by Stan Arnold
‘Now come on,’ she said, ‘get on with it.’
Vlad checked the bathroom.
‘Hmm! Can't be many flats in London with a view as nice as this.’
He came out smirking, and moved towards the bedroom door. At the same time, Vic stood up and flicked the knitting pattern onto the opposite chair.
‘Bloody hell, Vlad, them magazines aren’t half crap.’
He wandered over to join Vlad at the bedroom door.
Mrs Hathaway stepped in front of them.
‘I’d rather you didn't go in there,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ said Vlad, slowly.
‘Yeah, why not?’ said Vic, feeling he ought to be taking part, now that blood was returning to his scrotum.
‘Well, it’s my - well, sort of boudoir - and it’s, well, a little untidy.’
‘Don't worry,’ said Vic, ‘yer seen one untidy boudoir, you seen ‘em all.’
Once inside, a quick check of the wardrobe, a quick glance under the bed and it was clear to the V-twins, the room was empty. They turned to go.
Just as they approached the bedroom door, there was a muffled, but unmistakable sound. It was Aubrey, breaking serious wind under the duvet.
Vlad stopped dead in his tracks. Mrs Hathaway looked at the ceiling and prayed.
Vlad turned and grabbed Vic by the lapels.
‘Look, I know you’re havin’ six enemas a day for your concussion, but that’s no excuse for droppin’ a big one in a lady’s - what was it?
‘Boudoir.’
‘…in a lady’s boudoir. You fink she’s going to enjoy dozin’ off tonight with the reek of carbolic soap lingerin’ in her nostrils. Get out!’
He pushed Vic roughly into the main room, and continued pushing him until they reached the apartment door.
Vlad turned to Mrs Hathaway.
‘Look, darlin’ I’m sorry about Vicky-boy blow-trousers here, but since you whacked him, his bodily functions have been a bit ipso facto, if you know what I mean.’
She didn't. But she nodded sympathetically.
Vlad and Vic ambled off down the corridor, past the spluttering neon. She waved goodbye, closed the door quietly, leaned against the candlewick dressing gown and blew out her cheeks. Wasn’t this how that Groundhog Day film started? She fully expected there to be another knock on the door within seconds with a high-pitched voice saying ‘Hello, this is the maintenance lady, I need to check your electricity supply.’
Instead, the bedroom door opened and Aubrey stood there, stark naked. Considering what he had on display, he looked surprisingly ashamed.
‘Sorry I farted,’ he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders in an apologetic sort of way.
Mrs Hathaway’s cheeks coloured, and in a soft voice she simply whispered, ‘Aubrey darling, I forgive you.’
She held out her arms and smiled.
‘Come here. Let me give you a cuddle.’
Chapter 8
‘Eh?’ said Aubrey.
‘Come here. Let me give you a cuddle.’
‘Eh?’ said Aubrey again.
‘Look, you’ve been through a lot. You’ve been zipped into a punch bag and badly beaten by a 20-stone thug. You’ve been unconscious for two hours, you’re being hunted by mobsters who mean you a lot of harm - why shouldn't I give you a cuddle?’
Aubrey thought for a second.
‘Well for a start, I’m bollock naked.’
‘But there’s no need to be ashamed. Being naked is a natural state.’
Although even she had to admit there was nothing natural about the way Aubrey looked when he was naked.
Aubrey thought for a few more seconds.
‘Got any grub?’
Mrs Hathaway was somewhat taken aback by this change of tack, but she responded immediately.
‘I could do you some chopped egg in a cup with bread and butter soldiers - my mother always used to do that for me when I’d been poorly.’
‘I was finkin’ more about, like, a mutton vindaloo with chana bhuna extras.’
‘Well, there’s an Indian restaurant in Frith Street, but if I go to get it, what will you do if your work colleagues decide to pop back with a few more questions?’
Aubrey reconsidered.
‘OK, how big’s the cup?’
‘Get back into bed, and I’ll do it for you.’
Aubrey turned away and was confused. It wasn’t just the industrial-grade pummelling he’d recently taken, it wasn’t the fact that when he closed his eyes he saw strange flashing lights and clips from Rocky IV - it was all this cuddling stuff.
For as long as he could remember, no one had ever said anything nice to him. Nothing friendly. Nothing caring. Nothing pleasant. Nothing complimentary. And certainly nothing loving. That was absolutely true. Not a single fuckin’ word.
He got into bed and dragged his appendage after him. He made it comfortable, propped himself up on a pillow and waited for his chopped egg.
After three and a half minutes of propping, the cup of chopped egg arrived, complete with a shiny teaspoon and bread and butter soldiers on a bone china plate.
‘Ta,’ said Aubrey, looking at the cup, suspiciously.
Mrs Hathaway sat down in a chair next to the bed and looked carefully at Aubrey.
‘Eat it up, it’ll do you good.’
Aubrey knew what would really do him good, a mutton vindaloo, chana bhuna, five pints of cold lager and a dozen brandy chasers - plus a large fuckin’ meteorite smacking into Charlie Sumkins’ penthouse office suite, just as he was offering Vlad and Vic an extra bonus for bringing him in, or failing that, bringing bits of him in.
‘And while you’re enjoying your food, I think we should have a little chat.’
‘OK,’ said Aubrey indifferently, while spooning some egg between the swollen purple things that used to be his lips.
He obviously had no feeling anywhere in his face, as his first spoonful caught on his over-extended bottom lip and flipped a good dollop of chopped egg upwards, partially blocking the only nostril to have fully reappeared to date.
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘That’s not going to get the baby bathed, is it?’
She leaned forward with a tissue.
‘Here, let’s clean you up.’
She wiped the egg off Aubrey’s face and held another tissue to his nostril.
‘Big blow for Tallulah, then,’ she said.
Aubrey blew. It was an extremely unpleasant noise, but it did the job.
As soon as his nose was clear, he spoke.
‘Tall-fuckin-ulah?’
‘Language Aubrey!’
‘Sorry, but is that your moniker?’
‘I was named after Tallulah Bankhead - a famous actress.’
‘Never heard of her,’ mumbled Aubrey.
Then, by way of offering an olive branch, said, ‘Sorry about the effing.’
‘Maybe I ought to take an extra big tissue and clean up your language.’
He managed a few more spoonfuls of chopped egg and shoved a soldier down the hole in his face.
‘’Ere,’ said Aubrey, ‘you gorra mirror?’
She guessed what was coming.
‘I don't think that’s a good idea, Aubrey.’
‘Go on,’ pleaded Aubrey. ‘I got a right to know what I look like - Tallulah.’
The pause, and the Tallulah, hit the spot. She opened the bedside table drawer.
Aubrey held up the hand mirror, and saw the damage.
His reaction was far worse than she could possibly have imagined.
He screamed and sat bolt upright in bed. The cup and its contents hit the ceiling and cascaded back down over the duvet.
‘Shit a brick,’ he cried, with genuine terror in his voice. ‘Look what they done! And they didn’t even know I was in the punch bag. When they get me proper, I’m a goner! I’ve had it! Finito Benito! Not a fucking chance! I’m fucked! I’m fucked! I’m fucked! I’m fucked! I’m fucked!’
Mrs Hathaway removed some choppe
d egg from her hair and placed her hand on Aubrey’s shuddering shoulder.
‘No you’re not, Aubrey.’
She looked directly, deep into his brutally beaten eyes.
‘You are not going to be ‘that-worded,’ because I will protect you. I will make sure you can live your life free from the threat of extreme violence, or even ordinary violence, from Vlad, Vic, Charlie Sumkins, or any of his criminal associates.’
For the first time, Aubrey really listened to what she was saying. Sure, a lot of the attention he gave to her words was generated by self-interest. But, nevertheless, he listened.
Mrs Hathaway sensed the welcome change in mood, and decided to play her cards close to her delightful chest. It was time to get some more information about this troubled little man who had so unexpectedly burst in on, what she would readily acknowledge, was her rather mundane and predictable life.
‘But first…’ she said.
‘What?’ said Aubrey, gloomily sinking down into the egg-splattered duvet.
‘I need the answer to a few simple questions.’
‘When I was cleaning you up in the bath, I couldn't help noticing…’
‘Yeah, massive innit,’ interrupted Aubrey.
‘Well, yes, I suppose that’s a word that would apply.’
‘Biggest you’ve ever seen?’
‘Well yes,’ she said, rather taken aback by Aubrey’s candour.
‘Probably the biggest in the world.’
‘I’m not really qualified to judge.’
‘Well it is. And I’ll tell you something else it is.’
‘What?’
‘Useless.’
‘Useless?’
‘Yeah - it don't work.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It don't do the business.’
‘Business?’
‘Gor blimey lady - it don’t change from looking like this.’
Aubrey pulled back the duvet violently, scattering bits of egg over the opposite wall.
‘You mean you can't get an erection?’
‘Got it in ten.’
‘But that’s dreadful,’ she said. ‘Haven't you been to the doctor’s?’
‘Doctors, specialists, consultants, homeothingies, even one of them lady sex therapists round the back of Euston Station.’
‘And she couldn't help?’
‘No. I mean, she tried everythin’. Like everythin’ - if you know what I mean.’
‘And nothing?’
‘Nothin’. She said I was a special case, and took a picture of it.’
‘That was probably for her medical records.’
‘I dunno. She set the camera on self-timer then rushed round and knelt next to it.’
‘Strange.’
‘Yeah, and I’d swear she was smiling.’
‘How terrible,’ said Mrs Hathaway, blushing guiltily as she used her seemingly endless supply of tissues to wipe the egg off the wall.
There was silence until the cleaning operation was over. Then she returned to her chair, and looked down at Aubrey’s magnificent, but apparently useless, organ.
‘I have another question. You had a little chuckle about “Tallulah”. Well I want to know about that tattoo, ESONI. It’s not the name of a criminal gang or secret, black arts society?’
“Nah,’ said Aubrey.
Mrs Hathaway thought she detected a glimmer of amusement pass across his pulverised features.
‘Lift it up and have a look.’
Mrs Hathaway was dubious. He was, after all, a strange man lying in her bed. But within seconds, curiosity got the better of her. At first, she reached out and tried to lift it with a delicate thumb and forefinger, but soon realised it was a two-hand job.
‘See there,’ said Aubrey. ‘Start with the letter E. To the left side of it, there’s an H - and on the right side there’s an R. So when you read it across, it spells HER.’
‘Go on - try the rest - it don’t bother me.’
Mrs Hathaway worked her way along the tattoo and, sure enough, each letter visible from above had other letters tattooed to the left and right to make up a complete word.
After a few seconds, she’d cracked it. ‘E’ was part of HER. ‘S’ was part of MAJESTY’S. ‘O’ was part of CUSTOMS.
So that was it! In full, the ESONI tattoo read HER MAJESTY’S CUSTOMS AND EXCISE.
Now some cynics might think that the tattoo was somewhat ironic, given the number of people who are regularly shafted by the UK tax system. But Mrs Hathaway was in ‘pastel image - sweet music’ mode and saw the tattoo as a rather noble way of Aubrey demonstrating his dedication to his former employers - particularly as the tattoo used the correct typeface.
She heaved Aubrey’s extremity back into place, patted it down and sat him up against the pillow.
‘Right,’ she said in a business-like way, ‘we’ve got all the names sorted out. Now for the plan…’
But before she could carry on, Aubrey said, ‘Don't suppose there’s a chance of some more egg in a cup?’
The pastel images in her head exploded in a riot of beautiful, vibrant colours, the sweet music swelled to an unimaginable volume, and she seemed to rise a foot off the ground.
‘Of course you can, my sweetheart.’
Mrs Hathaway turned and almost skipped into the kitchen to put another egg on to boil. This was better than she had ever imagined. She had a man, who, although of little use in an important department, was someone who needed her, someone she could care for, someone with whom she could build a loving relationship, someone to stroll alongside, happily into the future.
She could see clearly that life was going to be absolutely wonderful, provided the plans she had for the next 48 hours, didn't result in their sudden and very violent deaths.
Chapter 9
Aubrey slept the sleep of the just. Or, as some might think, the sleep of the just alive. But, although he looked terrible after acting as unseen punch bag stuffing during Vlad’s impromptu workout, he was, in fact, feeling much better. And anyway, he liked to sleep a lot.
Mrs Hathaway spent the night on the sofa, and was up around 7 am. She slipped into her running gear, and did five miles on the treadmill and ten minutes with the punchbag. Then she sat at her dining table - one of the nicest ones from the Ikea Pubik range - and started to write a letter. By 9 am, she had finished writing, and was ready to make some telephone calls.
She was left to herself as to when she cleaned the offices, so it was no problem to take time off. She fixed up ten appointments for the rest of the day, almost all of them within walking distance. Everything was going to plan.
She ate a light breakfast of melon slices and chamomile tea, and left Aubrey a couple of apples. Then she put on her best frock, coat and shoes, and placed the letter and a bundle of envelopes along with another piece of paper into her handbag.
With her hand on the doorknob, she paused. This was it. The point of no return. Did she want it? Yes, she did.
She took a deep breath, pulled back her shoulders and treated herself to an Ali Shuffle, before stepping out into a world where the only certainty was that the neon tube in the corridor would still be sputtering.
Chapter 10
Digby Elton-John was from another world. Not Mars or Venus, but from somewhere even more remote - the 1950s. He could go on and on about that fabulous decade - and he often did. But no one listened. He was stuck in the future, and there was no way back.
But what a fantastic time he’d had growing up. He had the Eagle to read - and as an extra bonus, he had the same name as Dan Dare’s faithful, Wigan-born sidekick. The 1950s meant no TV - and even when it arrived, it was black, white and fuzzy, and when you switched it on, there was a strange, comforting smell as dust burnt off the valves.
But, assuming you were allowed to watch it, there were some great things on that tiny 11-inch screen - Whirligig, Billy Bean, Mr Pastry, Shirley Abicair and her zither, Mick and Montmorency and scratchy American cowboy series, like
Hopalong Cassidy.
But it wasn’t the TV, really. His fondest memory was the freedom. Climbing trees, building boxcars using old pram wheels, scrumping and chewing gnarled liquorice twigs. There were cap guns, parachute bombs and bottles of warm, luminous Tizer, school uniforms with short grey trousers, and on the soles of your boots you had steel Segs which made sparks when you kicked the floor. You and your mates could play matchbox rugby across a road, where there was a car every hour, ride bikes with solid tyres, no brakes and no gears, and everyone worried about the policeman when they had to cycle home with no lights. He looked down at his red rubber WWDDD wristband and sighed.
For years, he had conducted a pathetic fight to hold back the tide of ‘so called’ progress. But as technology increased ever more rapidly, and social values had changed for the worst, he had slid further and further into depression.
Elton-John Solicitors had thrived in the early days, based on personal service and a genuine desire to help local people. The decision to allow the legal profession to advertise in 1986, had greased the palms of thousands of savvy, switched-on solicitors, but for Digby it meant the start of a slow but inevitable slide down an increasingly slippery slope. Slick firms got bigger, while Digby got smaller.
He’d simply failed to keep up with the times. And it was quite deliberate, because - hand on heart - these weren’t his times. He regarded legal advertising as vulgar and unprofessional. And as for those dreadful ambulance-chaser ads on TV and stuff about compensation for tripping over teaspoons in the work’s canteen - he despaired of them all.
Now, he had hardly any clients and most of the ribbon-tied briefs which littered his office floor were at least 20 years’ old. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered turning up. Maybe he just liked to gather the same dust as his memories.
That morning, he was thinking back over his career. He only had a couple of years to go before retirement, which was secure, thanks to his decision to buy his building with eight large offices for £4,500 in 1965. But did he want to go out with a whimper or a bang?
He looked down at his rubber wristband, and read the letters out loud. ‘WWDDD - What Would Dan Dare Do?’ Well, what would he do?
Digby sat up straight and breathed in rapidly through his nostrils. Well for start, Colonel Daniel McGregor Dare was the Pilot of the Future, for Chrissake! He wouldn’t sit on his arse and moan. He wouldn't turn to Digby and say, ‘These new interplanetary space ships are getting a bit complicated with all those extra dials and aerials and stuff, I think I’ll pack it in.’ Like fuck he would.
