by Adam Carter
“How could we possibly rig the games? I don’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
“Rich,” Liz said, “who cares about the game? Just put the gun down and we can sort this out, ‘kay?”
“Put the gun ... Liz, I’m doing this for you. I’m here to rescue you.”
“Why? Why do I need rescuing? From what?”
“From all of this.” Starke did genuinely seem confused. “They took you, forced you to wear that degrading costume. And I’ve come to get you back.”
“I moved on, Richard.”
“They took you.”
“Jesus Christ,” Sam said. “Are you thick or what? Let me guess, you used to have money, right?”
Starke wavered in his concentration. “Who asked you? Who are you?”
“Did you have money?” Sam demanded.
“I had what Uncle Pete left me,” Starke said. “It’s all gone now.”
“And when the money went, so did she, right?”
“I ... I don’t know.”
“It’s what she does, you moron,” Sam spat. “She uses people until they’re of no use to her any more, then she moves onto the next sap. You were an easy target, pal, and being nuts doesn’t help any either.”
“What are you doing?” Liz hissed. “You trying to make him mad or what?”
“I think he’s already mad, sweetheart,” Sam hit back, “and if he decides to shoot you I’m not shedding any tears.” Sam did not know anything about guns, but believed double-barrelled shotguns held two charges. If that was true, there was only one shot left in the gun. As soon as it was fired, Sam intended to rush the guy and beat his head to pulp. If that final shot was discharged into Liz, she honestly wouldn’t have cared. It was about time someone discharged something into Liz she hadn’t orchestrated beforehand.
“What do you want?” Corsac asked. “I mean, what exactly do you want, son?”
The question threw Starke. “I want to rescue Liz. I thought I did anyway.”
“So take her and let my daughter go.”
Liz’s eyes snapped down to him. She said nothing.
“Take her?” Starke asked.
Corsac nodded. “You don’t want Lou, you want Liz. So swap women and go. No one’s gonna stop you.”
“You’re trying to trick me. This has all gone wrong.”
“No one’s trying to trick you, Richard.”
“The show,” Starke said suddenly, certain now. “The show must go on.”
“What?”
“Finish the show. When the show’s finished, things will be better. Liz will be free to come with me.”
Corsac glanced at both Sam and Liz. There was a single camera still on but Corsac had no idea whether it was still broadcasting. Still, insane as this all sounded, Corsac felt if this was going to be his last performance, at least it would be a memorable one. “So let’s end the show,” Corsac said.
“No,” Starke said. “I know you. You’re a comedian. You do comedy.”
“I try.”
“Then do comedy.”
“What?”
“Make me laugh. Make everyone laugh. Go back to what you were, what you used to be. Everyone will see you for a faker. You see, people think you’re a game show host but you’re not. You’re just pretending because you’re really a comedian. Do some comedy and make everyone see you’ve been lying for the past six months. Then Liz won’t want to stay with you and she can come back with me.”
It was logic, twisted logic perhaps but logic nevertheless. He could hear a voice in his head. It was Castle. “Do it, Jack. I know you’ve been shot, I don’t know how bad it is, but this might be the only way to save your daughter. We’ve got the police out here, S.O. whatever number it is. They have guns but they can’t risk a shot while he’s holding Louise. Get him relaxed, get him laughing. If he wants some jokes, you give him jokes. You think you can do that?”
“I can do that,” Corsac said aloud, answering both men.
“Good man, Jack,” Castle said. “Give ‘em hell, Jack. Your best performance ever. The performance of a lifetime.”
“Performance of a lifetime,” Corsac repeated. “Yeah, yeah, I’m hearing you.”
“Good,” Starke said. “What do you need?”
“Nothing,” Corsac said with a smile. “I been doing this since before you were born.”
He told Sam to help him get to his feet and she regarded him worriedly. “You can’t stand, Dad.”
“Sure I can stand.” He winced even as he said this but made it to his feet. “But everyone needs to be in the right mind-set.”
“Everyone needs to be relaxed,” Starke agreed. “Everyone, relax!”
“I think that got it,” Corsac said, although his sarcasm was lost on the madman with the gun. “But speaking of large, relaxed crowds who suddenly get annoyed, when was the last time you went to the cinema, Richard?”
“Cinema?” he asked. “No idea.”
“Been a while?”
“Couple a months maybe.”
“You seen that advert against video piracy?”
“Yeah.”
“That always got me,” Corsac said. “I mean, it’s an advert telling you not to buy pirate videos but to go to the cinema instead. But they’ve decided to tell people who are already there. You’d think their target audience would be people who aren’t there, maybe put the ad on TV. But no, they tell the people in the cinema to go to the cinema.
“And that ‘one person who really needed the loo’ is still gonna be there no matter where you see it. The only difference is if you’re in the cinema at the time, you could have a go at him. Only we wouldn’t, ‘cause we’re British.”
It was a slow start and almost completely off the cuff, but Corsac could feel himself warming up. He didn’t expect any laughs for the first couple of jokes, but hoped by the time he made it five or ten minutes into his performance, even he may well have forgotten the seriousness of the situation. Of course, his main concern was Louise. While Starke held her, there was every chance she could have her chest blown out. That was the one thing Corsac was desperately trying to avoid.
“What annoys you, Richard?” he asked. He had decided to centre as much of his performance upon Starke himself. It was a risk, but one he had gambled upon taking. He was also infinitely glad Castle was no longer speaking to him, offering him jokes. Corsac needed to do this himself and he knew he could do it. It was what he did, what he was good at.
Comedy was his life.
“What annoys me?” Starke asked. “Lots of things. Friends.”
“Friends?”
“That ... that stupid theme song!”
“Oh, the programme? Thought you meant ... never mind. Trains annoy me.”
“Trains?”
“Every aspect of ‘em. I mean, take people who sit on the aisle seat and put their bag next to the window, as if their bag wants to look out at the good view. Packed train and there’s a bag sitting by the window going ‘Ooh, what a pleasant field that is out there’. I saw a woman one time sitting by the window. People got on the train, so she moved up to place her bag on the seat next to her, knowing no one would ask her to move it.”
“Because we’re British,” Starke said.
“Who’s telling the story?”
“Sorry.”
“Because we’re British,” Corsac said. “I’d like to see the driver try that. Oh, sorry, can’t drive the train today because my bag’s there. Or people in offices. Nope, can’t sit at the desk next to me. That’s where my bag sits. Uses the computer all day as well, but doesn’t adhere to the Internet policy. He’s right, though. Employee handbook doesn’t mention bags in the Internet policy, nor does it say they have to do any work. Bags are a disgrace really, they can do whatever they want.
“So maybe it’s the bag who’s been to blame all along. I’ve been so busy complaining about the person blocking the seat, I haven’t stopped to think that maybe it’s the bag that’s telling them to
do it.
“And trains now, you can’t drink lager on trains. What I don’t get about lager is that it comes in cans. I mean, you have a can of lager, right? But when does a can of lager cease to be a can of lager? If it’s full, it’s a can of lager, if it’s empty it’s a lager can. It’s not a can of lager, it’s a can of air. A lager can of air. But we don’t call it a lager can of air, do we? We still call it a can of lager. If we saw one on the floor we wouldn’t think to ourselves, ‘Oh, there’s an empty can which used to be a can of lager but is now a lager can of air’, we think ‘can of lager’, which it isn’t.
“So (and you may be wondering what my point is on any of this), if it’s still a can of lager, even though it’s empty, you could technically go into a shop and buy your can of lager only to find it’s empty. ‘Hey, it’s empty!’“ He put on a northern voice for the response. “‘Well, you just said a can of lager, didn’t you? Didn’t say whether it had to be full.’
“But it doesn’t happen, because that would be annoying.
“You notice though the way they’re forcing you out of trains with your lager and into the cinema? I was at the cinema the other day. First advert was telling you not to smoke. Second advert said drink Russian vodka, third told me to drink beer. Then Jack Daniels, then back to beer. And, to round it off, I was told to drink more beer. Yeah, don’t smoke because that’s bad for you, but you can drink as much as you like and we’re not gonna bat an eyelid.
“And film classifications, they’re annoying as well. When a film comes out, you must have seen them, they have a classification now. Tells you what to expect. Like ‘Contains strong language’ or ‘intense violence’ or a Scooby Doo one once which contained ‘mild humour’. Think they meant horror, but at least the typo was mildly humorous.
“Anyway, there was one film, no idea what it was, which contained ‘irresponsible behaviour’.” He paused. “Irresponsible behaviour? I mean, what’s that? Putting fish fingers in the VCR? Running through the streets screaming the Martians have landed? Undoing the bolts on Grandma’s stairlift? And who’s to decide what constitutes irresponsible behaviour? Do they have the government now assessing the content of films and awarding ASBOs to any film-makers they deem ‘irresponsible’?
“Honestly, it’s getting to the point where we’ll be certifying a film as ‘contains sarcastic moments’. It’s a good job the Monty Python lot don’t make films any more, let me tell you. British Board of Film Classification wouldn’t be able to make head nor tail of them, just wouldn’t have a clue.”
Corsac groaned, his wound forcing him to stop a moment.
“What?” Starke shouted at him. “What’ve you stopped for?”
“Because you shot him maybe?” Sam shouted back, helping her father to a chair. “Come on, Dad, hang in there. You can do this.”
“Fine,” Starke said. “We’ll take a break. Breaks are good, they always take breaks on the telly, right? You,” he said to the cameraman, “play some adverts or something.”
The cameraman looked at him blankly, then nodded.
“And you,” Starke said to Sam. “You can get him some water or something if you like.”
“He doesn’t need water,” Sam protested, “he needs a doctor.”
“No doctors!” Starke shouted.
“Are you insane?” Liz hissed at Sam. “I already told you not to use that word.”
“Very soon,” Sam hissed back, taking great care to keep her voice low, “my father’s not going to need a doctor. So you go over there and you talk to your boyfriend or so help me God I’ll take that shotgun of his and ram it down your throat.”
“Me? Why are you taking this out on me?”
“Because it’s your fault, you stupid cow!”
“My fault?” Then it suddenly struck Liz. “Oh, I get it. You blame yourself, don’t you? Not for the shooting, I mean the affair.”
“Don’t be stupid, why would I blame myself?” Sam snapped.
“That reaction tells me you do. You brought your father here, found him this job. If not for you, we probably would never have met. We use the same pub so maybe we would have, but he certainly wouldn’t have seen me in my frills.”
“And without him hitting the big time,” Sam told her icily, “you would never have got your claws into him.”
Liz’s expression changed. “Probably not.”
“Definitely not.”
“You really do have a low opinion of me, don’t you, Sam?”
“Just go have a word with your boyfriend and get my sister away from him.” Sam knew this wasn’t Liz’s doing, that she wasn’t the one holding the gun on them, but somehow she couldn’t accept that it wasn’t all her fault regardless.
Someone had fetched Corsac some water and Sam thanked them, helping him to sip. It took a few moments for Sam to realise Liz was no longer there at the man’s other side. She could see Liz moving slowly towards Starke, hands out to show she meant no harm. Sam wished her luck. Speedy luck. If they didn’t get Jack Corsac out of that studio soon, they wouldn’t be calling for an ambulance: they’d need a hearse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“How did he even get in there?” Castle was demanding. He was frustrated, he was panicked, he was literally pulling at his hair and there was nothing he could do to help so he had taken to shouting at people around him. No one had any answers and everyone was generally keeping a safe distance from him.
The police had arrived quickly at the studio and Castle was liaising closely with a woman named Sergeant Howser. Howser had the area sealed off and had troops ready to move in. They couldn’t act while Starke was physically holding onto a hostage, but she did have people in position ready to take him out as soon as Starke released her. There were no shooters in view of the studio floor for the simple reason Howser didn’t want to tip off the nut, but the instant she gave the word they would step into place and take the guy down.
The police had several things in their favour. Firstly, they had the audio link to both Corsac and Liz. This meant they could relay instructions to the two of them if they needed them to say anything, or if they needed them to do anything. Like duck. Secondly, Starke had made the mistake of insisting one of the camera operators stay inside. Howser, Castle and the others could watch the proceedings on a monitor and assess the situation properly. They could see Starke was holding his hostage as tightly as he had been since the moment he had taken her. If the police made any move at all, he would blast her and she wouldn’t stand a chance.
“You do realise that’s Corsac’s daughter?” Castle was saying, growing even more agitated now.
“His youngest, I know,” Howser said patiently. “You told me a couple of times already.”
“Why don’t you go in there and shoot him?”
“Because he’s holding Corsac’s daughter. His youngest.” A police officer approached Howser and said something which made her nod. “Bring him up,” she said and an instant later a tall, worried-looking man was brought in to see them.
Castle looked even more concerned than a moment earlier, if such was possible. “Who’s this?”
“Doctor Foster,” the man introduced himself vaguely, shaking hands with Castle and then Howser.
“From Gloucester?” Castle asked.
“Oh dear me,” Foster said dryly, “never heard that one before.”
“Doctor,” Howser said seriously, “we have a situation here, as you well know. What can you tell us about the perp?”
“Richard? Ah, I was afraid something like this would happen, I really was.”
“Who is he?” Howser said. “What can we use against him?”
“His name is Richard Starke, I’ve been treating him, or at least trying to. I first met him when he was brought to me by his uncle, Peter Starke. Richard was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder and was responding well to treatment.”
“And that’s bad?” Castle asked.
“Not by itself, no. Nor uncommon.”
; “So it doesn’t make people turn psycho?”
Foster winced. “It’s words and attitudes like that which makes it so difficult to get people to take mental illness seriously.”
“I think we have an issue here, doctor,” Howser said. “What’s wrong with Starke?”
“More than just the OCD. He also suffers from schizoaffective disorder.”
“Pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this the disorder that turns him into a psycho?”
“Richard Starke,” Foster said sternly, “is ill. He is not a psycho.”
“Great, fine. So, he was responding well to treatment. What happened next?”
“A series of events which tore him apart,” Foster said. “His uncle died, that was the first thing that happened to him.”
“So his illness progressed?” Howser guessed.
“Not progressed, no. But further problems arose, the trauma brought about dementia. His mind simply couldn’t cope with the compounded problems popping up inside his thoughts. Without Peter, Richard was lost. They ran a bookshop together, and Richard retreated more and more to it. That was where his problems got worse. He began to believe the books were real, began to enact fantasies based upon certain sections of the shop. Reality was so bad for him his brain suggested it was the books which were the true reality. He didn’t need much of a push to believe it. He even convinced himself his uncle was still alive and had moved to New Zealand. The last few times I spoke with Richard, he thought I was his uncle.”
“And what’s he doing here?” Castle asked.
“Richard lived with a woman named Elizabeth Henderson. You see, Richard had money. Or, I should say, Peter did. When Peter died, that fortune transferred to Richard. Liz went out with Richard for two years, Peter died about a year and a half into that. Once he was dead, she wasted no time and bled the poor man dry. He didn’t even know it either, convinced himself the mob was after him and had taken all his money. Then, when she had everything she wanted from him, Elizabeth up and left him.”
“She’s in there now,” Castle said. “So he wants her? Wants some payback?”
But the doctor shook his head. “Richard believes you people took her from him. He thinks because she came here not long after leaving him, you must have had something to do with it. I think he may blame your host, Jack Corsac. He does seem insanely jealous of the man.”