by Stan Arnold
He’d say, ‘Digby get me on a training course on how to handle these new-fangled ships - or better still, let’s sneak into the Spacefleet Spaceport tonight and help ourselves to one. We’ll take it for a trip round Saturn and I’ll work it all out for myself.’
And Digby would say, ‘Bah gum sir, thar’s reet.’ And off they’d go.
It was these nostalgic thoughts, coupled with the vague recollection of a quote that went something like, ‘Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the public’ that saw him, for the first time in many years, doing something positive about his business. He had decided, at long last, to write an advertisement!
But it wasn't easy. He’d been at it all morning, and there were lots of crumpled sheets of paper in his wastebasket. But the one currently lying on his desk had promise. It was only a couple of headlines but, apparently, the headline was the most important bit of an advertisement, and you could use it on your website - whatever that was.
The TV was full of bloody compensation claims commercials. They must be making money. But he couldn't just join in, and say I’m doing that too. He had to stand out from the crowd.
He couldn't go top dollar, so he had to undercut them all, create a whole new market right down at the bottom end, come up with a new underhand approach that would make the competition drop their fucking iPhones into their Frappuccinos with surprise. Something that would blow the fuses in their iPuds or whatever those fucking mini-tellys were called.
He had scribbled down a double headline.
NO CASE TOO TRIVIAL
NO COMPLAINT TOO PUERILE
If that didn't drag in the dregs, nothing would. It sounded really good.
Not sounding so good was Digby’s doorbell. It started with that dreadful noise you get when you try and fire up a car with a flat battery and moved seamlessly to loud, high-speed clanks, similar to those made by a hover mower when it hits a brick, finishing with an extended series of whip-cracking, ultra-high-voltage discharges.
Mrs Hathaway had arrived at her first appointment.
‘Come in, come in,’ gushed Digby, over the entryphone.
He pressed the door lock release switch on his desk, and his face convulsed horribly as he received a 240-volt reminder to get the electrician in. He wrenched himself away from the switch; then, banging his numbed arm on the filing cabinet, drew himself up, took a deep breath and prepared to meet his first client of the day, or to be more precise, of the month.
Chapter 11
Mrs Hathaway walked into the office. The early morning sun shone brightly through the window behind her, so all Digby could make out was a slender silhouette. Still, silhouetted clients paid as much as non-silhouetted clients, so it was time to turn on the charm.
‘Hello Mrs...?’
‘Hathaway.’
‘Ah yes. Mrs Hathaway. Welcome to Elton-John, Solicitors-at-Law.’
Digby’s jacket sleeve was smouldering slightly and there was a smell of singed Harris Tweed, but nevertheless he held out his hand and she reciprocated.
‘Delighted to meet you. I hope I’m not late?’
‘No, no, dear lady. Here have a seat.’
Digby moved to the window and picked up an old ladderback chair. Immediately, one of the legs fell off and clattered onto the wood laminate flooring.
He hated wood laminate flooring, but he’d been forced to have it laid when, following a routine visit from the Council Health & Safety inspectors, his old Axminster had to be removed by a specialist team wearing biohazard suits and respirators.
As he bent down to pick up the leg, the ladderbacks detached themselves from the top of the chair, so that effectively, he was now scrabbling on his knees with a pile of Victorian firewood.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘It was working perfectly well last month.’
At that point, he looked up and, suddenly, the chair didn't matter any more. He caught his first real glimpse of Mrs Hathaway.
She was beautifully illuminated. The sun glinted on her silver hair. Her eyes were like light blue crystals - the clearest and brightest he’d ever seen. She was slim, elegant, charismatic - he could sum her up in three words - absolutely, fucking and gorgeous.
Digby spoke again.
‘Cannossi thinkle was an happered there, burra muftav nogrrit proper glood.’
Making his best decision of the morning, he decided to stop speaking.
‘That’s alright,’ she said, calmly, ‘I’ll stand.’
He shoved the remains of the chair into a corner and stumbled back to his desk. As he made the long journey, under Mrs Hathaway’s beautiful, unrelenting gaze, Digby was reminded of the 50’s TV cartoon commercial for Esso Blue paraffin, where the dealer is overawed by a buxom blond and delivers the line, ‘Good morning, I’m the Esso Blee Dooler.’
That was funny. This was not. He had fallen instantly, and completely, in love. This was much more than his infatuation with Professor Jocelyn Mabel Peabody - Dan Dare’s co-pilot and all-round brilliant interplanetary scientist. Mrs Hathaway had an aura of perfection - something he’d never seen before. Something he’d never even dreamt of before. She was his perfect woman. She was absolutely incredible. His admiration was so overwhelming that even her next sentence did not diminish his ardour.
‘I’m a self-employed cleaning lady. I have no money, and can't pay you anything for the service I am about to request.’
‘As if that would matter,’ smiled Digby sitting back behind his desk and taking extra care not to touch the door lock release switch. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Here’s a big envelope. In it are some smaller addressed envelopes with stamps. On the front of the big envelope you can see my name - Tallulah Hathaway - and another name, Aubrey Brown, along with our contact details. If either of us, or both of us, die suddenly, in what seems like mysterious or suspicious circumstances, I want you to open it, and put all the stamped envelopes in the post, immediately.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Absolutely. And I can tell you that, should you need to post the letters, there could be a large amount of lucrative legal work coming your way.’
‘Immaterial, my good lady.’
‘So you’ll do it?’
‘Yes.’
She passed the large envelope into Digby’s moist hands.
In reality, Mrs Hathaway had no idea if there would be any lucrative legal work, but these were desperate times. And anyway, she had said ‘could be,’ not 'will be’, so her conscience was clear.
Digby hadn't the slightest interest in lucrative legal work, all he wanted to know was whether she was up for a date, later that evening.
‘I was wondering, dear lady, whether you would do me the honour of dining with me at Claridges, ce soir, when we could discuss your situation in greater depth.’
He didn't really mean Claridges, but if she said ‘yes,’ he’d say Claridges was booked up and take her to the bistro round the corner. But that didn't mean she wasn’t the new love of his life.
‘Well I don't think dinner would be possible, as I’m afraid I’m already spoken for. But I am very flattered. Thank you for your extremely kind co-operation, and good morning.’
With that, Mrs Hathaway turned and made her way out of the office. As she left, the sun went in and the sky turned cold and grey.
Digby sat at his desk and sighed. She was so beautiful - and those eyes! It was as though a golden dawn had been presented to him, only to have it suddenly whipped away and replaced by a torrential downpour. Which, as he looked out of the window, is exactly what had happened.
She was going out of his life, for ever. How could he live with the heartache? He could see nothing ahead but melancholy, depression and a slow, pathetic decline. He gazed down at his wristband. What Would Dan Dare Do in a situation like this? He thought for a moment, then, quite suddenly, it occurred to him.
He shot out his hand, and held down the door lock release switch, hard. His face twisted until it was unrecogni
sable, what hair he had stood on end, his mouth snapped open and bright sparks shot from filling to filling, while other parts of his jacket started to self-combust.
After about 10 seconds of this ultra-primitive, self-inflicted electro-convulsive therapy, he had completely erased any feelings of passion, lust or love - and could only vaguely remember that some woman had been in to see him, earlier that morning, or perhaps yesterday.
He ripped off his jacket and stamped out the flames. Then picking up a pencil, and with his life’s goals suitably realigned, he set to work on his advertisement with renewed vigour.
Chapter 12
The rain didn't bother Mrs Hathaway, as the next solicitor was just three doors away. She ran up the steps and checked the nameplate on the wall. Unlike Digby’s, which was stained imitation brass, covered in sooty lichen and snail trails, this new nameplate looked as if it was made from freshly brushed titanium. The sort of thing you might see doing something on a space station or up-market mountain bike.
She negotiated the entry-phone and stepped into reception. It was very smart, very high tech, with subtle, concealed lighting. The receptionist sat behind a frosted-glass desk, heavily laced with titanium and Macintosh screens.
‘Ya?’ said the receptionist, without looking up from her Tatler.
‘It’s Mrs Hathaway, 10.45 appointment.’
The receptionist pressed the intercom.
‘10.45’s here,’ she said in a bored drawl. Then added rather more enthusiastically, ‘Can’t wait for tonight, hotboy!’
She blew a stage kiss into the phone, without taking her eyes of the snapshots of the wealthy and wonderful at play.
Mrs Hathaway understood from the receptionist’s languid wrist movement in the direction of a door on the far side of the room, that she was supposed to go in and see the solicitor.
She knocked.
A voice answered, ‘Come.’
The office door had an architect-designed door handle in which you could easily catch and rip off your thumb as you entered. But with her years’ of experience of unarmed combat courses and street-fight training videos, she was alert to dangers of all kinds. She opened the door without injury, and entered.
The office was equally hi-tech with computers and more titanium office furniture. Behind the desk, stretched out, with this hands behind the back of his head, was a man of about 30. He was suspiciously tanned and had the sort of tight, wavy haircut you see on guards’ officers or point-to-point officials. His suit was titanium shiny too, with a pale pink, open necked shirt, finished off with pale pink socks and pale grey loafers.
He looked repulsively self-assured, but he was certainly a lot smarter than Digby whose idea of sartorial elegance consisted of grey flannel trousers held up with a tie, and a threadbare rust-red Harris Tweed jacket with a smouldering sleeve.
‘My name is Mrs Hathaway.’
‘Ya,’ he said, indicating a seat, in the most condescending way imaginable.
‘No thank you, I’ll stand,’ she said.
She wasn’t being rude, it was just that the chair had so many unrecognisable components, levers and illuminated buttons. At the back of her mind, she thought that one wrong move could fire her into the air, and, if she died from her injuries, Digby would be off to the post box like a rocket, and effectively blow the whole thing.
‘And you are?’
‘Er - Richard. Richard Face.’
‘Oh! So Cumberbatch, Fortescue and De Vere are out with clients.’
‘Er yes,’ mumbled Dick. God, he must get round to doing that deed poll thing. Perhaps Rapher Visconti or Henri Montcrieffe - something with a continental 'man of mystery' aura. He started to dream.
Mrs Hathaway had a lot of ground to cover, so she went straight into her routine.
‘I’m a self-employed cleaning lady. I have no money, and can't pay you anything for the service I am about to request.’
Richard sat up and leaned forward. Having got over the name bit, he’d been dealt the upper hand.
‘Mrs Hathaway,’ he said with what, even the most generous observers would call a arrogant smirk, ‘I have to tell you my fees are 300 guineas an hour, and that’s my charge for poverty stricken clients - you know, down to their last 250,000.’
He enjoyed seeing the shock travel across her face. He cranked up the voltage.
‘I mean, we have to earn an honest living. I have a family to support.’
She glanced over his shoulder, and through the window could see at least three new Porsches in the firm’s private car park. She also wondered if his family knew about Big Tits Tatler in reception.
‘I understand, of course,’ she said, looking down at the carpet.
Richard stood up and his smirk developed a new and even more sickening dimension.
‘Why don't you try old Digby Elton-John down the road. He’ll probably pay you for giving him the work.’
He snorted at his own wit.
‘Would it help if I told you this work could lead to a large amount of lucrative legal work coming your way?’
‘Look, Mrs Thing,’ said Richard, raising his voice unnecessarily, as though something unpleasant had started snapping inside him. ‘I’m beginning to get tired of you and your problems, and I don't even know what your problems are.’
Whatever was starting to snap, snapped. He began pacing the office, throwing his arms around in all directions.
‘If I had a quid for every senile old biddy who came tottering in here snivelling on about getting legal expertise for free, with the promise of millions down the road, I’d be more filthy rich than I already am. So in the nicest possible way, just sod off.’
Mrs Hathaway watched the flailing arms like a hawk. If he came too close, he would have to be taken down.
Fortunately, for the would-be Rapher, he stayed out of range. He took a breather from his rant, and she calmly stepped in.
‘One more thing, you didn't enjoy all the egg you had for breakfast did you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You didn't enjoy all the egg you had for breakfast?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘You left quite a large amount of it on your shirt.’
‘Oh shit,’ hissed Richard, pulling at his shirt to assess the damage.
He hit the intercom.
‘I’ve got crap on my shirt and the MP-animal sanctuary sex scandal meeting’s at 11.30. Christ, that could be worth 750,000, especially if we time the press leaks right. I’m gonna be offering my fuckin’ services to that multi-millionaire pervert looking like something that just crawled out of a cardboard box on the Embankment.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘just soak it in cold water using a liquid detergent with colour-safe bleach for 30 minutes, then wash it in warm water with more detergent. If you can still see the stain, soak it for an extra 30 minutes, then rewash.’
Richard gazed at her, with his mouth open. Then he spoke.
‘I don’t need any advice from you, you time-suck.’
Mrs Hathaway wasn’t sure what a ‘time-suck’ was, but it didn't sound very nice.
‘I’ll say goodbye then.’
She held out her hand. Richard took it reluctantly. Anything to get rid of the loony old bitch.
She shook his hand and said with a smile, ‘And by the way, my advice was completely free! Enjoy the rest of your day.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Richard, which, given the way he was feeling, he thought was pretty courteous.
Mrs Hathaway turned and moved through to reception. As she left the office, Big Tits Tatler was on the intercom screaming, ‘How the bloody hell should I know where there’s a shitting shirt shop.’
She had some satisfaction in leaving two disgusting people in disarray. But more satisfying was the fact that she had had chance to practice her Kyusho pressure point, delayed-action handshake.
Kyusho enables you to completely incapacitate an attacker by applying light pressure to specific poin
ts on the body. Attackers go down suddenly, usually with a scream or profanity, and the effect lasts about an hour. She’d taken the course last year, and developed a ‘one-minute delayed action’ technique all by herself. Of course, it might not work.
But as she set foot on the pavement, en route to the next solicitor on her list, she heard Richard screaming ‘Fuck me!’ And, while she was sure a posh office like his would have the best possible hi-tech soundproofing, his profanity was as loud and as clear as a bell.
Chapter 13
Mrs Hathaway turned out of the lift, glanced in at Implosion Productions, where two workmen were refitting the office door, and walked down to the corridor end.
It had been a tough old day. Out of ten solicitors, only Digby had agreed to her request to pop down to the post if she or Aubrey died mysterious deaths.
The other nine solicitors had been generally unpleasant, condescending and rude, and, consequently, had experienced her Kyusho pressure point, delayed-action farewell handshake. Having, no doubt, been hardened by twenty years of distance training in martial arts other types of advanced unarmed combat, she really didn't feel the ‘handshake’ was much of an issue.
This was not the case at the local A&E, where there had been a steady stream of unconscious solicitors arriving by ambulance for the best part of the day.
She turned the corner, tutted at the flashing neon tube, and put her key in the lock.
Aubrey was asleep. Good. She changed out of her best frock and back into her pinny. No time for a training session. There was one final call to make. A call that would be best made while Aubrey was well out of it.
She went to the mantelpiece and picked up Charlie Sumkin’s card - the one Vlad had so kindly offered after the Vic incident.
As she dialled the number, she sat down on the sofa. If it was going to be difficult, she might as well be comfy.
