Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2))

by Stan Arnold

  Ethel told him ‘Who Shot Nelson’ were a four piece, but now, it seemed, they were a duo. That story appealed to Aubrey’s nascent philosophical tendencies, and he thought ‘funny how everything changes all the fuckin’ time.’

  These deep, metaphysical thoughts were interrupted by the bump as the ferry tied up at the West Cowes landing stage. As they dragged the travel trunk up the covered walkway onto dry land, they could see Giles waving in the sunlight.

  Giles’ face fell when he saw Aubrey, and he made a mental note to make sure Tallulah kept him well out of camera shot. But that didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of his welcome, at least not by much.

  A large, black limousine was waiting to whisk them away. And even Aubrey, who had an understandable aversion to large, black limos, was glad to be finishing the long journey in style.

  At Cowes, Daring Dooz had taken a luxurious suite of offices overlooking the harbour. An immense panoramic window gave them a spectacular view of the River Medina and world-famous stretch of water. Giles immediately began explaining everything they needed to know, about the equipment, the technology, the stills and video cameras, the sat nav, VHF radio, autopilot, self-steering gear, electronic compass and satellite television.

  ‘Look,’ interrupted, Mrs Hathaway, ‘that’s all very interesting, but we’ve been on the go all day, and it would be great if we could get some rest. If you can get the equipment manuals up to my hotel room, I’ll read through them, tonight.’

  Giles looked a little disappointed, again, but he wasn’t the one facing the challenges of the Atlantic, accompanied by what looked like a useless hobbit who had just finished taking a course of extra-strength ugly pills. What she said went.

  But he needed an answer to a delicate question, and drew Mrs Hathaway to one side.

  ‘Look, I’ve arranged for the limousine to take you to your hotel, but is it - you know - double room, twin room or separate?’

  ‘I think separate will be fine - we’re an item, but not that much of an item.’

  ‘Well, if you do become a 100 per cent item, particularly on this trip, you know our readers will be up for all the - er - you know - er...’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said, fully aware that if one particular ‘er - detail’ about Aubrey was released, the circulation of Daring Dooz would triple overnight.

  *

  The next day, in the middle of the morning, Mrs Hathaway arrived at Daring Dooz temporary HQ, looking a little tired. She’s been indulging in one of her favourite pastimes - the nocturnal scouring of technical equipment manuals. The morning mist had disappeared and the sun shone bright and clear over the river with yachts, large and small, bobbing in the light swell.

  ‘I suppose you’d like to see your vessel,’ said Giles, over coffee and croissants.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but first, I’d like to see Aubrey.’

  ‘Aubrey?’

  ‘Yes, I can’t raise him - phoned his room, banged on the door - nothing.’

  The sea air must have done Aubrey good, because a minute later, he arrived, looking very pleased with himself.

  ‘Hello you two. Got up early, went round the shops, got some stuff for the trip - what d’ya think?’

  He was wearing a jaunty peaked cap with the word ‘Skipper’ around the rim, and a t-shirt saying ‘Hello I’m A Sailor’ with the ‘I’m A’ in very, very small lettering. Round his middle was an inflatable plastic ring with faded photographs of Troy Tempest and Phones from Stingray.

  An hour later, he returned to HQ after a shopping trip with Mrs Hathaway. Their purchases included a bright yellow Henri Lloyd Ocean Pro jacket, bright yellow Ocean trousers, a Baltic Marstrand Flotation Jacket, pro-racing deck shoes, along with a range of astronomically expensive, hoodies, fleeces, sweaters, thermal underwear, hats, gloves and sunglasses. And despite the help of Giles’ well-meaning, but rather irritating stylist, she had bought both of them, a selection of tropical clothing.

  Between full English breakfast mouthfuls, Aubrey expressed his gratitude, and angled to be allowed to take stuff he had bought originally.

  Now Aubrey was fully protected from the elements, Mrs Hathaway relented, but insisted the Stingray inflatable ring had to remain stowed away, until they were out of sight of land.

  *

  Their mode of transport to the sunny Caribbean was a beautiful 40-foot Sweden Yacht 42, specially designed for one-man, ocean-going sailing.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Mrs Hathaway, as Giles started to give them a guided tour.

  Within a minute, it was obvious Giles knew nothing about yachts. Mrs Hathaway took Giles’ list of features and carried on.

  ‘Full-hoist, self-tacking working jib. Good. Aluminium mast with 2kW radar dome. Excellent. VHF radio, Ray marine 6000 autopilot with 400G processor, Vane self-steering option. Chartplotter. First class. 55hp Volvo D2-55 diesel engine.

  ‘Know the D2-55 well, in theory, at least,’ she said. ‘When I was reading the manual last night, it seemed perfectly straightforward.’

  And so she went on through the list. But, as the man who had paid one of the world’s leading ocean-going racers a fortune to select and equip the boat, Giles felt he was due a comment or two.

  ‘It’s got six beds.’

  ‘Bunks,’ said Mrs Hathaway, absent mindedly as she continued to check the technical specifications.

  Aubrey was impressed with the yacht as it bobbed gently at its mooring. All that polished wood and chrome and smart ropes. Plus it had a nice place to have a kip and knock up some grub. His brain had not been penetrated by the fact that he was facing thirty-odd days on this thing with mountainous waves, filthy electrical storms, hurricane-force winds and God knows what else. For the moment, he was happily intoxicated with new words, such as transom, deep canoe bodies, pronounced rockers, forefoot knuckles and soft bilges. And, despite knowing even less about yachts than Giles, he felt the need to chip in.

  ‘Gorra ‘fridge?’

  There was a fridge. Good, though Aubrey, as long as there was somewhere to get a cold lager, he was sure he could handle anything.

  *

  That evening, as a special treat, the three of them went for a meal at the Cowes Balti Towers restaurant, which Aubrey had discovered on his early morning shopping trip. Mrs Hathaway was confident about the voyage, despite finding out her old CD Atlantic Crossing was not a useful instruction manual, but a collection of songs by Rod something or other.

  After a little more rummaging in her trunk, she’d found a VHS tape, Crossing the Atlantic with a useless drunk. The basic pitch of the programme was ‘you’ll have to be mad to even consider it, but if you insist on going ahead, here are some tips’. It was a strange programme, and she had a vague idea it might not be an instruction video, but part of a TV series featuring alternative comedians, where the comedy was so bad, it could easily be mistaken for something produced by the Royal Yachting Association on a day when there wasn’t much proper royal yachting to do.

  The implications of this lack of hard information were lost on Aubrey as he happily wolfed down his standard mutton vindaloo, chana bhuna and lager mix. Giles reassured Mrs Hathaway that, with the sat nav, radio communications and internet connections he’d had installed, they would be able to deal with any eventuality.

  Later that evening, as she tucked a garblingly happy, extremely inebriated Aubrey into bed, the enormity of the undertaking suddenly struck her. If there were violent storms, what good was a Rod something or other CD? If the mast was downed by lightning, what information would she get from a load of under-age Groucho clubbers trying to be funny in a big water tank?

  When she got back to her room, she checked through her trunk again and found a faded pamphlet. As far as she could tell, it was a free gift from Girl, the old Eagle’s sister comic, all about how to navigate by the stars. The paper was thin, the typeface was small and you could just about see the hand-drawn illustrations. But it had a strange air of authority. It was probably useless, but, as she sat on
her bed and stared down at the scrap of paper, it somehow gave her more comfort than the rest of Giles’ gizmos put together.

  Chapter 34

  On the morning of their departure, Mrs Hathaway and Aubrey looked very professional as they walked down the floating pontoon to the yacht. Mrs Hathaway seemed fresh and alert, as though undertaking a 4,000-mile ocean voyage was the most natural thing in the world.

  Aubrey followed. Someone looking through powerful binoculars from the Hampshire coastline might have said he looked confident. But it wasn’t confidence; it was an expressionless contemplation of the intestinal turmoil wreaked by his trademark overindulgence at Balti Towers. Still, he stepped aboard with Mrs Hathaway and put on a brave, though rather green, face.

  Giles looked very sharp in another five grands’ worth of the tailors’ art. A freelance video cameraman and stills photographer were there to record the departure. Like many visual media professionals, hardened by years working for the tabloids, they lacked a fair few social niceties.

  ‘Can we get rid of the repulsive?’ said the photographer, dropping more cigarette ash down his bulging, gravy-stained waistcoat.

  ‘Of course,’ said Giles. ‘Aubrey, would you mind going downstairs, while we take a few pictures.’

  ‘Please, yourself,’ mumbled Aubrey, and disappeared into the cabin.

  ‘Any chance she could show a bit of leg?’ said the video cameraman, who had managed to fit this yacht job in between filming an independent Bulgarian production of Chitty Chitty Gang Bang.

  Mrs Hathaway, looked daggers at the cameraman, who caught the impact of her steely blue eyes for the first time and backed off, at least a thousand miles.

  ‘Whatever you want, lady. Just say, and I’ll be happy to oblige.’

  The cameraman then shot forward a thousand miles.

  ‘’Ere, aren’t you that old dear who trashed the bank robber?’

  He turned to Giles.

  ‘Look, Mr Montagu-Scott - if she’s who I think she is, you’re sittin’ on a fortune. Just wait ‘til I tell my mates.’

  Giles drew him close and indicated to the stills guy to join the huddle.

  ‘This goes no further,’ he hissed. ‘As you know, I have interests in television production and I’ve slotted both of you in for a 13-week series, working title, The world’s most sexually active women reveal their intimate secrets. If one word of this leaks out, you’re off the case. Understand?

  They understood.

  However, there was a delay, because the skies suddenly went dark and the photographer suggested they wait in the cabin until the sheet lightning had blown over.

  ‘Plays havoc, with me f-stops,’ he explained.

  The lightning storm was over in minutes, and blue skies returned.

  The photographs and video were taken to everyone’s satisfaction.

  As Giles stepped back onto the pontoon, it dawned on him that The world’s most sexually active women reveal their intimate secrets was a hot title for a TV series. Maybe he’d get around to making it some day.

  ‘Right, Tallulah,’ said Giles, ‘this is it.’

  The cameraman moved in for a close up. Giles looked directly into the lens and put on his CEO voice.

  ‘On behalf of Daring Dooz and its international readership, may I wish you all the best on your courageous voyage and the many death-defying feats you will be undertaking in the future.’

  ‘God bless...’ he leaned over to check the yacht’s name.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Cut that,’ he said to the cameraman. ‘OK,’ said the cameraman, ‘going again, up to speed, action!’ Giles continued.

  ‘God bless the Titanic, and all who sail in her.’ Giles made a mental note to give the give the shipyard a good bollocking.

  ‘Cut!’ said Giles.

  He stepped back on board.

  ‘All the best Tallulah, your next challenge will be waiting for you at St Bernards. Oh, and can I give you this - a little present, which you might find useful.’

  He handed her a small box with yellow polka dot wrapping paper, tied up with a yellow polka dot silk ribbon.

  Mrs Hathaway thanked him, politely, waved and turned to the business at hand.

  There was no return of the sheet lightning returning, it was a bright clear day with a gentle offshore wind. Apart from Aubrey shouting ‘Jesus Christ, what was that!’ when the Volvo D2-55 fired up, the Titanic slipped her mooring and steered confidently for the open sea.

  *

  There was no denying the Titanic was a fine sight. She had been given a complete overhaul and, apart from the fact that the shipyard had forgotten to change her name to Daring Dooz, she was as near perfect as could be. However, that description certainly didn't apply to not-very-able seaman Aubrey Brown, as he lay on a bunk coping with the vindaloo’s rumblings of discontent.

  As the yacht left the protection of the Medina and moved into more open, choppier waters, the rumblings of discontent were replaced by a more virulent scenario, as the vindaloo decided to slake its thirst for revenge.

  Cowes is an up-market place. And the most up-market restaurant in Cowes was the new Le Navigateur Épicurien - architect designed, right on the Solent shoreline, with lots of white canvas, ropes, steel cables, chromium struts and prices to match.

  The restaurant had a huge panoramic, fully UV protected, floor-to-ceiling window, where the great and good could enjoy quality nouvelle cuisine while taking in the beautiful views across the water. It was lunchtime and it was packed.

  Mrs Hathaway was thrilled to be in charge of such a magnificent boat. She manoeuvred closer to the restaurant, to give the diners a better view. She waved. They waved back. It was a charming moment.

  Suddenly, there was a dreadful cry as Aubrey raced on deck, hung over the yacht’s rail and splattered last night’s vindaloo, chana bhuna and garlic naan bread mix down the side of the yacht. The diners stopped waving.

  Mrs Hathaway ran to Aubrey’s side, turned on the hosepipe and with one swift action hosed down his face, clothes and the side of yacht.

  One minute later, apart from the fact that Aubrey lay in a soggy heap on the deck, nothing had changed.

  One hour later, in Le Navigateur Épicurien, the manager and the chef sat down and wondered while there had been absolutely no take-up on the sweets at lunchtime, particularly as the choice had included two of their best sellers - slippery chocolate rice pudding and semolina with caramelised banana chunks.

  But all that was behind Mrs Hathaway now - the wind was getting up, the deck was starting to roll a little, and there was salt spray in the air. With her eyes on the horizon, her hands on the wheel and her left foot on Aubrey’s moaning body, only one thing mattered - the great adventure was finally underway.

  Chapter 35

  Jim woke up and the world was completely blue. Naturally, he panicked. What the hell was going on? Maybe he was experiencing a totally new and devastating sort of hangover. He felt his face. It was curved, hard and completely smooth. His nose, mouth, ears and hair had disappeared. And the top of his head was round and flat. But when he tapped the top of his head with his knuckles, it made a strange hollow sound.

  ‘Oh, so you’re back with us,’ said a woman’s voice.

  It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. All he knew is that it made him want to check his tie was straight.

  A few scissor snips and the duct tape fell away, allowing Mrs Hathaway to lift the bucket off Jim’s head.

  He looked up in amazement, squinting in the bright sunlight, licking his dry lips with his dry tongue.

  ‘Hello James, it’s Mrs Hathaway,’ said Mrs Hathaway.

  Jim was extremely confused, to say the least. There was a pounding in his head, and he was struggling to find the right words. In fact, he was struggling to find any words.

  At last, he overcame whatever he was struggling against, and managed to blurt out a sentence.

  ‘Where’s your pinny?’

  ‘I’m afraid m
y pinny days are over, James.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Jim.

  All those years, they’d looked on Mrs Hathaway as a tidy-upper and general stale curry and vomit-remover, and here she was in a yellow polka-dot bikini looking like a million suntanned dollars, only better. How could they have missed that!

  ‘Would you like a drink of water?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Jim and rolled onto his side in a vain attempt to stand up.

  It was then that he caught sight of Aubrey’s sepulchral features.

  Jesus! Thought Jim. This was a hangover two bridges too far. Talk about hallucinations - first old Mrs H in a bikini, then that toe-rag Aubrey ‘Vlad and Vic will be round in 10 minutes’ Brown propped up against the beach bar. He had to cut back on the Bollinger. The most sensible course of action would be to return to where he had been. So Jim picked up the bucket, put it back on his head, lay down and waited to wake up properly.

  *

  Two Alka-Seltzers and four paracetamols later, Jim sat opposite Mrs Hathaway leaning heavily on the beach bar counter, trying to make sense of it all.

  Her story was long and complex. Jim was conscious enough to realise he was in a conversation and, despite the fact she was moving relentlessly in and out of focus, he was doing his best to take part.

  He even tried an extremely potted history - sometimes featuring verbs - of how he and Mick came to be on St Bernards.

  But the truth was, he couldn’t remember what he’d been told, or what he had said. However, he did remember that, in a conversation, etiquette demands new topics are introduced from time to time. So that’s exactly what he did.

  He raised one arm and brought it down slowly to point in the vague direction of Mrs Hathaway’s bikini top.

  ‘Who?’ he said slowly and deliberately.

  He paused for thought, but no thoughts came. He rolled his eyes up to look at the beach bar roof, and took a deep breath in an attempt to get more oxygen to his brain.

  ‘Go on, who?’ encouraged Mrs Hathaway.