Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  Corsac took a sip of lemonade. “She often come out with stuff like that?”

  “Weird words and their meanings?” Frank asked. “Only when I ask for ‘em. Got a degree in something, never could understand what. Something to do with words anyway.”

  “Etymology.”

  “She probably knows what that means, yeah.” He paused. “Jack, I’ve seen that look in your eye before. What you up to?”

  “Me? Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Right,” Frank said sceptically, not taking his eyes off his old friend for fear he would miss something important. “So, you settled in your new job now?”

  “Indeed. First shoot over with, second being done tomorrow. Did you watch it yesterday?”

  “Yeah. Had the TV showing it in here. Folk were interested, which is a good sign.”

  “But were they laughing?”

  “Uh, sometimes yeah. I think. Wasn’t really paying much attention. Had drinks to serve.”

  Corsac had no idea whether Frank was being serious with him. It was Frank’s dry humour which always got Corsac, and if there’s one thing a comedian doesn’t like it’s not knowing whether a joke is being made.

  But Corsac wasn’t really listening anyway. He was looking at the young woman sitting alone and his brain was ticking. Corsac chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, wondering how he might best put his proposition to her. After all, brains and beauty was a killer combination.

  “Jack?” Frank asked. “You hear a word I said?”

  “Hmm? Oh, had drinks to serve, right?”

  “I meant after that, when I was talking about the ducks and Mrs Hawshaw.”

  “Right. She come here often?”

  Frank blinked, realised they were no longer talking about Mrs Hawshaw (if ever they were) and noticed he was still staring across the room. “Liz?” the barman asked. “Yeah, you really never seen her before?”

  “I’m seeing her now.”

  “Jack, what are you up to?”

  “What’s she drink, Frank?”

  “Why?”

  “Just give me one of those. I got a plan.”

  Frank had no idea what Corsac’s plan was and really didn’t want to be told. He had known Corsac for many years now and trusted him at least to a point. What he wanted with Liz was therefore, to his mind, not what other people would have expected, although clearly there was something he wanted, otherwise he wouldn’t be buying her a drink. “You know,” Frank said, sensing a way he could be making real money out of this, “champagne always goes down a treat. A bottle?”

  “Just whatever she’s drinking, Frank.”

  Frank questioned no more and spurted out the lemonade into a glass of ice and vodka. Corsac took the glass and sauntered across to the young woman’s table, timing his entrance perfectly so that he reached her side just as she finished her phone tantrum. She noticed his approach and turned sour eyes upon him. “What?”

  “Looked like you needed a drink,” Corsac said. “And maybe someone to talk to?”

  Liz’s expression turned no less sour, especially when she took into account the drink he was already holding. “So, the classic route of asking the barman about me, right?”

  “Banditti.”

  Liz blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The plural of bandit.”

  “I know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Frank tells me you’re good with words.”

  Liz did not reply. Clearly, she didn’t quite know how to respond to such an odd statement.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to throw you completely,” Corsac said. “Can I sit down?”

  “Uh, I suppose.”

  Corsac sat, and as he did so, Liz said, “But you really didn’t need to say down.”

  It was Corsac’s turn for confusion. “Sorry?”

  “Well, since you brought up the subject of words, it’s tautologically inaccurate to say sit down. I know we can sit up, sit back, sit on edge, but I would be a tad dim not to know you meant sit down in this instance.” She paused, wondering why she was even saying any of this. “Sorry,” she sighed. “Just had a blazing row and I’m ... well ...”

  Corsac laughed. “Don’t apologise. No, you’re exactly what I need.”

  “That doesn’t sound too good.”

  “No, really. Do you know who I am?”

  Liz hesitated again. “Should I?”

  “My name’s Corsac. Jack Corsac.”

  “Uh ...”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Corsac said with a wave of a hand. “I’m a ...” he had no intention of saying game show host, “an entertainer and I think you’re exactly what we’re looking for.”

  “What sort of entertainer? You looking to cut me in half or something?” There was a strange light to her eyes and Corsac was suddenly reminded of a deception Louise had played on him several times when she was younger. It involved pretending she hadn’t been at the cookie jar. He had no idea why he was thinking of that now, but pressed on regardless.

  “I’m a comedian,” he offered.

  “So ... how do I fit into a comedian’s routine?”

  “Nicely, I’m sure. Did you ... you didn’t happen to watch any daytime TV yesterday did you?”

  “Daytime TV? God, I didn’t realise anyone actually ever said that out loud.”

  “Deadlock. You didn’t see it?”

  “No. Sounds like a round in Gladiators.”

  “Close. Game show.”

  Now Liz really was confused. “So you’re a comedian who watches game shows and you want me to – what precisely?”

  “I don’t watch game shows. Heaven forefend. I host one.”

  “So ... you host a game show and want me to – what precisely?”

  Corsac was certain she was joking, even though she wasn’t smiling. “I need an assistant. I was talking with my boss about it. I need a glamorous assistant who knows a lot about words.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly it was dawning upon Liz just what he was after. “So you want me to help you select one.”

  “No, I want you to be one. The one, I mean.”

  “You ... want me to ...” Liz straightened herself (sat up, Corsac noted) and looked him square in the eye. “Let me get this straight before we go any further. You’re a comedian who hosts a game show called Deadlock which is shown in the day and you want me to be your glamorous yet intelligent assistant?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. For one thing, I’m hardly glamorous.”

  “No? You’re doing yourself a serious disfavour there, Liz.”

  “And it’s not really the right time for me at the moment.”

  “Problems?” Corsac asked, indicating the phone sitting on the table.

  “Personal problems,” she corrected. “And, anyway, I have a job already.”

  “You never wanted to break into television?”

  “No. And I’m no good with numbers.”

  “We had a retired accountant on yesterday. He lost. It’s not a numbers game.”

  “So it’s a word game and you think just because I know one or two things about words I’d be perfect for your assistant?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Liz fixed him with a steely glare. “Don’t do that.”

  “Sorry.” He thought a moment. “Would you even consider it?”

  “No. I ...” She ran a hand from her forehead down her face and exhaled slowly. “Sorry, I’m being rude. I just ... it’s really not a good time for me right now.”

  “And would it ever be? What I mean is, we all go through rough patches. Sometimes when you’re feeling down, the best thing you can do is get back up again and try something new, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So you’ll consider it?”

  Liz looked at him a while longer and finally said, “What would I have to do?”

  “Not
a lot.”

  “Tell me you’re not Paul Daniels in disguise.”

  “The format of the show is that people use the alphabet to say words.”

  “That’s usually the way language works, yeah.”

  “I mean, they ... let’s just say your role would be to fill in the answers the contestants can’t get.”

  “On air?”

  “It’s pre-recorded.”

  “And if I can’t think of whatever words they don’t get?”

  “There may be no words to think of, to be honest. It’s the nature of the show.”

  “You’re not making much sense.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you come down and see us tomorrow?” He took out a pen and scribbled an address on a handy beer mat. “Come down and see how we do things. See if you like it, get the feel of it at least. I mean, Carol Vorderman doesn’t always know the answers on Countdown, right? But we don’t hold it against her.”

  “There aren’t always answers to be had on Countdown, Jack.”

  “And it’s the same with us.”

  “So you’ve basically just ripped off Countdown?”

  “No, no, not at all. Just come down and see how it goes, yeah? The pilot’s gone out but we’re filming more episodes already. Come down, see what you think.”

  Liz reached out slowly and took the beer mat. “OK. OK, I’ll come down and see what it’s like. But no promises.”

  “Heavens, no.”

  She gathered up her bag. “Look, I really have to shoot. I’m supposed to be somewhere and I’m already late enough as it is.”

  “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  Corsac watched her depart the pub and a smile spread uncontrollably across his face. “Get what you wanted, Jack?” Frank asked, approaching the table and swiping the vodka lemonade away before Corsac could get any ideas of drinking it.

  “Yeah, Frank,” Corsac replied honestly. “Yeah, I think I did.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The girl from the fish-and-chip shop came in with an Uzi.

  She had come back to the bookshop three weeks after she had first shown up there and Starke froze, not knowing what to do. He knew he should act natural, act as though he was a bookseller and she a book browser, but a lump formed in his throat and the devil on his shoulder kept shouting about how she had it in for him. That she was carrying a machine-gun didn’t help matters any, but since she wasn’t thrusting it around in his general direction he thought perhaps he could overlook that part.

  Still, her reason for returning remained a mystery, and Starke wasn’t too fond of mysteries when they revolved around his potential death.

  “Do you have any Dumas?”

  The question had thrown Starke. He had not even noticed her approaching him, trapped within his own sphere of doubt and fear, and now that she was standing before him he was not at all certain he had heard her correctly. Dumas was clearly a code word, something perhaps related to her piece or even to the mob. Perhaps even she was an enforcer for the mob, although he could not be certain. Whatever Dumas meant, Starke was certain it had no place being uttered in a bookshop.

  “Three Musketeers? Man in the Iron Mask?” she persisted. “Sorry, I never could pronounce his name.”

  She was pronouncing it Doo-Marr and Starke did not know whether this was pronounced right either. Somehow this woman had known he would not have been able to pronounce Dumas; somehow she had selected Dumas from all the names in all the literary world. He could pronounce Jekyll, he could pronounce Les Misérables, but he could not pronounce Dumas.

  But those were both titles, not authors. Perhaps this truly was code, where she was using the name of an author to mean something else.

  But what?

  “Sure we have Dumas,” Starke replied, doing his best to control his breathing and pulse. He looked her in the eye defiantly, daring her to say anything else, urging her to ask another question. But no, if he could get his question in first, he knew he would be the one in control. He would be in command of the situation. “What book were you after?” he asked.

  “Marguerite de Valois.”

  Marguerite de Valois. Marguerite de Valois.

  The title of a book Starke could not pronounce. She had cunningly lured him in with talk of a writer he could not pronounce, and pounced on him when he thought he was secure. Just so long as she did not ask him how the title was pronounced he was confident he should be able to bluff his way through this one.

  “Sorry, may have said that wrong too. I’m sure you could correct me,” she giggled. Chortled may have been a better word.

  Starke did not reply. Instead he moved across to where he knew he kept his Dumas and found the book for her. She thanked him and he moved back to the till while she perused the section. He had the book, had shown it her directly, and still she had yet to purchase it. That told Starke she had no intention of buying the book, had chosen it only because it was something she did not believe he would be stocking. Now he had shown it her he had asserted his own control, since she would be nervous, indecisive and might even have to start speaking into her lapel for further instructions. Starke watched closely for any (or all) of this, but this woman was good. She betrayed nothing.

  Then she really threw him by buying the book and leaving.

  The following day, the post brought an interesting item to Starke’s attention. It was a postcard depicting an image of a beach and a warm sunset. Starke examined the image for several moments before turning over the card and discovering it was from Uncle Pete. He had begun to wonder whether Uncle Pete was even still alive, for he had heard nothing from the man for such a long time now. Walking back to where he’d left the kettle boiling, Starke made himself a cup of tea before settling down to read the card. He had moved into the shop some time ago. It was cheaper living over the shop and he had few material possessions. And now that he had got rid of that freeloader he used to live with there really wasn’t any reason at all for him to stay somewhere he had to pay for when he could save money by staying at the shop.

  The postcard read:

  Dear Richard,

  Weather fine. Lovely view. Nice mountains (sort of). Good sea, better than we have in England anyway. Should come visit sometime. Would love to have you over.

  Uncle Pete.

  Of course, none of it was true and Starke wasn’t about to believe for one moment that any of it meant anything. Uncle Pete didn’t want him over there, no matter what he was saying. The truth was that Uncle Pete had placed as much distance between the two of them as possible because he wanted to get away from his nephew.

  Or perhaps that was just what Starke had always assumed. Maybe Uncle Pete was really trying to escape the mob; maybe the mob was after Uncle Pete and not Starke at all. Maybe all his trouble with bears and hoods and young women carrying machine-guns whilst pretending to browse for Alexandre Dumas were all Uncle Pete’s troubles and he had just inherited them.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Starke came to realise that he didn’t have any problems with the mob that he knew about. Sure, he had some gambling debts here and there, but he didn’t expect people to come knocking on his door about them. In his younger days Richard Starke had had been something of a card shark, but since he hit his twenties all the magic seemed to have flooded right out of him. It was as though his hands had earlier been guided by faerie magic, while now they had abandoned him for a younger model.

  The way of life, he guessed. Nothing he could do about it.

  He began to think about faeries. They supposedly latched onto youngsters, perhaps because they were more attuned to the fey. Same theory behind poltergeist activity. They focused their attentions on the people who were more receptive to them, which in most cases would be children or whimsical young adults who still believed in the perfect life and the coincidence that Christmas fell in the winter. There were even cases of people being asked (in dreams) to leave the mortal world and spend their immor
tal lives frolicking with faerie queens. Of course they may have simply been dreams, but if a faerie wanted to make such a request to someone and not reveal itself to the mortal world, Starke could think of no better means than to appear through a dream.

  But had he ever been blessed with a dusting of faerie magic? Doubtful. Didn’t mean it had never happened, just that he couldn’t see it somehow. After all, he had never met a wee pixie and would have considered himself quite mad if he had done so.

  Again he thought about following the girl with the machine-gun. He weighed the pros and cons and decided there really wasn’t much to achieve by doing so. After all, he knew where she worked, where she wanted him to think she lived, and that she was dangerous and not afraid to flaunt it in front of him. What he could gain from following her was a bullet to each kneecap, which (while tempting) was hardly worth the aggro.

  Instead, he decided to stay in the shop and sell some books. After all, if ever he did make enough money, he could call Uncle Pete’s bluff and head out to New Zealand after him. Or even go somewhere else entirely and get away from everyone and everything; start all over again far from all the troubles he’d ever had in life.

  And Liz.

  He shook such thoughts away crossly. He had forgotten about Liz, there was no sense in bringing her back up again. He had almost succeeded (he liked to believe) in even forgetting her name. Liz Who? But the truth was he had not forgotten her, would not forget her and did not want to forget her. Indeed, he thought perhaps he should call or drop round to see her. Maybe even buy her a nice bunch of flowers and promise he would change.

  Only, he did not want to change. Women always tried to change men, it’s what they did. Married them for who they were, then spent the rest of their lives complaining about the way they acted, not accepting that the fault was theirs for marrying them in the first place. So many of the country’s problems, Starke considered, could have been solved instantly were people not to marry those they did not truly love.