across the room, shouting some foolish and ineffectual battle cry. Al, surprised, reacted too late and Starke barrelled him over, the two of them rolling around in the dust (must get around to doing that sometime), each vying for the upper hand.

  Something sharp slapped across Starke’s face and he fell back to find Al standing over him, pistol in hand. “So,” Al rasped, “thought you could sic yer bear on us and git away with it, did ya? Well, here’s what I think a yer ...” He did not get to finish the sentence, for the bear came for him then. Lance was on the floor, senseless, and Al screamed like a girl guide in a cold shower as the bear leaped bodily across the room.

  “Sign here.”

  Starke took the package from the postman and signed where he was being told to. The postman left and Starke closed the door behind him, leaning against the door and surveying the shop. There was not a book out of place, which meant of course Al and the others had cleaned up before they left. When a crazy bear insists you do some spring cleaning, you’re hardly going to argue with it.

  Starke examined the package he had just been given. It had his name on it, which sent a sudden chill down his spine. Who would be sending him a package with his name on it?

  He set it to one side in case it was a bomb. After all, with Al’s failure here today, who knew how they would try to get to him next?

  Starke peered outside, prising open the blinds with two fingers. It was light out there, looked like morning. Didn’t mean it was, though. Just looked like it. Maybe the daylight was conspiring against him as well, making him believe the postman had come in the morning, trying to make him think it really was a postman who had delivered the parcel and not ...

  Starke left the package where it was as he departed the shop. It would be good to get away from the shop for a few days. But what he really needed to do was find some place to hide. Some place in plain sight, they always advised. For he needed to hide. The mob was after him and he needed to find somewhere fast.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Night, all,” had not been t
he best way to round off the show, since it was being shown in the afternoon, but otherwise it appeared the recording had come off pretty well. Ratings figures wouldn’t come in for a while, although initial reaction seemed to be very good. Corsac had no idea how those sorts of things worked and intended to leave that side to the people who knew what they were doing. Corsac did the one thing he knew he could do in this situation and went down the pub.

  If he had expected a riot of fans to assault him along the way, or a barrage of questions once he arrived at the pub, he was disappointed. In truth he hadn’t expected or wanted either, but the fact that he was thinking about such at all meant he did on some subconscious level desire the attention.

  “Usual?” Frank asked, already reaching for the lemonade spurter. Corsac had no idea what the thing was called which produced the lemonade but it was hardly a pump and it was true that it spurted the fizzy liquid out. Therefore spurter was a term which could hardly be argued with, even if it wasn’t correct.

  “Hmm,” Corsac replied noncommittally. “One of my five a day, lemonade.”

  “Well, just make sure you don’t get your other four at that fruit machine. They don’t call them one-armed bandits for nothing, Jack.”

  Corsac glanced over to where the fruit machine still stood – flashing lights enticing. There was no sign of any limbs on the machine, let alone an arm. “There’s a reason they stopped calling them one-armed bandits, Frank,” he said.

  “Really?” Frank asked, handing over his lemonade. “Was it because the plural of bandit was banditti?”

  Corsac stared at him blankly. “Where’d you come up with that, Frank?”

  “Liz.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know Liz?” He nodded to his left (Corsac’s right) where a young woman sat at a table by herself. She was neither short nor tall and held her sandy hair tied back, although strands hung over her glasses, which she kept pushing back behind her ears. Corsac would have put her around her mid-twenties but knew how useless he always had been with ages. She had no company but was busy talking to someone on her mobile. Whoever it was, the young woman was clearly not having the best of times, for while she was not shouting or anything, she did not look especially happy.