Sunday, 12 September 2010

REALITY By Nick Boldock


The police had arrived outside. Loads of them, all the way up and down the street, some of them with futuristic looking guns and those black helmets that make them look like Nazi stormtroopers, crouched down behind hedges and the posh four-by-fours in the neighbouring driveways.

“Please,” said Steven Powell, tied to the chair on the other side of the room, “Please stop this.”

The police weren’t the only ones with guns. I had one too. It was old, seventy years old to be precise, but it had been well looked after over the years, regularly cleaned, and it still worked as well as it had in the 1940s when my grandfather had put it to good use in the Second World War. He’d done his bit to fight the Germans. He’d been a hero, yet nobody knew his name, what he looked like, what sacrifice he’d made. He gave his life for his country and still nobody knew who he was.

But they’d know who I was.

“Now... sign the fucking contract,” I said to Powell, pushing the barrel of the gun hard against the back of his head.

“Brian, I... there’s no point... this isn’t a proper contract, I’ve told you. Please... stop this while you can...”

I stepped to the side and smashed the butt of the gun into Powell’s nose. He yelped in pain like a kicked dog and his head whipped back as blood erupted from his nostrils, running down over his mouth and chin. There was already blood matting his hair and staining the back of his shirt from where I’d hit him over the head after I’d first got into the house. Unfortunately, the bastard had already pressed his fancy alarm button and now here we were, with half the police in the Home Counties camped outside waiting for an opportunity to shoot me. But I could handle that. If anything, it was better with the police than without them.

The phone was ringing somewhere in the house. Police negotiator on the other end no doubt, or maybe just one of Powell’s high profile associates ringing to arrange another night out at some trendy wine bar or other. Either way I wasn’t going to answer. There was nothing to negotiate. I had it all planned and nothing else mattered.

“You’re going to sign this contract whether you like it or not. Because if you don’t... I’m going to shoot you in the kneecap. And if you still don’t want to sign it... I’ll shoot you in the other one too. And well... if that doesn’t work... then I’ll kill you.”

Powell’s nose was making bubbling noises as he struggled for breath, blood and snot still dribbling out of it. His face was a mess but it was going to get a lot worse if he didn’t sign the document on the desk in front of him.

“For God’s sake... what good is it now anyway?”

I smacked him in the face again with the gun, this time right on the cheek bone. A purple bruise sprang up almost immediately. Hefty things, these old handguns were. He cried out in pain again, whimpering, almost crying. In the background, the bloody phone was ringing again.

“Steven... did you hear me? You need to sign the contract.”

He actually was crying now. I pushed the muzzle of the gun against his cheek where I’d just hit him, moved it up and down his face, over his eyes, down and under his chin. I pushed his head back with the gun.

“Why are you doing this?” he said, his voice high-pitched through the tears. Not so fucking arrogant now, the smarmy bastard.

“You know why. You made me look a fool. You humiliated me. I could have been something, and you took it away from me, you took it away and you twisted it and you spat on it and you looked at me like I was shit on your shoe! You made me a laughing stock, Steven... but you’re not laughing now, are you?”

And he really had done all of those things. Steven Powell, the man himself, the big shot, had made me look a complete idiot. People pointed at me in the street and sniggered like I was nobody. Well, not anymore. Now I was going to be somebody. Big time.

“Brian, I didn’ wasn’t like that. You have to understand, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, you’ve got it wrong. Please, please let me go. Please.”

Begging. There it was, Steven Powell in his fancy designer house, with his fancy designer wallpaper and his fancy designer everything else, sitting in front of me and begging. I picked up the contract from the desk. I took the pen from my back pocket and put it in Powell’s hand. His arm was gaffer-taped to the chair so he couldn’t move much but he’d be able to scribble his signature on the paper if I held it up next to his hand. I leant over, my face right in front of his.


He was sobbing now, full-on wracking sobs, and as I held up the paper he flexed his hand and scribbled on the paper. He had signed the contract.

“Thank you Steven. Thank you. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

I took out my mobile phone, crouched down next to Powell again, and held up the contract between us. Smiling a great big grin, I took a photo with the phone. Me, Powell, and my signed contract.

I stood up, took two paces back, levelled the gun, and shot Steven Powell in the face.


Daily Mirror, August 23rd, 2010
TV Star Powell Murdered By Former Contestant

Britain was in shock today at the news of the violent death of Pop Factor judge Steven Powell. Powell, who also produced the show, was allegedly shot dead by Brian Folan, a former contestant on the Pop Factor show. Folan had been one of the show’s infamous “failures” and was the subject of a harsh tirade from Powell live on air. Powell told the would-be singer “I’ve seen more singing talent in a farmyard” and told Folan to “give up this ridiculous fantasy before your loved ones disown you”. He also described Folan as “an embarrassment” and “a clown” in an outburst which even regular viewers of the show found shocking.

After his performance, Folan was shown on television in tears, being comforted backstage by a fellow contestant. He is thought to have travelled to the filming of the show alone.

Yesterday morning, Brian Folan, armed with a handgun, gained entry into Powell’s home before taking him hostage and forcing him to sign what Folan allegedly claims is a recording contract. A two-hour siege situation ensued, but after gunshots were heard coming from the house, armed police stormed the property.

Steven Powell was found dead at the scene, allegedly killed by a bullet to the head.

Brian Folan is in police custody and will appear in court to be charged with murder.


Find out more about Nick Boldock here


  1. That'll teach him. Hope the bullet to his head didn't spoil his fake tan.
    Nice, original debut, Nick.
    Come again soon.

  2. Cheers Col & Paul... certainly hope to back in these parts soon enough.