Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2))

by Stan Arnold

  Consequently, she decided to get down to rock bottom and build up.

  ‘Aubrey, what’s you favourite lager?’

  ‘Death’s Head 6X.’

  ‘That’s a very good answer. Well done. And why is that your favourite lager?’

  ‘Get’s me bladdered quick.’

  ‘And is there anything else?’

  ‘Don’t make me vomit.’

  ‘And would you like to add anything else to that sentence, Aubrey?’

  ‘Don’t make me vomit - much.’

  ‘I see, and is there anything about the taste?’

  ‘Tastes like penguin piss.’

  ‘Then why do you drink it?’

  ‘Get’s me bladdered quick.’

  For the first time in her life, Mrs Hathaway wondered if she had taken on more than she could handle. But she was nothing if not a fighter, and after two weeks, there was an improvement, as they moved slowly away from lager, Indian food and how best to ensure Aubrey’s personal safety.

  For instance, Aubrey expanded on the dreadful way he was treated by Charlie.

  ‘I answered this advert in the Soho Post-Intelligencer - that’s my favourite paper - for an accounting assistant. I thought, with me workin’ for the Tax Office, I’d be good at it.’

  ‘And at the interview, Charlie seemed very nice, although it was a bit off-putting, the way he kept cleanin’ his fingernails with a flick-knife. And the way I had to sit down on a little stool while he sat high up behind a big desk. And there was some sort of bloodstains on the carpet and a bit of I don’t know what - but it was red - up one of the walls. But he offered me good money and a can of lager and some pork scratchings, so I went for it. Suppose I should have seen through it all. But I trust people, Tallulah, I trust people.’

  Mrs Hathaway had mixed emotions. This outpouring was much, much better than ‘Got any grub?’ Aubrey was starting to talk in sentences and reveal more. And the more he revealed, the more she could guide and help him. But really, how thick can you get? Signing up as an accounting assistant in an office with blood up the walls.

  ‘At first, it was little jobs. He’d ask me to go and collect money from charities that he said owed him money from jobs he’s done for them. Not the big charities - just small geezers like the Rodents’ Rural Refuge or Agoraphobic Sahara Adventures.’

  ‘Then it moved to getting’ money from bigger places. I asked Charlie what he’d done for them, and he said it was more like they were paying insurance, so he wouldn’t reveal information he had on ‘em.’

  ‘What sort of places?’

  ‘Monasteries, hospitals, universities, and lots of them government departments, you know, up Whitehall. Then there was one-offs, like archbishops, archaeologists, zoo-keepers, other charity workers, vicars, stacks of geezers in what do you call them people who look after towns, and that?’

  ‘Local authorities.’

  ‘Yeah, them. Plus MPs.’

  ‘MPs!’ said Mrs Hathaway, feigning mock surprise.

  ‘Yeah. I been slung out of the House of Commons tea room more times than I’ve had extra hot vindaloos at the Balti Towers in Frith Street. And, as you know, that’s a lot of times.’

  ‘So, you were collecting protection money and blackmail payments?’

  ‘I thought I was just assistin’ with the accounts.’

  Mrs Hathaway gave Aubrey her most evil eye.

  ‘Honest!’ said Aubrey. ‘But then, it started getting’ bad.’

  ‘The slightest thing I done wrong, the slightest thing I said wrong, and I got a whackin’. And as I got more used to the job, the more things it seemed I said and done wrong. Then there was this educational programme, which was one of the fings what made me take the job - you know, like to improve myself and get on in life. What happened with that was, if I hadn’t done or said anything bad, he’d suddenly ask “Aubrey, what’s the capital of Venezuela?” or “Aubrey, what’s the cube root of 729?” And before I could say “What the eff.” I get a good smackin’. Sometimes I’d get home black and blue - and you know what the worse thing was - he never gave me the answers.’

  ‘But why didn’t you leave?’

  ‘What! Leave Charlie Sumkins! The only way you stop workin’ for Charlie Sumkins is what his Human Resources Department called the ‘concrete boot’ option. No thank you! Swimming to France with two hundredweight of shotcrete up your trousers, is not Aubrey’s idea of a fun day out.’

  ‘But surely he wouldn’t do that?’

  ‘No. Not often. Usually he’d just fire you. And if he was in a good mood, he’d let you chose the type of gun.’

  Mrs Hathaway had got the picture, but now Aubrey was in full flow, she wanted to know more.

  By this time they had consumed a fair amount of brandy-boosted chamomile tea, and for the first time ever, they both started to relax. She moved closer to Aubrey and put her arm around his scrawny, surgically amended shoulders. Aubrey seemed happy enough.

  ‘So tell me Aubrey, why did you leave the Tax Office?’ She pronounced each word slowly and distinctly.

  ‘Well, see, I was an inspector and it weren’t very nice. You had to be aggressive, sinister, tricky, charming, patient, devious and know exactly when stick your fangs in their throat. It was ‘orrible. Mind you I was good at it.’

  ‘I’m sure you were, Aubrey.’ She snuggled closer. As the chamomile tea and brandy swirled around her brain, what she was saying or hearing didn’t seem so important any more.

  ‘But I got dumped with the job of doin’ little firms. They might have been swindlin’ a bit, but it weren’t much - not compared to the big boys - the internationals. I reckon they all had greasy contacts with our lot and with the top civil servants and government ministers.’

  ‘That sounds like they’re all devious - and sods,’ said Mrs Hathaway, with a happy slur arriving in her voice.

  She topped up her chamomile.

  ‘Yeah. Got fed up of turnin’ over the little geezers. Got fed up with seein’ their wives in tears. Got fed up with sendin’ out threatenin’ letters. Got fed up of hangin’ onto their cash for months, after we’d hit ‘em with a big over-charge. Got fed up with all the tax bein’ spent on crap schemes, consultants, fink tanks, focus groups and dodgy expenses. In short. Got fed up!’

  Mrs Hathaway was taken aback. Was she looking at a modern day revolutionary? A 21st century Che Guevara? She tried to imagine Aubrey with a little moustache, a beret with a red star - but despite being fortified by considerable amounts of chamomile-brandy mix, she couldn’t push it that far.

  However, the tax conversation was interesting for another reason. It conveniently led her to a topic which, while not essential to her immediate plans, was still hanging around. The tattoo.

  ‘Aubrey, that’s all been most interesting, and I’m really excited you are learning that sentences can contain more than a few words. And that when you speak those sentences, you see - nothing bad happens to you. So maybe we can move on to something we discussed quite a few weeks ago? It’s sort of related to your previous nice chat about your time at the Tax Office. But it’s a bit naughty,’ she giggled slightly and poured herself a large, chamomile-free brandy.

  ‘You mean the tattoo on my plonker?’

  ‘Aubrey, please!’

  ‘That’s what you’re on about isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She moved closer and whispered in his ear. ‘I mean, if we’re going to become - what’s that dreadful phrase people use...’

  ‘An item,’ said Aubrey. He was beginning to like being snuggled by a gorgeous, tipsy, old street fighter. It was a lot better than being assaulted by gangsters.

  ‘Yes, an item,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘Well, from what I understand, being an item means becoming more - how shall I put it - intimate.’

  ‘You mean bunk-ups?’

  ‘Aubrey, please!’

  ‘That’s what you’re on about ain’t it?’

  ‘Well yes.’ She pressed on. ‘I think it might be rathe
r nice if, later - we could, you know, get around to...’

  ‘Bunk-ups.’

  ‘That’s absolutely right Aubrey - bunk-ups.’ Since she had dispensed with the chamomile tea, Mrs Hathaway was losing a large proportion of her many inhibitions.

  ‘Which, as we both know, depends on...’

  ‘Me being able to crank up the monster.’

  Mrs Hathaway poured herself another very large brandy and downed it in one. ‘That’s right Aubrey, and at the moment...’

  ‘The crankshaft’s kaput.’

  ‘I know. I know. I know, my pet.’ She hugged him to her.

  ‘But just think that one day, the government could spend its tax receipts on something useful - like finding a way to mend your poor old crankshaft. Wouldn’t that be nice!’

  ‘Of course, it may happen, naturally,’ she continued.

  ‘Then I’d let you know, pronto.’

  ‘But we might be in a public place, and that would never do.’ And she wiggled a coquettish finger in Aubrey’s face.

  ‘What, you mean like we’re like in the supermarket and I shout out “Tallulah, guess what - Godzilla’s back in business!” or...’

  She interrupted him before he could come up with any other phrases that might put her off the whole idea.

  ‘Maybe you could have a little secret sign? Something that only the two of us would know.’

  ‘What like...’ Aubrey made a gesture which, if made in public, could easily have got him arrested and sent down for a couple of years.

  ‘No, I was thinking of something a bit more subtle, my angel.’

  ‘I know!’ said Aubrey; his voice was becoming as distant and as slurred as Mrs Hathaway’s.

  ‘A double thumbs-up with a happy smile - I used to do that when we came back to the Tax Office after shaftin’ some poor bastard.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Hathaway, slipping down the sofa and onto the carpet ‘a double thumbs-up - with a happy smile.’

  With the combined help of an organic infusion collective in the Orkneys and a Taiwanese distiller specialising in Courvoisier look-alike labels, she’d successfully broached a very delicate and potentially embarrassing subject, and got a result. The room was growing dimmer, sound was fading fast, the carpet felt cosier and cosier. With her last conscious thoughts, Mrs Hathaway considered her job for the night was well done and dusted.

  Chapter 31

  Next morning, for the first time since Aubrey arrived on her doorstep, Mrs Hathaway awoke in her own bed. Despite the previous evening’s prodigious alcohol intake, her head was clear as a bell, and she definitely remembered the double thumbs-up and smile.

  Aubrey was snoring loudly on the sofa, fully clothed. And just as she was wondering who had dressed her in her nightie and put her to bed, the phone rang.

  She picked up the receiver.

  ‘Charlie ‘ere.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sumkins.’

  ‘Less of the chat, I’m phonin’ from Las Vegas. I done a deal with Mick and Jim. Don’t ask.’

  He gave her Mick and Jim’s sat phone number and hung up with a cheery, ‘Up yours, sweetheart.’

  Mrs Hathaway was excited. She didn’t try and wake Aubrey. When he was in this condition, he was only useful for propping doors open.

  Without thinking, she dialled the number. There was no reply. She tried three more times throughout the afternoon. Not a peep.

  She slept fitfully, and at around eight o’clock the next morning, tried the number again.

  A weary sounding voice answered. ‘Hello, this is Big Dick’s Half-Way Inn. How may I help you, and what the fuck are you doing phoning at this time?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Three a-fuckin-m - if you’ll pardon my French, madam, and I got a lot of drunks to put to bed.’

  ‘Just one quick question. Where is this Half-Way Inn?’

  ‘It’s the Beach Bar, south side of St Bernards, in the glorious Caribbean. Can’t miss it - it’s the only one. ’Course, it should be a full-sized pub, but nobody turned up with the concrete. That’s sad isn’t it? Things are sad aren’t they? I mean, what have I done to deserve all this? I just want to be happy. Do you like me? ‘Cos I like you. Maybe one day, me and you could be happy - together, here, or somewhere else, or with another person.’

  As the individual apparently in charge of Big Dick’s Half-Way Inn became more and more maudlin, Mrs Hathaway struggled to get one more question in.

  ‘Are Mick and Jim there?’

  ‘Them’s two of the drunken bastards I got to get to bed.’

  ‘Are they intending to stay in the area?’

  ‘Stay! Lady, even if I sobered them buggers up tomorrow, they wouldn’t be fit to travel anywhere, even with first-class medical supervision, for three months at least.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Tell you what though,’ said the voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good name, innit? Big Dick’s, and all that.’

  She put down the receiver walked over to the punch bag and gave it a few celebratory right hooks. It was a funny old world out there, funnier than she could ever have imagined, but she definitely felt she was starting to get the hang of it.

  Chapter 32

  While Mrs Hathaway was running her usual five breakfast miles on the treadmill, the phone rang again. The ringing woke Aubrey up, but when he realised it was only the phone and not a police siren, he closed his eyes and went back to tunnelling through into the bank.

  It was Giles.

  He was overjoyed to hear Mick and Jim had been located.

  ‘That’s it then, Tallulah. All you have to do is get yourself and your fella down to Cowes, and it’s anchors away! I’ve got all the equipment you could possibly want already stowed on board. You’ll need to get some new Caribbean-type clothes. There’s lots of up-market casual stuff in the shops. My stylist will help you choose. We want you to look your best at all times. As we say: Daring Doozers are Winnerz not Loozers. They expect to see hot tottie action, from cover to cover.’

  She was about to set him straight about the ‘hot tottie’ remark, but her latest bank statement was open on the coffee table, and she decided to postpone the setting straight to a more appropriate moment.

  *

  The next morning, she made calls to Mick and Jim’s sat phone number, but there was no answer. After the fourth attempt, she gave up. There were more important things to do – and anyway, she knew exactly where they were. A few hours later, Mrs Hathaway and Aubrey arrived at Waterloo station in good time for the train. They were wearing their purchases from Aubrey’s post-operative trip to Harrods. Mrs Hathaway wore a bright red Barbour Polarquilt Jacket with black, ‘7 For All Mankind’ jeans and Kurt Geiger ankle boots in black suede.

  Aubrey wore a pink and light blue shell suit, by Cavlin Kiln, with trainers that flashed little lights when he walked. It wasn’t from Harrods. He had felt there was nothing there to suit his casual apparel aspirations. However, a pavement stall outside the main doorway had just what he wanted. He was particularly lucky to get this natty outfit, because just after his purchase, the stall owner and his stall were collected by a police van and taken away.

  Giles had said travel light, and that’s what they were doing - apart from Mrs Hathaway’s old leather travel trunk, which contained over 400 assorted manuals, guides and instructional videos on DVD. For over three decades, she had lived by, and relied on, the vast amount of knowledge contained in the trunk, and there was no way it was being left behind.

  So, there they stood in the dusty spotlight of the mid-morning sun. An odd couple with a large travel trunk, two first-class reserved tickets to Southampton and no real idea of what the future had in store.

  They looked up at the clock above the main entrance. It was time to go. They gazed for a moment into each other’s eyes, and breathed in and out, simultaneously. Then, holding hands tightly, they dragged the travel trunk through the archway and into the dark recesses
of the concourse.

  Chapter 33

  Everything went perfectly, and in no time at all, they were seated on the hi-speed ferry over to West Cowes. In the seat pocket were some magazines which told visitors all about the wonderful things they could do on the Isle of Wight.

  As Mrs Hathaway turned the pages, it occurred to her, how isolated her life had been, even though she had lived in the centre of London for years. She also thought how much she would miss exploring new things in life if anything went wrong with the Daring Dooz challenges. What good was Aubrey and what good was £2 million if you got yourself eaten alive collecting rare poisonous rhubarb in an underwater cave full of vampire bats and hyenas.

  She flipped the pages, and even the most mundane things seemed to resonate. There was a stupid advertisement for a musical duo, ‘Who Shot Nelson’. She pointed it out to Aubrey. ‘Look, what a stupid name, and anyway nobody knows who shot Nelson.’

  ‘I do,’ said Aubrey - ‘a bloke with a gun!’

  Aubrey was quite pleased that she laughed. He assumed it was his urbane wit - whatever that was.

  In truth, a few months back, he’d been to see his Auntie - Ethel Wainright. Ethel ran Salmonella’s - a dingy club out in the sticks, north of Portsmouth. She was about to go into an old folks’ home in Bournemouth, and, as she was probably the only one of his relatives not in prison, he felt duty bound to go and see the delinquent old bag.

  He found the place eventually. He said, ‘Hello Auntie Ethel, it’s me Aubrey.’

  She told him she had a band practicing that night, so he could sod off to the back room, get pissed, then bugger off back to London. Aubrey was happy he’d called when she was in a good mood.

  He followed her instructions, and stayed in the office getting blasted. He could hear ‘Who Shot Nelson’ practicing in the background, but couldn’t be arsed to go and have a look. However, he did remember that reply - ‘a bloke with a gun’ - which was part of their big finishing song, ‘Who Shot Nelson?’

  But all in all, it was not a nice night. When the band had packed up and gone, and Ethel had thrown him out, he found some bastard had shoved a pitchfork and a wheelbarrow though the windscreen of his old Mondeo.