by Adam Carter
“Not a comedy club. Far from it, in fact.”
“And you – what? – wanted me to work there as a doorman?”
“You said you didn’t want comedy stuff, remember?”
“I didn’t mean I wanted to get into that sort of thing.”
“Jack, you’re pushing sixty ...”
“Fifty-five.”
“Whatever. Anyway, point is you’re too old to learn a new trade. You’re not hot with computers, I know that one for a fact, and you can’t do anything else but comedy. It’s what you’re good at.”
“But I’m bored of it.”
“Bored enough to work as a doorman for Dodgy Dave?”
“Dodgy Dave of Dave’s Dive,” Corsac cringed. “I suppose this was all to show me that I should stick with the comedy because at least it pays the bills, right?”
“Jack, your future is in comedy.”
“H, I don’t have a future, remember? I’m too old.”
“Lion eggs!” Crotcher spat. “You want to know where you’re going, Jack? You want to know where I’m taking you?”
“Home?”
“I meant after that.”
“The Rose and Crown?”
Crotcher narrowed his eyes. “I thought you’d left the comedy behind.”
“Bad habits.”
“Bad jokes.”
“Tell me, Oh great and wise Oracle of Crotcher, where does my future lie?”
“Television.”
“As if.”
Crotcher smiled. “You don’t realise it of course, but I’ve already lined you up a deal.”
Corsac paused. “You have?” he asked sceptically.
“Sort of. Just some dots to cross and I’s to T.” He frowned. “Anyway, it’s a sure thing.”
“Doing what?”
“Can’t tell you that yet.”
“Meaning you don’t know yet.”
“Meaning I will have something for you within the week. Signed, sealed and ... well, signed anyway. I can get you back in people’s lives, but it’s up to you to win their hearts again.”
They drove in silence for several minutes, before Corsac finally asked. “You really think I could do this?”
“Trust me, Jack. It’s gonna happen.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Richard Starke was a new man. His girlfriend was gone (what had been her name again?) and he had taken control of his life. It had been a difficult thing for him to dump her as he had, perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever done, although what was done was done, and he considered himself far better for it. He had ambition and now the means to realise it, for he was once again a free spirit, and let the world beware!
Of course, he also had a bookshop, and he was there presently, sorting through his orders and restocking the shelves. The shelves did not require much in the form of restocking since no one ever seemed to buy anything, but he found the work therapeutic. He had recently brought a small television into the shop and had settled it in a niche on the side of the counter, making sure the volume was kept reasonably low. He did not want to blast his customers with noise, yet at the same time did not want them to be able to stand there reading too comfortably. After all, he was not a library; he had a business to run and money to make.
The programme on at the moment was some form of game show and Starke found himself drawn to the screen. As a rule he did not like game shows, did not watch much television at all, although he had become fascinated of late in the process by which such programmes were formatted. The show was of course a daytime quiz show, and lacked the general sophistication of those which would be shown in the evening, although Starke did not care for the grand theatrics of such things. Game shows were about the people on them, both the contestants and the host, and so long as that winning combination existed, he found it did not matter that the special effects were not so great in the daytime ones, or that the major cash prize did not generally move upwards of one hundred pounds. Many people did not participate in game shows to actually win the money (although naturally the money was always nice) but so they could say to their friends and grandchildren that they had been on such and such and that they had won the top prize.
There was a certain stigma to being upon such programmes and Starke toyed with the idea of submitting his own application. He did not have the first idea about what he should do were he to want to appear on one, although supposed the address would appear with the scrolling of the end credits.
He sat upon the edge of a shelf, glued to the set and wondering what it would be like to actually be there. The programme ended and he saw something of an address flash up, or at least he had believed he had seen the address, but lacked sufficient time in which to write it down.
“Oh well,” he said to himself, for he was alone, “maybe that’s Fate talking.”
The bell above the door sounded and Starke turned to see that he had himself a customer. Aged in her early twenties, she was of average height and appearance, while her blonde hair was tied in a tail at the back and her eyes shone with azure brilliance. She was possessed of the finest smile Starke had ever seen, save for the fact that she was not presently smiling. He thought of that for a moment, although shook such madness from his mind, for he did not like to clutter his brain with inconsistencies.
He noticed she had yet to see him, nor was she making any effort to approach him. She seemed to be looking at the books, and he was just beginning to wonder what she was doing when it struck him that she must be browsing. Starke nonchalantly made his way down the aisle of books beside the one where she was looking, and crouched that he might peer between the books at her. There was nothing peculiar about this behaviour, it was just that he wanted to get a better view of this woman for when she revealed her true purpose.
She turned to look at the shelf through which Starke was currently spying, and he jumped, then began to pretend to be stacking the shelves. The woman did not seem to notice, and slowly did he cease with his movements of placing the same book continuously on and off the shelf, and resumed his spying. He could see now that she appeared to have found what she was looking for, for within her hand she held a book open and was glancing through it ... then she put it back.
Starke frowned. What did this odd behaviour portend? Who was this woman and why was she pretending to be browsing in a bookshop of all places?
He briefly considered questioning her on the subject, although could not quite see how he would be able to raise the issue, so instead placed his back to the books and raised his eyes to the heavens in thought.
“Excuse me.”
The voice caught him completely by surprise. It was the voice of someone with a questioning curiosity, or perhaps even concern. It was also of a milky texture and smelled faintly of honey blossom.
He wondered what honey blossom was.
“Excuse me, this is your shop, isn’t it?”
Starke snapped his head down to see that the young woman was standing beside him. She no longer held a book, but was gazing at him longingly. She obviously wanted something, and Richard Starke felt fairly certain that whatever she wanted, it was not going to be a book. He thought about asking who she was and, more importantly, who sent her, but refrained from such and settled for a casual, “Yes. That is ... not exactly. But I do work here, the owner is in New Zealand, you see.” Ah, that could be what she wants. She could be after Uncle Pete. Trying to catch up to him because of his gambling debts. Starke started: he was not even aware that Uncle Pete had any gambling debts.
This situation was getting gravely disturbing.
“Do you have anything by Brian Froud?” she asked.
“Froud,” Starke said, mulling over the name. “Uhm, I’m not sure, is he a writer?”
“No,” she said, and Starke’s heart leapt, for he had caught her out. What else would she be after in a bookshop other than a book, and if this Brian Froud character was not a writer, what possible connection could he have to books? “He’s a painter,” she su
pplied.
“Oh,” Starke said. “So he has books with paintings in them.”
The woman nodded. “You don’t seem to have an art section.”
“We have an art section,” Starke said, and after a few moments he realised she was not saying anything. “Oh,” he said, “you want me to show you the art section?”
She nodded slowly, wondering why this man was so peculiar, or else with a more sinister purpose in mind.
“Over here,” Starke said, and began to wander the shop in search of its elusive art section. He walked down the first aisle and could find nothing on the subject, then down the next, and came back up the first aisle. Finally he stopped beside the counter and said, “You know, it doesn’t appear we have an art section.”
By this time had the young woman begun to wander on her own, and she fished something off a low shelf in the corner of the room. “Found it.”
“You have? Mind telling me where it is so I know for next time?”
“You have them with the children’s books.”
“Well,” Starke said, taking the book from her and flicking through it, “to be fair, they do have a lot of pictures.”
The woman blinked. “Books filled with paintings generally do. Uh, you do realise you have your erotic art books down there as well?”
“Well, that’s Uncle Pete for you.” Starke laughed. “Like the video shops which stored the 18-rated films in the children’s section just because they were animated.”
“Uncle Pete?”
“He owns this shop. I’m looking after it for him while he’s out of the country.”
“That would explain it,” the woman said, seemingly slightly relieved at something. It did not occur to Starke that she had until that moment considered him quite insane.
Starke continued to browse through the book. “Never could understand why someone would want a book of paintings. I mean, you can’t exactly read it, can you? Oh, hang about, there are words beside the pictures, I didn’t notice them.”
“That’s not a particularly good way to sell someone something,” the woman said.
“Better than me pretending I know what I’m talking about.”
“Anyway, if I could have my book, I could get back to work. I’m not supposed to be gone too long.”
“Work?” Starke realised it was probably lunch-time. He seldom ate lunch and as such often failed to keep track of the times of the day. Lunch-times should have perhaps been his busiest part of the day, although the book trade was not what it used to be, and he rarely noticed when business picked up or fell away.
The book was sold and the woman departed, and as Starke placed the money into the till he continued to think about his customer. She had seemed an interesting young woman, yet there was something about her which did not quite add up. It was nothing specific, but Starke was certain she had not come to his shop to buy a book. Knowing it would play upon his mind all through the day, Starke decided he would do the only thing he could and followed her. Quickly locking up the shop, he stepped onto the street and scanned both ways until he saw her at the far end of the road. Hastening in her wake, he managed to turn the corner just in time to see her vanish down another street. He continued to follow, and each time he came to a corner, he had closed the distance a fraction more. Within but a few minutes he had all but caught up to her, and he positioned himself stealthily at the corner while he watched her slip into a building.
He read the sign across the front. It seemed to be in some form of code. Chip ‘n’ Run.
Through the window he could see a row of tables heading towards the back of the building, while to the left there was some form of counter filled with various forms of battered fish and sausages. He could see fat sizzling with chips in several sink-like containers behind them, between which an overweight man shovelled food. There were people sitting at the tables and eating, or making the motions of eating, and the young woman he had been following disappeared through a door leading from the building to what was presumably a back room.
Richard Starke narrowed his eyes. He did not know what this place was, but its cover of a fish-and-chip shop was almost perfect. Almost. Starke had seen through its ruse, yet it seemed he was the only one.
He thought about entering immediately, although darkness would provide him with far better cover than pretending to be a customer. Starke went back to his shop and planned for the night ahead. He dug an old length of rope from the cellar, hand picked a few tools he might find useful, and began to practise what he might say should he be unfortunate enough to be captured. After an hour of careful planning, however, he discovered he had nothing with which to cover his face, and as such nothing to mask him from his enemy. Therefore, after further deliberation, Starke decided he had no choice but to abandon his attack. He would wait for the woman to return to his shop, and then he would question her. If he could perhaps take her prisoner when next she came to him, there was every chance he could force the truth from her.
He set to waiting. It would not be long now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Phoning Sam had not been an easy decision, although Corsac finally had to admit to himself that Louise was right. Crotcher meant well, but he was not producing anything substantial, and Corsac needed a job. It did not even matter all that much what he was doing right now, just so long as he could find employment. Marie had yet to voice any actual complaint about his throwing in his job, although Corsac knew it was only a matter of time. Already there were signs in her face which told him she was unhappy with the situation; the slight raise of her eyebrows whenever he put the phone down from speaking with Crotcher, the small and hopeful smile whenever he entered the house. Corsac knew his wife well enough to know that sooner or later she would confront him about this, and he wanted something before then. In truth he just wanted Marie to stop worrying, and the easiest way in order for him to do that would be to find a job.
Louise had been right in telling him that he should speak with Sam. She was his daughter, after all, and if he couldn’t turn to his own daughter then he couldn’t turn to anyone. Crotcher may have been his friend, and of course his agent, but Sam would want to help him for reasons other than her own personal and financial gain. Of course, if he could use her as his agent she would not be doing too badly out of it either. All Corsac needed, however, was some advice; and perhaps some small access to whatever contacts she may have held in the entertainment field.
The phone rang for only a handful of moments before the voicemail picked it up, and Corsac began to speak to it as though it was a human being. He stopped himself after only the first few words, and sat there silently while Sam’s pre-recorded voice told him to leave his message. The beep sounded and Corsac found himself unable to say much at all. He had never much liked answering machines, and began to stammer. He replaced the receiver and decided that if he wanted to speak with his daughter, there were better ways than doing so by the telephone.
The bus ride to Sam’s house took him the better part of an hour. Sam had done well for herself, and at only twenty-seven years of age already owned a large house in a wealthy area of town. Corsac felt a bit foolish for his instant jealousy of such, and forced himself to feel only pride for the achievements of his daughter. Of course he was proud of her – that was without question – it was just that when he had fallen on such bad times, it was difficult thinking well about anyone.
As he approached the house he saw Sam’s car was in the drive already, although he noted that Derek’s was gone. Corsac had never known much about cars, only knew them to be something to get you from A to B. He didn’t know how to drive, had never been interested in the fashions of cars and knew few of the fancy makes. He knew enough, however, to know that Derek’s car could have fetched a reasonably decent price at the scrapyard. Sam’s, on the other hand, shone like an angel. It was a deep red in colour and drove like the wind, and that was about as far as Corsac knew of it. The fact that it obviously cost more than some houses was also
not lost upon him.
Corsac strolled the length of the lawn and was out of breath by the time he reached the front door. There were steps, flanked by two small statues of grey lions which Corsac had always found a tad over the top, and as he reached for the doorbell it was with the realisation that she might not even be home. After all, she had not answered her phone, and that would suggest she was not in. Her car was there, of course, although she did not drive everywhere. Unlike many people with such money, Sam had only the one car. She had considered buying one for the weekly shop, but decided she could just as easily carry the shopping back from the supermarket. The car was used for show more than travel, and she loved taking down the roof in the summer and gliding around the city and beyond.
Corsac rang the bell. Since he had already come all this way, he did not lose anything by trying. The deep sonorous tone sounded throughout the entire house, and Corsac stepped back to wait to see what happened. Sam had no maids, she was not that way inclined, although she did employ a housekeeper. That did not mean the housekeeper would necessarily have to be in either, of course, but Corsac stood with his fingers crossed, his weight shifting uncomfortably from his toes to his heels.
The door opened after half a minute and Corsac forced a smile. Sam returned the smile. She was two inches taller than her father and possessed a slender figure she’d never really noticed. Her dark hair was cut short, although hung loose at the front and always seemed to be in the way of her eyes, judging from the amount of time she spent brushing it aside. Her eyes were deep and hazel, her smile genuine. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “What can I do ya for?”
“Cup of tea would be nice.”
They settled into the living room, a moderate affair for Sam, with a three-piece suite but bare furnishings otherwise. There were no photographs within Sam’s house, neither set upon the walls or standing free upon the rare tables. Instead, Sam favoured decidedly unsavoury ornaments. She had what her father considered an unhealthy obsession with Narcissus, and collected any effigies she could find bearing his image. Often had Corsac held the passing thought that Sam was more obsessed with Narcissus than Narcissus himself had been.