by Stan Arnold
Cumulative, because Giles knew the big lie. Probably this was the biggest lie ever in publishing - something only he knew. It was pressing down on him like a ton weight - the fact that he had invented and fabricated every single aspect of every story he had ever put into his magazine. Daring Dooz was completely fake, every edition, from beginning to end.
The more boring and uninteresting his personal life had become, the more outrageous and ridiculously dramatic were the stories.
To make things worse, all the items in the magazine had to be supported by photographs. Fortunately, this was probably the one area where Giles truly excelled. He had become, mainly out of fear of being discovered, an expert in Photoshop. He could manipulate photographs like no one else on the planet. He’d been on courses by international experts, and courses by people who looked down on the international experts as amateurs, until his skills were so honed that even the sad sods who roamed the web looking for Photoshop trickery, never picked up his deceptions.
Despite the outrageous nature of the stories, there was never a peep of suspicion from Daring Dooz readers. If some voluptuous blonde, wearing next to nothing, was skiing off a 300-foot calving Arctic ice flow into a pedalo, they were happy - as long as the story contained lots of details about her sex life.
If some nubile, scantily clad, ex-cheerleader was bungee jumping down the inside of an erupting volcano, or a female wrestler playing the bagpipes went over Niagara Falls in a tin bath - they were happy - as long as the story contained lots of details about their sex lives.
The rest of the publishing world dismissed Daring Dooz as something designed to keep paper shredder manufacturers in business. On a TV media programme, someone had once described Daring Dooz as making the National Enquirer look like the New York Times.
But they could all sod off. Giles had built an international community of three million idiots who didn't care what the rest of the world thought. And, anyway, he was the one with an office in the Shard and a 30-acre Georgian mansion in Berkshire, plus suites of offices in New York, Hong Kong, Sydney and Buenos Aires.
Giles was always careful to cover his tracks, announcing that the adventurers featured in his magazine had signed exclusivity agreements and, as they were modest souls by nature, were happy not to give interviews to the rest of the media, or appear at any public event. They trusted the integrity of Daring Dooz - and that’s why they gave their stories to the magazine.
Even if some slimy investigative journalist had cottoned on, and tried to trace the missing adventurers and exposed the fraud on the front page of a national newspaper, Giles suspected it wouldn’t affect his circulation much. Daring Dooz readers were a community of hopeless, gullible dreamers. They wanted to believe. This was their magazine, and no one would ever take it away from them. His market research teams had shown that ‘Daring Doozers’ didn’t read newspapers, and that they were the sort of people who would turn off the TV when the news came on.
He’d also recently compounded the problem by adding a wildly successful section on Ufology. The email, Twitter and Facebook responses had been incredible. So he had even more stories to invent - although, to be honest, it wasn’t as difficult as the other stuff. With UFOs, you could recycle old ideas, and faking photographs was a doddle for the world’s leading Photoshop expert. He thought of changing the title to Daring Dooz and UFO News - it had a nice rhyming ring to it. But that was for later - there were other, more pressing, issues.
As the sun sank to the horizon, and the River Thames slithering off into the distance like a golden snake, Giles began to fret about the current pressing issue - and it was a big one - splashed all over the front page of the London Evening Standard. The leader was the usual stuff about a few MPs and a sheep at an animal sanctuary, but next to it was a picture of a rather sleek, elderly lady wearing motorbike leathers, upending some armed bank robber into a rubbish bin. And, judging from the headlines, no one knew who she was! Apparently, there was a media storm. It had already gone coast to coast in the US, and was featuring big-time internationally. What a story! A granny whacking an armed robber - then disappearing into thin air! Now that would be something to feature in Daring Dooz - a real live heroine!
He switched on the six o’clock TV news and, almost immediately, saw the iPhone footage taken by the canny, Enfield pedestrian. It was shot from a low angle, but it was impressive, if a little too violent for Giles’ taste. But you could see the old lady was really, really fit - and she was riding a pretty impressive motorbike. Maybe his readers were fed up with stories of Brazilian-thonged bimbos white-water rafting along tarantula-infested Himalayan rivers and re-living their trauma after breaking a fingernail. Here, on the front page, was a real woman. A woman who could disarm and immobilise gun-toting thugs at point-blank range. She was modest and, he observed when checking the replays, pretty good looking. In fact, she was extremely good looking. There was no need to add ‘for her age’ - she was a cracker, full stop.
His mind raced. He could run all sorts of stories about her - how did she get so good, where was she from, how was her love life - all backed with real photographs and, who knows, real video which he could use on YouTube to promote magazine and merchandise sales.
It could get him off the story-writing hook for at least a couple of months, maybe even longer. It might even encourage other real-life heroes and heroines to call and enquire about the magazine featuring their exploits.
Giles had missed the story when it broke at lunchtime. He checked on line, and everyone was talking about her. There were a couple of people from Liberty going on about the human rights of gun-wielding bank robbers and their extended families, but, in the main, people thought she was bloody brilliant. A YouTube version of the iPhone video already had five million hits, and all the comments were either whole-heartedly positive, or lascivious. Either way she was just what his readers wanted.
He knew he was staring at a goldmine. But where the hell was she? Who was this woman with the looks and charisma, not to mention the street-fighting skills, to go global-plus. He had to be the first to find her. He had to beat the other bastards to the punch. He re-ran the video and winced for the third time as Jimmy Wilmot took his unexpected plunge.
Then suddenly, he sat up straight, grabbed the remote and re-wound the footage. There it was - just a few frames - at the bottom right of the screen. The rear number plate of the motorbike was in shot. It was out of focus, there was iPhone shake - but it was in shot.
He dumped the video from his TV to his Mac video-editing software, grabbed the best of the three frames, dropped it into Photoshop and, after a few minutes of manipulation, stared with considerable satisfaction at a crystal clear version of Mrs Hathaway’s vehicle registration number.
Chapter 20
It's always good to have friends in low places. Splatter69 was Giles’ first ever, online subscriber. Splatter worked as a warehouseman at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency in Swansea, and was a drinking mate of some local coppers, who had contacts with local informants, who had contacts with other un-named police forces, who, in turn, said they had contacts with dubious characters at the DVLA.
Apparently, they all owed one another favours, and the upshot was that, within three hours, Giles had Mrs Hathaway’s name, telephone number and address in his hand.
*
Despite this success, Giles didn't sleep well. His fitful dreams had been filled with scenario after scenario, each one more bizarre than the last - and at the end of each business proposal, Mrs Hathaway said ‘No!’ He offered her more and more money - and each time he upped the ante, she said ‘No!’ He offered to marry her and sign a pre-nuptual leaving her his whole empire - and received another derisory reply.
Consequently, he was surprised when, he called her number at nine in the morning, and heard her answer, ‘Yes?’
‘Do you really mean it?’ cried Giles. Three hours sleep had taken it’s toll on his cognitive faculties.
‘Do I really mean what?
Who is this?’
‘Er-sorry - my name is Giles - Giles Montagu-Scott.’
‘Never heard of you.’
‘I run a magazine called Daring Dooz. It sells all over the world.’
‘How did you get this number?’
Tricky one. Giles decided bypass the truth, and just to go for it.
‘I’d like to offer you a contract.’
‘Oh really!’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘You know I charge £8 an hour?’
Giles had no idea what she was talking about, so he carried on going for it.
‘Meet me at my office in the Shard tomorrow at 10 and I’ll explain everything. It’s all above board. You can bring a lawyer if you want. I’ll pay the lawyer’s fees - anything - just say you’ll come.’
It was the Shard that tipped the balance. She had often thought about going to the top of the Shard, inspired by her distance learning course Climbing iconic building exteriors at night - techniques for the over 60s. This might be a chance to take a closer look at a possible route and the availability of handholds and resting places. And anyway, she’d heard the views were lovely.
‘10 you say? And I can bring a lawyer?’
‘Yes - you can bring a team of lawyers,’ said Giles barely able to contain his excitement.
‘One more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Operator here. I’m sorry, but the line has disengaged,’ said a high-pitched voice.
‘What?’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘Poor phone connections at the Shard?’
‘’Fraid it’s true,’ said the operator lady, sounding more like Giles every second.
‘Real dump. Built on a swamp. Basement electrics shot. Shouldn’t be surprised if they pull it down - give it 18 months, tops.’
‘So,’ said Mrs Hathaway, writing on her pretty lilac telephone pad. ‘Giles Montagu-Scott, Daring Dooz, the Shard, 10am tomorrow.’
‘You got it!’ said Giles ecstatically, and depressed his iPhone end key faster than he had ever depressed anything in his life.
Well, thought Mrs Hathaway, it all sounded very interesting. She’d never cleaned anywhere as posh as the Shard, plus there was the opportunity to see if a midnight climb was on the cards, although the sharp angle might make abseiling back down a little tricky.
It had been a very strange call - mysterious, lacking in substance and downright idiotic in places, but there was something about Giles’ voice - something that sent a little shiver down her spine. The shiver was a new experience, but as she sat down in her comfy sofa, picked up her morning cup of chamomile tea and placed her receiver back on the hook, she decided she rather liked it.
*
In the flat exactly opposite Mrs Hathaway’s apartment, Charlie Sumkins was deciding he really liked something as well.
It had been a bit of a rushed job. The flat was Charlie’s, but it had been rented out to some Scottish asylum seekers, who, despite the fact that they spoke only Colombian Spanish, had fully understood the six armed thugs he had sent round early that morning to explain that the tenancy had been terminated. They had got dressed and packed everything they owned into a hold-all, including several kilts, a set of bagpipes and over two million pounds-worth of cocaine, and set off for the local Burger King to discuss their next move. Unfortunately, en route, they were apprehended by twenty fully armed police, following an anonymous tip-off.
Charlie pressed a button on his laser eavesdropping system and listened with undisguised pleasure to a pristine tape recording of the whole of Mrs Hathaway’s telephone conversation. Amazing! All picked up from window vibrations.
Maybe technology was the way to go - rather than the current unrelenting stream of mindless violence. Either way, he didn't care - he’d got what he wanted, and now he could show the muscular old tart what happens when you mess with Chuck the Fuck.
Chapter 21
Giles had been in his office suite since 8 o’clock, tidying cushions in his architect-designed, sunken meeting area, making sure there was a full range of coffees and teas. Specially selected editions of Daring Dooz were scattered casually on his original Le Corbusier LC10 coffee table.
He looked out of the huge glass office wall. A low sun was shining from the east, turning the Thames mist into a shimmering golden carpet. But his only thought was, ‘What if she gets lost in the fog?’
At five minutes to 10, there was a knock at the door. He took a deep breath, looked in the mirror, and opened the door, only to be greeted by two workmen in ill-fitting overalls.
‘Daring Dooz?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yer telephone’s duff. Come to fix it.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the telephone.’
‘Not what it says here,’ said the larger of the two men, shoving a grubby clipboard into Giles’ face.
‘Stick your moniker on this form - ‘ere down the bottom.’
As a somewhat confused Giles was signing, the second workman squeezed past and began checking the room. He found a phone picked it up listened for a second, then screwed up his face.
‘Sounds OK to me - no worries then guv. Must have been some other office, can't trust no one these days.’
They left as suddenly as they had arrived.
Giles leaned back on the door and scratched his head.
‘What the hell was that all about?’
‘Wouldn't you like to know,’ said Charlie Sumkins, quietly to himself.
He chuckled, leaned back in his chair, stared up at the Singapore fan and waited for the show to begin.
*
‘Mrs Tallulah Hathaway and her solicitor, Digby Elton-John, 10 o’clock appointment for Mr Giles Montagu-Scott,’ said the voice from ground floor reception.
‘Right, send them up,’ said Giles.
He’d long dispensed with the services of a personal assistant. Given his appalling secret, the last thing he wanted was someone stumbling over the truth.
He walked across to the huge glass wall, thinking how London’s panorama would be a suitably impressive backdrop. As he passed the wall mirror, he noticed his hair was slightly dishevelled from when he given his head a scratch. After a quick, panicky combing, he assumed the position. Hands behind back, a five thousand guinea suit in grey cashmere, crisp, white, open-necked shirt by Arthur Gluck of New York - all illuminated by the golden rays of the morning sun. Perfect.
There was a quiet knock on the door.
‘Come right in,’ said Giles in his friendliest possible voice.
The door opened and in came Mrs Hathaway.
‘Good morning. I’m Tallulah Hathaway and this is my solicitor Digby...’
‘Elton-John,’ finished Giles. ‘And I’m Giles Montagu-Scott, CEO and managing director of Daring Dooz International - where fantasies become fantastically fantastic.
She was tall, slim and elegant with astonishing, pale-blue eyes. She was going to be a sensation. In contrast, Digby Elton-John was bald, portly man with a far-away look in his eyes. He didn't acknowledge Giles at all. His gaze seemed fixed on Mrs Hathaway. He had the shocked, open-mouthed, ecstatic look of someone who has just won the lottery.
If he had won the lottery, it would not be before time. He looked as though he’d just been held out of a window at the back of the Law Courts and dropped headfirst onto a skip containing the leftovers from the solicitors’ clerks’ canteen.
‘Take a seat,’ said Giles, indicating the sunken meeting area.
They moved over, descended the glass steps and sat down on the built-in sofas.
‘Tea, coffee?’
‘Chamomile please.’
‘And Digby?’
Digby was not at home. When she had called in to ask him to accompany her to the Shard, his previously, self-administered electro-convulsive therapy had ensured he had no recollection of her ever visiting his office. He had fallen in love with her, all over again. He couldn't believe his luck. He was actually out and about with this gorgeous creat
ure. Getting into a cab. Going to some posh offices. Coming up in a lift. And now, sitting down with her. It was too, too wonderful - he was completely lost in the romance of it all.
‘Digby,’ said Mrs Hathaway pointedly. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Oh!’ said Digby, switching to automatic pilot, ‘large scotch please.’
She frowned at him. It was more than he could bear.
‘Second thoughts, a black coffee.’
‘Great,’ said Giles, ‘Kopi Luwak, La Esmeralda or St. Helena?’
‘That’ll be fine,’ said Digby, quietly, and reverted back to staring at Mrs Hathaway with saucer-like eyes.
‘Well,’ said Giles, ‘I sense you’re a person who likes to get straight down to business - as I’m sure the Enfield bank robber can testify.’
Mrs Hathaway looked shocked.
‘How on earth did you know about that?’
It was Giles’ turn to look shocked.
‘What! I mean you’ve been on all the national TV and radio, plus the front pages of the red tops for days.’
She looked confused. She had no TV, no radio and was much too busy to read the papers. And she’d been up most of last night, watching videos on abseiling techniques.
‘Someone filmed the whole thing with a mobile - groin grab, upside-down, wallop!’
He played a news clip of the tape on the TV.
‘You’re part of the national consciousness now. I mean, there was a rugby match on TV yesterday, where the commentator described an illegal pile-driving tackle and a “bit of an Enfield bin”.’
Giles went on to describe the wall-to-wall media coverage, and the national search that had been going on to uncover her identity.
‘But I’m a cleaning lady.’
‘Not anymore. Not if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I have a plan.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said, suspiciously.
Giles sought to reassure her. He described how he knew what it was like to have next to nothing and, how, thanks to the magazine and its three million subscribers, he had become fabulously wealthy.
