Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2))

by Stan Arnold

  He checked his inside pocket for a handkerchief to blow his nose, and was surprised to find an envelope. It was addressed to him - Digby Elton-John, Solicitor-at-Law.

  The envelope contained two things, both from his beloved Tallulah - a cheque for £1000 and a letter.

  The letter read: Dearest Digby

  A thousand thanks for your help and legal advice at today’s meeting (please see enclosed remuneration - can you leave it to the weekend before presenting it to your bank!). However, I couldn't help noticing how upset you were when you realised I was spoken for. Life can be very difficult when it comes to affairs of the heart, and I was so sorry to see the look of disappointment on your face.

  I’m just writing this little note to say I think you are a marvellous person and a real gentleman, and that I am sure you will soon find someone wonderful to share your life.

  Very best wishes

  Your true friend - always

  Tallulah

  xxxxx

  Digby put the letter down slowly, looked at the cheque and sighed. He gazed 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 took the letter, ripped it into shreds, walked into the toilet and flushed it away.

  When he got back to his desk, he composed himself for a moment, then shot out his hand and held down the door lock release switch, hard.

  Immediately, his head jerked back and, unlike his previous experience of self-administered electro-convulsive therapy, the mains voltage slammed his mouth shut, stripping a considerable amount of enamel off his incisors.

  A lurid white and blue spark shot from the switch and hit the cufflink on the right sleeve of his shirt. From there, it shot through his trousers to make contact with the metal ball and socket joint of his recent hip replacement. Then, it shot across his groin to the replacement socket in his left hip, then flashed back up the opposite side of his body, via his cufflink, and back to the switch. At each stage of the spark’s journey, Digby twitched violently, flew up out of his chair and attempted to scream through tightly clenched teeth.

  It was a horrible, mind-vacuuming experience, made much worse because the spark, when powering its way from hip joint to hip joint had passed through Digby’s penis ring.

  The ring wasn’t Digby’s idea. About a year ago, he was invited out to dinner in Soho, by a client. The invitation was surprising because, under Digby’s guidance, the client had just lost £100,000 in a divorce case. Still they had a lovely meal and a pleasant chat about letting bygones be bygones. They had excellent wines and champagne and brandies, then went on to a club with erotic dancers and more drinks, and more drinks - and that’s all Digby could remember. That was until he woke up alone in the doorway of a tattooist’s shop, about four in the morning, with a thumping pain in his head - and an even more thumping pain in the end of his todger.

  When he got home, he had a look. And there it was - a freshly inserted chromium penis ring, from which hung a fairly heavy version of the scales of justice.

  He was, of course, horrified, and, despite being extremely hung over, attempted to remove the unwelcome adornment with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. The results were not encouraging. When he’d finished attacking the scales of justice, the collateral damage made the end of his penis look like the end of one of those exploding cigars, only with more smoke.

  He took a whisky glass, filled it with water and ice cubes and dipped his damaged end into its soothing depths. Once the steam had cleared, he realised the damage wasn’t as bad as he feared, and decided to wait until he was fully awake before having another go.

  After a nice long sleep, he found it quite easy to remove the scales of justice, but the ring was altogether more difficult. He was too embarrassed to go back to the tattooist’s, assuming he could even find the place. So he decided to let it be. It had caused him no problems whatever until a moment ago, when it acted as an unwelcome conduit for 240 volts of mains electricity.

  With a super-human effort, he pulled his hand off the door lock release switch. For a few more seconds, the sparks continued to flash around his polyester blend trousers, burning holes and singeing what hair was still left on his body.

  But, when it was all over, he had no memory at all of the lovely Tallulah. All he could see was a cheque on his desk for a grand from a T Hathaway, whoever he was. Still, a grand is a grand - and it served to ease his excruciatingly high levels of pain, slightly.

  The coffee had worked through his system and Digby thought a visit to the loo was in order. First, to relieve his bladder, and secondly, to check on any damage to his organ.

  He opened his flies, checked his anatomy for any loose or burnt bits, and apart from the fact that it was a quarter of its normal size, everything seemed OK. He had a pee and just as he pulled the flush, he saw a small, ripped piece of paper swirling around in the bowl.

  Intrigued, he waited until the flush had stopped, only to see the paper scrap float back to the top. He crouched down to get a closer look.

  It was soggy and the ink was beginning to run, but he could still make out some writing. It simply said: Your true friend - always.

  Strange thought Digby, and, with not the slightest recollection of anything, pulled the flush again, and limped back into his office.

  Chapter 24

  Aubrey dropped his spoon into his CoCo Pops.

  ‘What d’you mean goin’ on a journey?’ he said, with a look of terror flashing from eyeball to eyeball.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean - a journey, a trip,’ said Mrs Hathaway happily, as she sponged the milk splashes from around his bowl.

  Aubrey was hardwired to be extremely wary of words like ‘journey,’ ‘trip’ and, especially, ‘ride’. In Aubrey’s previous life, people went for ‘rides’ in the back of limos with darkened windows, sandwiched between two big, fully tooled-up, stony-faced specialists. A ‘ride’ ended up at a car-crushing plant, a concrete factory, a remote landfill site or Beachy Head. ‘Rides’ never included a return ticket.

  Normally, if someone suggested they take Aubrey for a ride, his first instinct was to dive through the nearest plate glass window, so perhaps splashing a few CoCo Pops over the table could be considered quite a low-key reaction.

  ‘Calm down, Aubrey. It’s just that I have some very good and very important news.’

  She sat down opposite him and told him all about the events at the Shard. About Daring Dooz. About the Enfield incident on TV. About the challenges. About how she’d like him to go with her. And about the money.

  Aubrey was lifting a rather full spoon of CoCo Pops to his mouth when the words ‘2 million pounds’ hit his ears. His eyes glazed over, he opened his mouth and spooned the breakfast cereal slowly down the gap between his neck and the collar of his pyjamas. He didn't notice.

  ‘2 million quid!’ he mouthed, quietly.

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d like to hear about that,’ said Mrs Hathaway, cheerfully.

  ‘But these challenges,’ said Aubrey, tipping another spoonful of cereal down the front of his pyjamas, ‘how dangerous are they? And, like, will they expect me to do ‘em, too?’

  She explained that it would be her, alone. He would never be in danger, and nothing would be happening for four to six weeks. There was a lot to organise.

  While she was talking, she removed Aubrey’s soggy pyjama top and was reminded again of how revolting his scrawny, deathly white little body was.

  She handed Aubrey a freshly ironed pyjama top, and removed the bowl of CoCo Pops to a safe distance.

  ‘I think that’s enough exciting information for one day. I’ll tell you more as we get nearer the time, alright?’

  Aubrey nodded. He liked not knowing things. They cluttered his brain. He preferred to concentrate on the important things in life, like where his next curry was coming from, and which off-licence was doing the cheapest deals on six-packs.

  Mrs Hathaway turned her gaze away f
rom Aubrey’s body, controlled her understandable feelings of nausea and walked casually over to the phone table. She picked up the Yellow Pages and turned to Cosmetic Surgeons. Harley Street was closest, and, by Monday, Giles-willing, money would be no object.

  While she was making a selection, Aubrey sat happily thinking about curry and lager with absolutely no idea he would soon be under a very expensive knife.

  Mrs Hathaway decided to make the call the next time Aubrey dozed off, which, from experience, would not be long. She smiled. She could get used to having a mammoth bank balance!

  Tallulah Hathaway would be taking on the Daring Dooz challenges accompanied by a de-flapped, de-haired, de-sagged Aubrey. And her recently conceived grand design would be another step closer to a successful conclusion.

  Chapter 25

  Although he had no idea where the one thousand pound cheque had come from, the fact that it had cleared into his bank, had motivated Digby to begin marketing his practice in earnest.

  One morning, despite a raging hangover, he had decided to improve the office ambience so as to impress the increased number of clients, his efforts were sure to generate.

  He made a start by repairing the ladderback chair which had disintegrated during Mrs Hathaway’s visit. Wielding a large tube of industrial-strength contact adhesive, he worked relentlessly for at least an hour. When he had finished, the chair had five legs, no back and a number of small steps up to the front of the seat. He had also managed to glue one of his Hush Puppies to the wood laminate flooring. Subsequent attempts to prise the shoe from the floor with his Swiss Army knife resulted in a lot of blood and the use of copious amounts of bandages, plasters and antiseptic cream. Eventually, Digby realised the full extent of his injuries, and dripped off to the local A&E to have everything stitched up.

  Clearly, expanding your business was fraught with difficulties, if not danger. Still, he had his advertisement.

  After the ambulance had dropped him back, Digby sat in his chair and looked at the sheet of paper on his desktop. The words for the advertisement were fantastic. Despite his heavily bandaged hands, and a sight decrease in his motor abilities caused by a trainee doctor's overenthusiastic injection of morphine, he pushed the sheet of paper to another part of his desktop, inspected it again, and the words still looked brilliant. If this didn't appeal to the scrag end of the market, nothing would.

  NO CASE TOO TRIVIAL

  NO COMPLAINT TOO PUERILE

  Is your compensation claim getting on your tits,

  and no bugger wants to know?

  Do you have an insignificant but apparently intractable problem with your compensation claim, and those legal wankers laugh in your face?

  Well now, you can contact a devious, conniving (legally-trained) bastard who makes Machiavelli look like a recently canonised nun.

  Underhand tactics, barely legal manoeuvres, fake documentation, bogus claims and counterclaims, intimidation, blackmail, jury nobbling and any other shit-laden technique that will get you the compensation you do, or do not (I couldn't care less) deserve.

  Email me now at digby@youandwhosefuckinarmy.co.uk

  (You know it makes sense!)

  Time to place the advertisement. Digby scanned the local Thomson Pages - no point in getting too ambitious. The Financial Times would cost a bomb, and anyway the low-life he was trying to recruit wouldn’t read the Financial Times, although on second thoughts…

  No, Digby became ever more convinced that ‘local’ was best. And anyway, he was very keen to keep his new approach well below the Solicitors Regulation Authority radar. Those sods were so fucking touchy. One glimpse of a single word they felt constituted non-compliance with their principles and he’d be getting a good upside-down view of central Birmingham as he hung by his balls from the ceiling of their investigation chamber.

  So, he chose the Soho Post-Intelligencer - all the gossip that’s not fit to print. If that wasn’t below the radar, a freesheet with a circulation under 2,500, he’d like to know what the fuck was.

  He phoned the number and was greeted by the usual full range of 16 recorded options. The only one missing was ‘If you’d like to firebomb the home of the cretin who came up with the idea of using this shit-all useless message system, his address is…’

  Having listened to all 16, it turned out the option he needed was number one.

  He stuck out his bloodstained index finger and dialled one. Another message followed: Your call is important to us, but we are receiving unusually high call volumes at present. Please stay on the line and one of our senior advertising executives will be with you shortly.

  After ten minutes of listening to a digitally distorted version of Father Abraham in Smurfland, Digby’s call was answered by a 14-year old with very special needs - namely, a good kick up the arse.

  ‘Yeah! What?’

  ‘I’d like to place and advertisement in the Soho Post-Intelligencer.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An advertisement.’

  ‘’Ang on,’ There were muted sounds of papers being shuffled. The theme from Grand Theft Auto could be heard in the background.

  ‘Classified or display?’

  ‘I have no idea. I thought perhaps you could help me. It’s about a hundred words.’

  ‘I’d go for display, ‘cos I get more commission.’

  Even though the advertisement would cost £25, Digby’s attitude thawed, driven mainly by a sense of social responsibility. If placing a display (whatever that was), rather than a classified advertisement, generated more income for this senior advertising executive, Digby could sleep easier at night. He would know that, thanks to his generous decision, the quality of the cocaine the useless piss-pot was snorting down the local club might contain a smaller-than-usual percentage of Harpic.

  ‘Can you read it out to me?’

  ‘Yes, of course, the headline is: No case too trivial. No complaint too puerile.

  ‘Er, ‘ow you spellin’ ‘case’?’

  ‘Look, would it be better if I emailed it to you, your email address is in your Thomson Pages’ entry.’

  ‘Yeah do that - though I’ll have to wait till Mrs Hathaway, our cleanin’ lady, gets here, she’s dead good with computers, and that.’

  Digby made no connection.

  The senior advertising executive assured him the next publication date would be in about three or four or five weeks. Then, as an electronic voice announced, I am the first woman married to a Domestobot, he hung up.

  Digby went to his computer, added his telephone number to the bottom of the advertisement and emailed it off.

  It wasn't quite how Saatchi & Saatchi would have gone about it, but Digby was well satisfied - his campaign was on the way. All that remained was to give it three or four or five weeks, and see who replied.

  In fact, he would only get one reply, but the consequences would be way beyond his wildest dreams, or nightmares.

  Chapter 26

  Aubrey had another fit of hysterics when he heard about the trip to Harley Street. However, Mrs Hathaway stayed cool and, within seconds, played her trump card, without even having to open the pack.

  ‘When, you’re out of the clinic and looking all nice and normal, we’ll go to Harrods and you can have anything you want.’

  Aubrey stopped the hysterics, put his pyjamas back on, took a deep breath and decided to assess the situation. If he thought ahead for once, he could come out of all this very well - hanging around with a decent-looking bird who could make mincemeat out of any WWF wrestler, a bird who was keeping him safe by outmanoeuvring Charlie Sumkins and, best of all, a bird who had two million smackeroonies tucked down the front of her knickers.

  Plus, Aubrey had only ever been in Harrods on shoplifting expeditions; so he was vaguely intrigued to find out what it would be like to go there, without getting eyeball ache from checking the horizon for store detectives. Plus, he could have whatever he wanted - even though he couldn’t immediately think of anything.


  On balance, undergoing surgery seemed a small price to pay - not that he would be paying anything. So, the deal was done, with the final sweetener being an offer of a mutton vindaloo with two six packs of premium lager, delivered to the door, the night before surgery.

  *

  The Harley Street consultancy was impressive - a beautiful Georgian town house, impeccably painted front door with a fan light, and a highly polished brass nameplate, hand-engraved in rather primitive capital letters to avoid the vulgarity associated with precision laser finishing and alignment.

  The receptionist was absolutely charming, despite Aubrey’s appearance. The interior was a symphony of impeccably understated good taste. The colours were muted, the lighting subtle, the carpet thick and the chairs co-ordinated and comfortable. The paintings on the wall struck a delicate balance between traditional and modern. If you wanted an atmosphere which would encourage people to part with a lot of money, this was perfection.

  It was all quite a revelation to Aubrey, who had only been in buildings of this quality at night, where his appreciation of the up-market ambience had been rather limited by the fact he’d viewed it with a torch.

  The consultant arrived right on time, and Mrs Hathaway and Aubrey followed him into his room.

  They sat down, and the consultant got straight to the point. ‘I have to tell you straight away, it won’t be easy, but I’m sure, if we get the right international team together, we can get an acceptable result.’

  Mrs Hathaway looked crest-fallen. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when you’ve been a consultant surgeon for fifteen years, you’ve seen nearly everything.’

  He turned to Aubrey.

  ‘My guess is agricultural - you were working on a hydraulic platform repairing a barn, fell 60 feet, crashed through the roof into the pen of a prize bull which gave you a good, and by the looks of it, extended, kicking.’