by Stan Arnold
‘Yes, but, at the moment, no one knows. What they do know is the rumour you’ve been spreading for twenty years, that you’ve fathered over 50 children during that period, but the women are so scared of you, or so hopeful of regaining your sexual favours, they don't even mention it.’
She looked him straight in the eye.
‘I believe across the global criminal community, you are known as Chuck the Fuck.’
‘What bollock brain told…’
Mrs Hathaway went to pat her handbag.
‘What inconsiderate person told you that?’
‘Mick and Jim from Implosion Productions.’
‘The bastards!’
She went to pat her handbag, again.
‘Oh, give me a break. “Bastards” ain’t too bad.’
‘Alright.’
‘Those bastards!’ shouted Charlie.
Then, in a more confidential tone, ‘‘Ere, them two ain’t, like, part of this letter-sending-out deal are they?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Hathaway, quietly. But inside, she was shouting Yes! Yes! Yes! Charlie had, for the first time, acknowledged there was a ‘deal’ on the desktop.
‘As you know,’ she continued, ‘reputation is everything in international crime.’
Mrs Hathaway made the statement with absolute confidence, and hoped to hell she was right.
‘And if other criminals get to read in the papers that you have a zero sperm count, or the rumour-mill gets going, your Chuck the Fuck image will destroyed in no time at all. They’ll start thinking what else has he been telling porkies about. Maybe he isn't as tough as he makes out, and maybe we can get some of his business, or, if he’s that much of a pushover, we’ll take it all. You could be in for a very rough and dangerous ride.’
Charlie hung his head, and she breathed a discreet sigh of relief. She’d guessed, and got it right.
‘So,’ said Charlie, looking up, ‘you're lookin’ for a deal. I cancel the contract on Aubrey…’
‘And me.’
‘Why you?’
‘Well I’ve just stuck two fingers up your nose and confiscated your favourite pistol.’
Charlie shrugged by way of acknowledgement.
‘OK.’
‘So, there will be no attempt on our lives. Nothing at all. And in return, the letters will gather dust at the solicitors.’
‘You got it,’ said Charlie, miserably.
‘Excellent,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘I think that brings this meeting to a very satisfactory conclusion.’
She turned to Aubrey who was still sitting on his stool looking damp and unhappy.
‘I think it’s time to go, Aubrey.’
Aubrey stood up carefully, adjusted his trousers and trudged behind her to the door. She opened the door, stopped and turned to Charlie.
‘You know,’ she said with a sigh, ‘I think Delores really, really loved you.’
Charlie looked up quickly with a threatening expression - an instinctive reaction which he used to start any communication. But within seconds, the tense face muscles relaxed as memories came flooding back.
‘I think so too,’ said Charlie almost to himself. ‘I think so too.’
He sighed, his eyes filled up, and a little tear ran down his gnarled, unshaven face to join the partially dried spittle on the desktop.
He sniffed, pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, readjusted his leek and, with a wave of his hand, indicated he would be alright.
Mrs Hathaway sniffed too, and acknowledged the wave.
Then she left, with Aubrey in tow.
But Aubrey didn't just follow. Far from it. He stopped at the threshold and whirled round to face what was now a tear-stained, emotionally vulnerable Charlie.
Grinning from damaged ear to damaged ear, Aubrey blew Charlie a huge raspberry, followed by two extended, highly animated, middle-finger salutes, before slamming the door and skipping off to join the newly acquired love of his life.
Chapter 16
Aubrey was woken by Mrs Hathaway’s screams for help.
He stumbled out of bed and reached the door, just in time to see her being bundled out of the apartment by two large men in black overcoats.
Bloody Charlie! thought Aubrey. He knew from experience that one of Charlie’s less violent, but still unpleasant, traits was to rat on deals, usually within minutes of any agreement being made.
‘Help me, Aubrey!’ came a desperate cry from the corridor.
Aubrey stood up straight and took a sharp intake of breath. This called for action. And for Aubrey this was unknown territory. He rarely did anything off his own bat. Usually, he had to be forced, threatened or blackmailed. Occasionally, he was motivated to steal or lie for his own self-interest. But usually, on the action front, he kept a low profile and even lower levels of activity.
But this was different. Mrs Hathaway had put her neck on the line for him. Christ, she’d even shoved two fingers up Charlie’s nose - something Aubrey wouldn't have attempted without a battalion of SAS commandos backing him up.
He scurried round the bedroom, collected his clothes, dressed, grabbed some money from her handbag and ran out into the corridor. The lift wasn’t working, and the continuing screams from the stairwell told him Tallulah was putting up a hell of a fight.
Aubrey ran down the staircase, stopping several times to get his breath back. Out on the pavement, he saw her being bundled into a black cab. As it took off, he hailed another cab and jumped in.
‘Follow that cab,’ he shouted.
Aubrey was completely unaware he’d just delivered a classic film line - one that Mick and Jim would have given their eyeteeth to utter in a real live situation.
The cabbie turned round. ‘You serious?’
‘’Course I am,’ snapped Aubrey, ‘just follow that bloody cab!’
‘It’s just, like, I’ve been a cabbie for 25 years, and nobody’s ever said that to me. I feel like - you know - at last, I’m in a feature film.’
All Aubrey could think about was getting Mrs Hathaway back in the apartment, safe and sound. So he repeated the instruction with a considerable number of added expletives and the cabbie shot off in hot pursuit.
Aubrey was surprised to see it was late and getting dark. His sleep patterns had been severely disrupted - probably because he was still recovering from the punch bag battering, and now he wasn’t Charlie’s dogs-body, he was beginning to relax more. He slept lots because he felt safe. Mrs Hathaway would protect him. Mrs Hathaway knew how to beat people up. Mrs Hathaway had done the zero-sperm-count deal.
But just now, the only deal in town was terrifying. With Charlie, he’d been in rough situations and in fear of his life on a daily basis, but he’d never, ever, done anything like this. He was actually trying to help someone. It was crazy. It was against all his better instincts, but he knew it had to be done.
They headed east along the Embankment then took the A1261 before turned into a forgotten part of London’s docklands - just beyond Canary Wharf and the other the high-rise blocks.
Here, gloomy soon-to-be-developed Victorian warehouses cast long black shadows over deserted, wet, cobbled streets, lit by unforgiving sodium street lights.
The cab containing Mrs Hathaway turned right into an empty street and pulled up. Aubrey's cab followed.
‘Stop here,’ said Aubrey, ‘and turn off your lights.’
Aubrey paid the fare.
‘You alright mate?’ asked the cab driver. ‘Yeah!’ said Aubrey, without looking at him.
His focus was on the cab, which had pulled up some hundred yards down the street.
‘Keep your lights off, and reverse back round the corner.’
‘You got it,’ said the cab driver, glad to be leaving what looked like a very dodgy situation.
As the cabbie quietly reversed, Aubrey moved towards the distant cab keeping in the shadows, close to the wall. After a few paces, he saw Mrs Hathaway being roughly moved from the cab to the building.
He took off his shoes
, dumped them in a doorway and began to run. This was not Aubrey at all. The cab pulled off as he reached the door. It was made of heavy-duty steel, but they’d left it open. He slipped through into God knows what.
The light just inside the door was off. But when he looked up the stairwell, he could see light and faintly hear Tallulah’s protestations.
Aubrey thought fast. They’d probably come down and lock the door, once they’d got her where they wanted.
He decided to hide under the stairwell. He crouched down and backed into a dustbin which squeaked and scratched. This was not a good place to be, but it was better than running upstairs and confronting two big blokes, who were probably armed to the teeth.
After a couple of minutes, Aubrey heard footsteps. One of the men came down the stairs switched on the light and took hold of the edge of the open door. This was Aubrey’s chance. He dived out from his cover and shoved the big bloke in the back. As you expect from a diminutive person like Aubrey, it wasn’t a big shove, but it caused the man to stumble forward slightly into the street.
This was it. Aubrey slammed the door shut, turned the key in the lock and ran up the stairs as fast as his stockinged feet could carry him.
After three flights, he saw a light coming from a small glass panel, high up on a wooden door. He was gasping for breath, but he just managed to stand on tiptoe, twist his head and get one eye level with the bottom of the glass panel. The room was brightly lit and there was a table and two chairs. A tough-looking man wearing a black overcoat was sitting on one of the chairs reading a newspaper. On the table was a gun. Another door in the room, obviously led to somewhere else. Perhaps that was where they’d put Mrs Hathaway?
So - this was it, again.
Without even thinking, Aubrey knocked on the door, and opened it.
The man sat upright, and put his newspaper over the gun.
‘Good evening,’ said Aubrey.
The man scowled, and didn't answer.
‘I’m the Dockland’s Health and Safety Officer from the Dockland’s Heath and Safety 24-hour Dockland’s Health and Safety Patrol.’
Aubrey flashed his Frith Street Erotic Dancing Club Card by way of proof.
The man’s mouth hung open, and he started to break into a light, but rather cold sweat. Normally, he would have lobbed the little scrote out of the window, without opening it. But there was something about this voice that gave him an uncomfortable, almost guilty, feeling. His massive muscles began to twitch and his mouth started to dry.
The fact was, Aubrey had reverted automatically to the only weapon he possessed - the sinister, menacing, psychologically disturbing tones he’d perfected during his 10 years as a tax inspector for Her Majesty’s Government.
‘Now if you could hand me that gun, I’ll just give it a Health and Safety check, then I’ll be on my way.’
The man reached under the newspaper and brought out the gun. He could have shot Aubrey dead, and truth be told, he did consider it. But there was something about Aubrey’s eyes. Sure, they were venomous and threatening, but they were also calming. They seem to say, ‘just hand over the gun quietly and everything will be alright and nothing bad will happen to you’.
The look was a potent mixture of naked intimidation combined with all the trusting, caring qualities you’d expect from an award-winning nurse. It had proved to be highly effective when prising incriminating information, or paperwork, from businesses ranging from corner shop owners to international corporations.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Aubrey, in soothing tones, ‘just hand it to me.’
The man held on to the gun.
‘It won’t take a second, then you can get on with whatever you’re doing, and have a lovely evening.’
Aubrey didn't take his eyes off the man, and turned the look up to 11.
Transfixed by the intensity of the gaze, the man slowly held out the gun.
‘Just a few more inches and everything will be fine,’ said Aubrey softly.
The man, by now completely mesmerised, gently handed the gun to Aubrey.
The change was immediate.
‘OK, shit face,’ snarled Aubrey, ‘tits on the tarmac, now, before I blow your bollocks off.’
The man did what he was told.
Keeping the gun trained on the man, Aubrey backed up to the door and opened it. Inside was Mrs Hathaway gagged and duct-taped to a chair. He undid the gag.
‘Oh Aubrey,’ she cried.
He unwound the duct tape, and she stood up. Before anything could be said, they heard gunshots coming from three storeys below. Bloke number two had dealt with the lock and would no doubt be on his way.
‘Quick,’ hissed Aubrey. ‘Time to go.’
He spun round and kicked at a large ventilation grill about three feet off the floor. To his surprise, after a few kicks, it fell off.
He helped her into the void.
‘It's got to be better than hangin’ around ‘ere.’
She disappeared into the shaft, and Aubrey climbed in after her, still keeping his gun on the prostrate bloke number one. As he backed away down the shaft, he heard Mrs Hathaway scream. A few more shuffles backwards and Aubrey was also screaming at the top of his lungs.
The ventilation shaft had dropped away suddenly and he was sliding down at an alarming rate. It was pitch black, very steep and molar-crunchingly bumpy. Whenever he bounced, he banged his head on the top of the duct and smacked back down, at an even higher speed.
Just when he thought his extremities couldn't stand it any more, the pain disappeared. For a few seconds, there was just a whistling noise in his ears. This stopped immediately as he hit the mud bank, right next to an obviously distressed Mrs Hathaway.
Once he’d checked his legs hadn't snapped off, Aubrey looked around and tried to take stock of the situation. The mud bank was on the side of the River Thames. In the distance, he could clearly see the lights of Canary Wharf, and beyond that, London Bridge and the Shard.
Despite the terrifying ventilator shaft experience, Aubrey was elated. They’d escaped. And he, Aubrey Brown, had rescued Mrs Hathaway, using a mixture of grit, determination and government-department-inspired cunning.
He still had the gun, and if anyone came hurtling out of the shaft, he’d whack them before they hit the mud.
This elation was extremely short-lived, as he realised they were both sinking rapidly. He tried to lift his knees and step up, but sank lower. This was not going well.
Despite all his efforts, the mud was soon up to his chest. He twisted himself round to face Mrs Hathaway, but this made him sink even faster. She held out her arms to him, but the extra desperate pressure on his shoulders meant that, within seconds, just his neck and head were above the mud.
Their lips were only inches away. Her bright blue eyes were as kind and as beautiful as ever, and she looked as if she wanted to kiss him. Her mouth moved, her lips trembled, but there was no sound. He could feel the mud on his chin. This was it. He couldn't die without telling her.
‘I love you!’ he cried at the top of his voice. ‘I love you!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘I’ll just get rid of this apple puree and custard, and everything will be alright.’
‘What?’ mumbled Aubrey.
‘I told you not to have extra pudding so late at night. Now you’ve done a little midnight burp and here it is back again, all over your face.’
‘Oh right,’ said Aubrey, quietly.
He could feel his face and chin being sponged.
‘Best to get some rest now,’ said Mrs Hathaway.
Aubrey did what he was told - snuggling down with his face as clean and wholesome as his freshly laundered pillow.
As she took the sponge back into her kitchen, Mrs Hathaway did a double Ali shuffle, with twirl. She knew that Aubrey had been fast asleep when he twice shouted ‘I love you’ - but as far as she was concerned, it was a big step in the right direction.
Chapter 17
Saturday was tre
at day. No training. No worrying about Aubrey. Nothing. All she had to do was slip into her black GiMoto leathers, take the short trip to the basement garage and she was away.
The dark blue Kawasaki ZX 1000 purred gently towards the opening roller doors. The bike had been her pride and joy, ever since she won it on a TV quiz show where the points she amassed on her specialist topic Toxic cleaning materials through the ages had yet to be beaten.
The morning was bright and fresh. The traffic in Greek Street was light. Mrs Hathaway looked up and could see blue patches of sky between the clouds. She breathed in deeply. This was going to be a good day.
*
Jimmy Chisholm also thought it would be a good day, as he was planning to rob a bank.
In fact, his plan was already taking shape. Everything was going like clockwork, apart from the hiccup last night when Trev, his preferred wheelman, phoned in suffering from chronic depression following a visit to the local STI clinic.
Jimmy was as encouraging as he could be.
‘Look, Trev, a good dose never done me any ‘arm. When I was a lad, it sort of, like, a right of passage - if you’ll excuse the expression. I was down there every couple of months. Kid you not, I had me own seat and was on first name terms with the pox doctor’s auntie. Nowadays, it’s just a quick shot of gunk and you’re right as rain. In my day, they got the old ‘umbrella needle’ ran it up your crank, opened it up, then pulled it out to rip the puss and stuff out of your dick.’
On the other end of the line, there was moan followed by a dull thud. It became obvious Trev would not be listening to any more encouragement, that night.
There followed a series of frantic phone calls, but by midnight, Jimmy had secured the services of Eddie the Surf.
It had always perplexed Jimmy why so many of his criminal associates gave themselves names like Eddie the Surf, Rodney the Razor, Sid the Spiderman - it was ridiculous. There was once a safecracker called Leonardo the Vinci.
Jimmy was Jimmy Chisholm, and that suited him fine. Unless, of course, if he got caught, then he’d immediately use any one of a vast number of aliases to implicate someone else. And, as there is no honour among thieves, that list now included Eddie the Surf.
