Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2))

by Stan Arnold

He’d just slid to a stop at the other end of the corridor, when Vlad and Vic emerged from the office. Both were breathless and rather unpleasantly sweaty. But they were elated. Vlad checked his Rolex and smiled at Vic.

  ‘I’d say 400-450 square feet completely destroyedamundo in around one minute twenty-five. Not our best, but I think we’re getting the chain back on the tandem, bruv.’

  Vlad picked up the stained suitcase and they headed off down the stairwell, Vic happily running his crowbar along the metal staircase spindles. At the far end of the corridor, Aubrey was not so happily having another dilemma.

  He could wait an hour then creep down the stairs. But he reckoned Vlad and Vic would soon clock that Mick and Jim’s non-appearance meant they’d been tipped off. And what fuckwit would have done such a dastardly deed?

  Within minutes, they’d be back at the top of the stairs, spitting blood and checking the corridors. They’d find him. He’d say, ‘Hello, Vlad and Vic, fancy seeing you here.’ And then they’d kill him.

  Chapter 3

  Aubrey spun round on one heel, which made him dizzy and even more detached from reality. The corridor was dark, apart from a sputtering neon tube. There was a door. He put his shoes back on then, from force of habit, looked left and right, pulled up his coat collar, went over and knocked.

  A woman’s voice shouted from across a room.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s er…’ said Aubrey.

  ‘Er what?’ asked the woman’s voice, confident, and closer to the door, by now.

  ‘Err…insurance.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘We’re on the telly,’ said Aubrey with an element of desperation creeping into his voice.

  ‘Never seen you.’

  ‘You know - we got a great jingle: To Err is human sung to the tune of Wide-eyed and legless.’

  ‘Never heard it.’

  Aubrey dropped all pretence.

  ‘Open the door, please missus,’ he said.

  The door opened a little. It was on a chain. A tall, thin, handsome woman with silver hair tied in a bun and piercing light blue eyes peered through the crack.

  ‘What sort of insurance?’

  ‘The sort of insurance what’ll stop you getting my blood and broken bits of teeth splattered all over your nice front door.’

  The game stopped.

  ‘You in trouble?’ asked the lady, quietly.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Aubrey, wiping his nose.

  The door opened wide. But despite his expectation of a horrible, imminent, painful death, Aubrey stood rooted to the spot.

  The woman was amazing - about sixty, tall, thin and elegant with fine cheekbones and impossibly shiny silver hair. She had toned muscles and a supreme air of confidence. Even more impressive was that she was dressed in a red silk vest, yellow silk Everlast shorts and ring boots, with a pair of bright red Cleto Reyes boxing gloves.

  She tapped her gloves together gently, while slowly eyeing Aubrey up and down. It was a strange image - one of refinement and sophistication, coupled with a brooding menace. If you could imagine a Jane Austen heroine who was a professional welterweight, you’d be getting close.

  ‘Come in, and shut the door before it gets any blood on it.’

  ‘Sit over there,’ she said, waving to a sofa.

  Aubrey shuffled across the room, and was startled by what he saw. The room was split into two distinct halves. One half had a comfy sofa covered in flowery material and two old wingback armchairs, which more or less matched. There was a highly polished dark wood coffee table with curved legs on which sat a tea pot shaped like a thatched cottage, flowery coasters and a tea cup with ‘A present from Ilfracombe’ emblazoned on its side. The walls were covered in a range of framed, officially signed certificates.

  The other half of the room, next to the windows, was a mini-gymnasium, with a parquet floor, punch bag, treadmill, weights, rings and wall bars.

  He sank into the sofa, dazed as much by the bizarre environment as by his perilous predicament.

  ‘Now,’ she said, sitting opposite him, ‘my name is Mrs Hathaway, I’m the cleaning lady for the offices in this block. And you are?’

  ‘Aubrey. Aubrey Brown.’

  ‘I suspect you haven't got a lot of time, Aubrey, so tell me everything that’s going on - and no porkies.’

  She poured him a cup of tea, and he told her everything. He felt she understood what he said, despite the clattering noise he was making with his cup and saucer.

  ‘So you reckon Vlad and Vic will be back any minute now to check the corridor, find you and - what do people say, nowadays - fill you in?’

  Aubrey nodded; relieved he had got his message across. But had hardly finished his last nod, when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hello, this is the maintenance lady, I need to check your electricity supply.’

  ‘Quick,’ said Mrs Hathaway. She dragged Aubrey, who had started gibbering incoherently, over to the punch bag. There was a long zip on one side. She undid the zip with one hand, and with the other, picked Aubrey up, stuffed him inside and began re-zipping the bag.

  Aubrey’s little face poked out at the top of the bag, mouthing, I’m a ‘fuckin’ goner, I’m a fuckin’ goner.’

  ‘Shut up, you idiot,’ she hissed.

  Aubrey screwed his eyes shut and did what he was told. Then, for some unknown reason, she leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead, before zipping him up completely.

  She ran to the door, and opened it wide. No point in looking like she had something to hide. Vlad and Vic were crouched on the other side of the corridor ready to perform a synchronised repeat of Vlad’s unique approach to entering rooms. She dropped her chin slightly, tilted her head and looked at them with a reproachful eye. They responded by blushing a bit and pretending to tie their shoelaces.

  ‘Bulgarian Gucci copies,’ said Vlad, looking up. ‘Always coming undone.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  They stood up, and were obviously struck by Mrs Hathaway’s exceptional looks and athletic appearance.

  ‘We was wonderin’ if you knew any places round here what sells decent shoelaces?’ said Vic, with a smirk.

  Vlad put his hand on Vic’s shoulder in a way which caused his smirk to disappear and his legs to buckle, momentarily.

  ‘Jokin’ apart,’ said Vlad, ‘we’re lookin’ for a couple of our best friends - perhaps you know them - Mick and Jim from Implosion Productions, just down the hall.’

  ‘Yes I know them,’ she said. ‘You both look very smart and respectable, what are you doing with those two drunks?’

  ‘Ah well, we’re more like business associates.’

  ‘Hm! From what I could see, they did very little business - they just drank themselves into oblivion. I had to clean up their disgusting mess, three or four times a week.’

  ‘Yeah well,’ said Vic trying to redeem himself, ‘we was wonderin’ if they might be with you.’

  ‘Not here, I’m afraid.’

  Vlad glowered.

  ‘Hm!’ she said, frowning back, ‘if it’s that important, come in and look round. But make it quick, I’m in the middle of a training session.’

  Vlad and Vic moved slowly into the room, looking left and right as if expecting a heavily armed terrorist to jump out from behind the chintz curtains.

  ‘Hey,’ said Vic, ‘like the gym! I wouldn’t have though an old broad, er - senior citizen - like yourself would have been a bit of a brawler.’

  ‘I have an interest in the noble art. I’ve been taking correspondence and video courses for over ten years - and I really enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Vic smirking across at Vlad, ‘and, like, who’s your favourite fighter?’

  ‘Oh! Mohammed Ali without a doubt - so fast and powerful. Although I disapproved of the way he constantly pulled on the back of Joe Frazier’s neck when they met in ‘74. You know the referee, Tony Perez, said it was OK to hold as long as long as you didn't
hit at the same time, but I think Ali was a naughty boy that night.’

  Vic was up for this.

  ‘OK lady,’ he said, ‘give me your best shot.’

  He crouched, put up his fists and began bobbing from left to right.

  ‘You can be as naughty as you like.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn't,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘I mean, all I’ve ever done is hit the punch bag and practice like they tell you on the videos - it’s just for the exercise, you know - I couldn't hit a real person.’

  ‘Now come on babe,’ said Vic, ‘if you talk the talk, you have to walk the walk. Give me your best shot, I promise I won't hurt you.’

  More smirks in Vlad’s direction.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I have to finish my training, then I have a pile of ironing to get through. I can't be doing with this nonsense.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Vic, ‘just humour me. I haven't had a laugh all day.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘if you insist.’

  She shrugged helplessly at Vlad, turned to face Vic, sighed slightly, hung her gloves by her side, then performed a perfect version of the Ali shuffle.

  Despite this, Vic still smiled confidently.

  She crouched slightly and, swaying smoothly from side to side, moved forwards, eventually throwing a left jab which missed Vic’s right ear by a few inches. Vic’s smile increased.

  Vic was still smiling half a second later when the left jab curved round the back of his neck and pulled him down onto four vicious, high-speed uppercuts.

  The smile was still on his face after the attack, because the punches were so fast, his face muscles hadn’t had time to readjust and deliver an agonised scream, and anyway, after the third uppercut, he lost consciousness. As he took the fourth hit, blood started to pump from his nose and he dropped to his knees.

  ‘Woo hoo!’ shouted Vlad, with a grin from ear to ear.

  He picked Vic up roughly, and blocked his bleeding nose with his handkerchief.

  ‘Sodding Pochette Square ran me 20 sodding quid,’ said Vlad. ‘100 per cent silk, hand-made by Italian craftsmen, and now it’s all covered with blood and snot.’

  He looked at Mrs Hathaway and winked. ‘Still, it was worth it, darlin’.’

  With his free hand, Vlad fumbled in the top pocket of his suit.

  ‘Look, here’s Charlie Sumkins’ card. If you ever need a part-time job, good money and lots of - you know - er - practice, give him a call and say I recommended you.’

  ‘Well thank you, but I’m happy with my cleaning job. By the way, how’s your friend?’

  ‘My twin brother is fine,’ said Vlad with some exasperation, ‘I’ll prop him in the corner ‘til he comes round.’

  While Vlad dragged Vic’s considerable frame across the room, there was a lull in the social niceties. Having made Vic as comfortable as you can make a person with severe concussion, Vlad broke the silence.

  ‘You got an impressive gym here, lady.’

  ‘I’ve built it up over the years.’

  ‘I used to work out with the old punch bag,’ said Vlad, as he walked across the room. ‘Mind if I have a go?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn't, I’m not sure it’s fixed too well to the ceiling.’

  ‘Oh go on, I just fancy a bit.’ And, without asking her again, Vlad delivered three really vicious haymakers to the bag.

  The bag made a noise that sounded like three stifled grunts.

  Vlad spun round. ‘Here,’ he said, suspiciously, ‘your bag just grunted.’

  ‘Oh that!’ said Mrs Hathaway, thinking faster than she’d ever thought in her life, ‘It’s a piece of Taiwanese electronic nonsense you put in the bag and when you punch it - it makes a noise. It’s supposed to sound like you’re fighting a real person. Anyway, I think you ought to be off now, your brother is coming round.’

  Vlad looked across the room, and it was true. Vic was stirring and asking for his mother.

  ‘Just one quick last go,’ said Vlad, and gave the bag a brutal, extended combination of right and left hooks.

  ‘Fuck me!’ gasped the bag.

  Vlad looked closely into Mrs Hathaway’s eyes. She didn't blink.

  ‘Unfortunate really,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to have to send the thing back to Taiwan - sometimes the language is a little too ripe for an old lady like me!’

  Fortunately, the conversation ended there as Vic had clawed his way up the wall and was swaying dangerously in the corner.

  Vlad strolled over and caught him just before he fell. He shoved his handkerchief further up Vic’s nostrils, put his brother’s arm over his shoulder and shuffled him to the open door. At the threshold, Vlad stopped and turned.

  ‘Well, Mrs…?’

  ‘Hathaway.’

  ‘Well darlin,’ I have to say it’s been very interesting.’ He looked down at Vic’s battered face, and tutted.

  ‘After all I’ve taught the useless bleeder.’

  ‘Cheerio,’ she said, as they lumbered off down the corridor, past the flashing neon light, and round the corner.

  She gave them a friendly wave.

  ‘Pleasure meeting you.’

  Mrs Hathaway closed the door quietly, leaned back heavily on the candlewick dressing gown hanging from its hook, and puffed out her cheeks in a huge sigh of relief.

  As she walked, a little unsteadily across to her gym area, she realised, for the first time, that the knuckles on her right hand were beginning to bruise.

  She stood in front of the punch bag, which was awfully quiet, breathed in deeply and prepared to unzip Aubrey back into the world.

  Chapter 4

  The good news was that Aubrey was alive. The bad news was that he had two heavily bruised eyes, both of which seemed like pin pricks focussed on something about 300 yards away.

  Mrs Hathaway pulled the zip down a few more inches to reveal Aubrey’s nose and mouth. His nose had disappeared somewhere into his face and his mouth was purple and swollen with quite a lot of blood oozing from multiple cuts to his lips. It also seemed to have been moved half way up his right cheek - in fact, it didn't much look like a mouth at all. But most importantly, it spoke.

  ‘I’d all-ryfft’

  Mrs Hathaway understood this to mean ‘I’m alright’ and was, consequently, extremely relieved. She pulled the zip right down in one quick movement. Unfortunately, Aubrey’s assessment of his physical condition was way off the mark - the equivalent of Robert Shaw shouting to Roy Scheider, ‘Don't worry mate, it's only a scratch!’ as Jaws dragged him off the back of the Orca.

  As soon as the zip was fully open, Aubrey’s eyes rolled up into his head, he lost what consciousness he had, and fell forward out of the punch bag. Only lightning-fast reactions enabled Mrs Hathaway to flick out her foot and stop Aubrey’s head smacking into the parquet floor.

  For a brief moment, she froze. Aubrey’s battered head rested on her ring boot, but his feet were still stuck in the bag. It was not the time for the Avon lady to call. But she made decisions quickly. Possibly this was due to the many unarmed combat, distance-learning projects she’d passed with flying colours. She grabbed Aubrey round the waist, turned him upright and stared into where his eyes had been.

  ‘Aubrey? This is Mrs Hathaway - do you recognise me?’

  ‘Plead to meed you!’ said Aubrey, politely, but to no one in particular.

  More blood flowed from his mouth and his left nostril popped out from his face and blew a large, green bubble.

  ‘I think you need looking after,’ she said, gently.

  ‘Danks,’ said Aubrey, and the green bubble burst, making his face look even more of a mess.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said, turning towards the bathroom.

  She manoeuvred Aubrey round to face in the right direction. Then held his hand and sighed. What was happening? This moderately disgusting little man, a fugitive from what was going to be some pretty rough justice, had knocked on her door. And within a few minutes, she had begun to feel like a you
ng girl again. She had a spring in her step, and was certainly a little breathless. She turned to look at herself in her nice new full-length mirror - from Ikea’s Spunksplat range - and had to admit that she looked more than a little flushed. Sure, her pink complexion might be because she had just pulverised one of the world’s top crime syndicate enforcers in three seconds flat. But she was prepared to think it just might be because there were signs of an ever-so-tiny bond, who knows, an ever-so-tiny bond with a romantic tinge, growing between the two of them.

  She breathed deeply, although anyone watching would have said it was a sigh of contentment. As she clasped Aubrey’s hand tightly and looked towards the bathroom door, her head began to fill with images - a bit hazy, but, nevertheless, they definitely were images. Images of a future. A future so different from her past. A future shared. A future with a man she could love and protect. A man she could depend on.

  Unfortunately, as she took her first step, Aubrey’s spindly legs buckled and he passed out again. This time, his head did hit the parquet floor. But so transfixed was Mrs Hathaway by the pastel images that flowed like sweet music through her brain, the sickening noise of cranial impact on polished mahogany didn't even register. She stared straight ahead, held his hand tighter and, with steady steps, and a faint, far-away smile, dragged his limp, bleeding body across to its appointment with her recently reconditioned geyser.

  *

  Mrs Hathaway’s bathroom was not designed to treat someone who had just had the living daylights beaten out of him. In fact, it was designed to envelop her in an environment she could only dream of, and certainly never afford. If you ignored the plastic avocado bath and 1930’s black and white tiles, the rest was pure fantasy. The walls were completely covered with a photographic image of a coral island - a turquoise lagoon surrounded by palm trees, a white sand beach, with a little wooden pier with protruding posts leading to a beach bar covered in palm fronds - and everything bathed in bright tropical sunlight. There were even two seagulls doing something on the beach bar roof. The other bathroom wall was painted sky blue and decorated with shells, ceramic models of fish, glass floats in nets and a collection of old compasses collected over the years from the Portobello Road market.