Not Gonna Happen

by Adam Carter

  The camera moved about jerkily: something to which Corsac had grown accustomed over time. It settled in a position whereby it could encompass both the show’s host and the pyramid behind him. There were several other cameras which covered the pyramid, each taking a different angle upon both the pyramid itself and Liz, presently standing to one side of it but still in a far too seductive pose.

  Corsac was smiling directly into the camera before him. “You all know the rules, and if you don’t by now, you can pick them up as we go along. It’s easy anyway. Right, the first category is ...” He consulted his cards. “Christmas decorations you would put up inside your house. And we begin with you, Thomas.”

  “Cards, Jack,” said Rankin.

  “Baubles,” Barnes said.

  “Tinsel.”

  “Uh ... presents?”

  “Presents is fine,” Corsac said. It was always good to interject some of himself into the rounds. It broke up the monotony of having to listen to these two spout off seemingly random words and also gave them a moment to think. It always amazed Corsac how much it aided the players to be able to see the letters before them. Liz turned the letters around as they were named, which was her primary task on the show, and Corsac noted both the C and B had gone in the first few moments. Market research had been conducted about various aspects of the show, and one of the reports they received many times was that the favourite letters for the contestants to get were the first three of the alphabet. Since these were at the very top of the pyramid, it meant Liz would have to stretch to reach them. Also the last few letters were popular, since it meant she would have to bend right over. Once this had been realised, Castle had cleverly made certain the camera shots were not always of the pyramid at this stage, focusing instead upon the faces of the contestants themselves. That way if anyone tuned in just to watch Liz bend over, they may have to come back to the next show, or at the very least wait until the final round. There had been talk of splitting the screen at home so the contestants were on one side and Liz and the pyramid on the other, but it had never happened, save for in the final of their pilot episode. It was standard practice in some game shows, but not in this one.

  “An angel, Jack,” Rankin said.

  Barnes paused, having trouble. “Turkey,” she finally said.

  Corsac winced as the gong sounded. “Not what I might call a Christmas decoration, but it was a repeat of the T anyway, Sarah.” This was bad, since the round had ended far earlier than usual. Ordinarily if the rounds were speedy they would have a lot more filler with introducing the contestants, but with a live show that just wasn’t possible, since he’d already introduced them. He supposed he could find out a bit more about them to kill some time, but in truth he would much rather be telling some jokes.

  Still, he would settle for a compromise and ask them something of themselves at least.

  “Well, hard luck there, Sarah,” Corsac said. “But there’s still a ways to go, so as Liz resets the board let’s find out a bit more about you. Thomas, says on my card here,” (He was desperately trying to get that to become a catchphrase) “you enjoy windsurfing, base jumping and action films of the nineteen eighties.”

  “That’s right, Jack.”

  “Remind me what base jumping is again.”

  “It’s, uh, where you jump off tall buildings with a parachute. The aim is to get to the ground first.”

  “So you jump alongside other people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the last one down’s a sissy?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “And have you ever had any nasty accidents while jumping off buildings trying to hit the ground sooner than your friends?”

  Rankin laughed. “Not yet, Jack.”

  “Well, you know what they say; it’s a good idea to buy a second-hand pair of shoes but …” He stopped suddenly, his face flushing. You know what they say? No one said that, it wasn’t a phrase. More, it was copyrighted. He had seen it on a cartoon once, years ago when his kids were still teenagers. It had stuck in his mind because it had been his type of humour: something he would have said himself. Now he had almost said it himself and if he had finished that sentence, it would have been disastrous.

  “Sarah,” he said, hoping to mask his fluster. “You enjoy baking cakes and taking trips abroad, is that right?”

  “Yes, Jack.”

  “And where’s your favourite place? Other than the Deadlock studio, that is?”

  “Amsterdam, Jack.”

  She had said it so sweetly, but now Corsac’s face was blanching. He couldn’t believe they’d got these people on the live show. She liked going to Amsterdam and baking cakes! There’d be letters of complaint about this for months.

  He coughed, not even bothering with a joke this time. “Well, looks like Liz is prepared, so, people, let’s move into round two.”

  The music became dramatic again and Corsac used the momentary respite from the cameras to glance to the side. He could see Castle’s face and it wasn’t a pleasant sight. It wasn’t Corsac’s fault what had been said, he just hoped he had handled it well enough. He looked towards his daughters then as well. Louise was staring in shock, clearly fearful for her father’s career, but was at the same time having trouble stifling a smile. Sam was outright laughing. Corsac knew her reaction had nothing to do with his affair. She didn’t wish her father ill, it was just in her nature to find that comment from the contestant hilarious. Corsac himself had found it pretty funny, just not on a live family show.

  “Round two,” he announced. “And we’re on you, Sarah. As the non-winning player of the first round, you have the choice as to who goes first. Your subject this time is Christmas songs. They can be hymns, carols, any sort of Christmas song at all, or any song which was at the number-one spot on Christmas Day ever. Wide variety of songs there, but how many can you name?”

  “Wow,” Barnes said. “Uh, I think I’d like to go first, Jack.”

  “First it is.” Sad people who had nothing better to do with their lives had laboriously worked out statistics for whether it was best to go first or second. If you knew an X or Q immediately but didn’t think your opponent did, it was apparently best to pass it over and let the other player go first. That way you held a tricky one in advance and your strategy would be to whittle down the letters as quickly as possible. By making the other player act first, you were removing one extra letter before you even began the game. If you weren’t too sure of any difficult ones, or if you thought the other player might know the ones you were thinking of (if they were easy), then it was best to play first, taking one letter away before your opponent could begin.

  Corsac had no idea how that made any sense, but apparently it did and he wasn’t prepared to argue with it. Not because he didn’t disagree with it, but because he had better things to be doing with his life.

  However, he reflected sourly, if he had sat down these past few months and worked out pathetic statistics like that, perhaps his marriage wouldn’t now be so threatened.

  “And ...” Corsac said, “begin.”

  “Away in a manger,” Barnes said.

  “Mr Blobby,” Rankin said.

  Speaking of sad people, Corsac thought, but didn’t say so aloud.

  “Two little boys,” Barnes said.

  “Surely not,” Corsac interrupted. Someone spoke an affirmative through his earpiece. “I stand corrected,” he said. “Nineteen sixty-nine apparently. Thomas?”

  “Do they know it’s Christmas?” Rankin said.

  “Yup,” Corsac affirmed. “Twice at number one – nineteen eighty-nine and twenty hundred and four – and a Christmas song to boot.” Normally he would have said two thousand and four, but his mind was still on the cakes-from-Amsterdam comment and he didn’t remember to. He would be glad once twenty ten came since people seemed all right with calling it twenty ten instead of two thousand ten. “Sarah?”

  “White Christmas.” (One for the bottom row.)

  “
Joy to the world.”

  “Let it snow.”

  “Oh come all ye faithful.”

  “Silent night.”

  “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.”

  “Uhm ... Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer.”

  “Easy one there,” Corsac noted, “which you both seem to have missed so far. Thomas?”

  “Frosty the snowman, Jack.”

  “Our resident snowperson should have got that one,” Corsac said, reminding Barnes what she was wearing. “Sarah, over to you.”

  “Ooh, ah ... ah ... I can think of a lot of Ws. Uh ... Christmas at ground zero!” she blurted just before the time ran out.

  “What?” Corsac asked. Where did they get these people? But the voice on the other end was okaying the answer. He felt like asking them to double-check but had to assume they knew what they were doing. “Fine, I’m told,” he said, and it was clear to probably everyone watching that he didn’t believe it for a moment. “Thomas? Let’s hope you can better that.”

  But Rankin couldn’t and the gong sounded. He winced as though in apology, although why he should apologise for losing was an odd thing indeed.

  “Time’s up there, Thomas,” Corsac said, thankful. It meant the scores were tied and they would have to conduct a third round in order to ascertain a victor. The first round had been shot through with a speed Corsac had not expected, but now they had more meat to fill the airtime. “And we have a tie on our hands,” Corsac said to the camera as well as the contestants. “Isn’t that tension for you, folks? But don’t worry, we’ll be off the air in time for your Christmas dinner.”

  He noted Liz was resetting the pyramid, but she had stopped and was staring at him. Corsac had no idea what she was playing at and was debating what to do about it when he heard a voice come over his earpiece. “Don’t worry about it, Jack, just stay where you are and we’ll sort it.”

  Sort what? He realised Liz was not staring at him, but at something beyond him. Her face was a mask of shock and no small amount of horror. He followed her gaze and noticed a commotion in the audience. Someone was forcing their way down to the studio floor. For a brief instant he thought it was Sam, except that she was in the front row and wouldn’t disrupt things in this manner. Sam had her own way of doing things and this most certainly was not it. The person forcing his way down was a man wearing a leather jacket and jeans. His hair was a touch longer than it perhaps could have been and he probably could have done with a shave a few days ago, but it was his eyes that had held Corsac’s attention. For they were the eyes of mania, of a man at the end of his tether. The eyes of a half-starved hyena whose kills for the past month had all been stolen by a lion. A hyena whose mind had snapped and had turned foolishly upon that lion in the vain hope of retaining some of that carrion.

  Security was on the studio in an instant: two men in dark jackets hurrying in from either side. People started screaming and Corsac watched it all as though in slow motion. Seeing the two guards, the man in the denim jacket pulled something from his coat, something he should never have been allowed to sneak into the studio. The entire room erupted with the instant thunder of the discharge, but the man had not pointed his sawn-off shotgun randomly into the crowd. The desired effect was achieved, for people panicked and bolted from their seats, colliding with the security guards and preventing them from reaching their target. The man, seeing they would still reach him momentarily, looked around for something he could use. He had reached the studio floor by this time and grabbed the first thing he laid his eyes upon.

  Corsac shouted, had no idea what it was he had screamed but doubted it could have been broadcast on a live feed. He started forward, but he was too late.

  “Stop!” the man shouted. “Everyone stop moving and stop screaming!” He stood there with the shotgun in one hand, his other arm wrapped securely around Louise, pressing her close to him. Louise was struggling, crying, and the man shouted at her to stop as well.

  “Stop, stop!” Corsac found himself shouting, holding his hands out in imploring surrender. “For God’s sakes do as the man says.”

  “On the ground, everybody!” the man shouted and slowly people began to obey. There were whimpers, there were tears, the panic in the air was so thick it wouldn’t even have been able to do simple arithmetic, but the audience obeyed. Even the two security guards, knowing there was nothing they could do, slowly surrendered and crouched low.

  “Good,” the man said, his eyes still crazed. “Good, now I can think.”

  Corsac felt a presence beside him and he half-turned to see Liz standing there. She clung to his arm without even knowing she was doing so, for her eyes were upon the man in the denim jacket.

  “Richard?” she managed through the lump in her throat.

  Richard Starke met her eyes and he seemed relieved. “It’s me, baby. I’ve come to take you home.”

  It was only then that Jack Corsac realised he had been shot.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The studio was quiet. It had been around ten minutes since Starke had taken control of the broadcast. During that time he had operated with a keen intelligence. His first order had been for everyone to stay together, his second was to send two people to close and barricade each of the doors leading from the studio. He kept the audience in a clear line of sight, the camera crew and everyone else in relative darkness opposite them. Starke himself stayed in the light, keeping firm hold of his hostage, staying close to Liz, Sam and Corsac. The comedian lay propped against the wall, the padding of his Santa suit having absorbed a little of the impact. The shotgun blast had torn through his side and blood was pooling beneath him. Liz had bound his wounds as best she could but she was not a nurse and had no real idea what she was doing. Through her earpiece she was receiving medical instructions and she was following them without acknowledgement. She did not want Starke knowing they were in constant contact with the outside world because if he took away her earpiece, Corsac would die. And if the police wanted them in one particular area so they could shoot Starke, she would need that earpiece to save her life.

  The tourniquet she had fashioned was rough but it was holding. All she could do was continuously tell Corsac to hang in there and pray he would be all right. Sam was kneeling upon the other side of the comedian simply because she had ignored Starke’s command to stay where she was. She told him in no uncertain terms that the man he had just shot was her father and that she was going to help him no matter what the madman thought and that if he wanted to shoot her he could just well go ahead and do so. She was at her father’s side before Starke had fully made up his mind and once she was there he deemed it best to leave her there.

  Starke had then ordered the camera and production crew out of the studio. He could see relatively little in the darkness over by them and didn’t want any nasty surprises coming from them. They left hastily but orderly, thankful to be out, and Starke sent someone over to re-barricade the door after they had gone. He insisted that one camera operator stayed; Starke wanted everything broadcasted, wanted the whole country to see this for what it was. He didn’t understand much about cameras but figured one person alone could operate one. The cameraman he had selected was too scared to offer any complaint and stood there with his handheld camera. Starke would have been far better off utilising one of the larger ones, but it only proved his lack of knowledge regarding cameras. The camera being used was shaking with the operator’s nerves, but Starke didn’t even notice.

  His plan, in so far as he had one, was working and for the first time in a long time he felt in control of his life.

  “Quiet,” Starke barked at Louise, who was whimpering, her eyes locked upon her father. “I’m trying to think.”

  “You need to get a doctor in here,” Sam told him while she attempted to tighten her father’s bandages. There had been a first aid kit nearby and thankfully Starke had not objected when they had gone for it. But the bandages were soaked through now and they needed fresh ones. “At the very least get t
hem to send something in for him,” she said angrily. She wiped at her brow with the back of a hand slick with blood.

  “No doctors!” Starke said angrily, as though the very word was abhorrent to him.

  “You want this man to die?” Sam snapped.

  “No doctors,” Starke said a little more calmly.

  “He doesn’t like doctors,” Liz whispered across to Sam. She was afraid, they all were, and she just wanted Sam to shut up before Starke shot someone else.

  “Well I think he needs one,” Sam said.

  Between the two women, Jack Corsac laughed softly.

  “Don’t try to talk, Dad,” Sam said. “You need to rest.”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Corsac said with a strain. He pulled himself up a bit and sat more comfortably. “So this is the infamous Richard Starke. Let’s have a look at you, then.”

  “You,” Starke said, shifting Louise so he could have a better look at Corsac. The shotgun was still pressing against her back where he held it at an angle from behind. One blast and he would destroy her heart and lungs in an instant. “You’re the cause of all this.”

  “Me?” Corsac asked. “You’re the one with the gun, pal. Let Louise go and we’ll talk.”

  “Talk?” Starke could not understand and laughed because of it. “Why would I want to talk? Look at what you’re doing here. A draw? A draw?”

  Corsac didn’t follow. “A draw?”

  “One game each, when you know the woman’s going to win.”

  “You’re talking about the game?”

  “The women always win. The pretty women always come on here and they always win.”

  “You’re talking about the game? You’ve ... you’ve taken the entire studio hostage because you think we rig the games?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t?”