by Stan Arnold
*
When Mrs Hathaway got back to the Hotel du Lack, she was, understandably, in half a good mood. She parked her bike and waved to Pierre, whose reception desk duties currently involved removing the bearings from an electric lawnmower.
‘Watch out,’ he said. ‘There’s a few rogue ones on the floor.’
Mick, Jim and Aubrey were sat enjoying the Hotel du Lack’s Cocktail Happy Hour. Mick reckoned ‘happy hour’ meant that, for 60 minutes, Pierre served drinks in clean glasses. But, still, they were all happy - both with the drinks they were consuming and the secret plans they were formulating. None of them was even slightly unhappy when Mrs Hathaway skidded unsteadily by their table with a half-cheery ‘see you later’.
Once she was in her bedroom, she snapped into action - picking up her sat phone and dialling Giles. As usual, she got straight to the point.
‘Hello Giles, I need you to help me.’
‘Fire away.’
‘I need you to forge some certification papers which prove I’m qualified to fly a Catalina.’
‘Absolutely outrageous! That’s illegal! What sort of organisation do you think this is?’ shouted Giles, flicking on the scrambler.
‘No problem sweetheart,’ he cooed. ‘I should have thought of it before. We have the research teams, we have the printers and well, let’s say I know a little bit about pulling the wool over people’s eyes. Is that all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. The Catalina will be with you on Monday. The manual’s excellent isn't it?’
‘Yes.’
Giles was particularly pleased to hear this, as he’d only had a quick glance at the cover.
‘I’m reading it flat out. Although I do worry about what might happen if I get ill. No one else will have any idea.’
‘Don't worry, there’s parachutes for everyone and two rubber dinghies on board!’ He laughed, then realised his mistake.
‘Only joking.’
‘I should jolly well think so, too.’
He changed tack.
‘So, Tallulah - this is your next Daring Dooz Challenge. If it’s anywhere near as good as Challenge One, we’ll be quids in. I mean we’ll be pushing the international publishing envelope - er.’
He changed tack again, and went for the big finish.
‘Enjoy the flight!’
‘I certainly intend to do exactly that.’
She ended the call with some satisfaction. All that remained was Three: to learn how to fly the thing - and, thanks to the manual, that looked as if it was in the bag.
Time, she thought, to pop downstairs for a celebratory drink.
Within minutes of joining the others, Pierre shouted over that there was a call for her.
It was Roberto Velazquez.
‘Hello, Mrs Hathaway. How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sorry to bother you so late, Mrs Hathaway.’
‘It’s only 8 o’clock.’
‘Oh yes.’
There was a pause. She waited for him to speak.
‘It's just I - er - forgot to mention something - for all the air traffic controllers to, like, you know, ‘not see’ your flying boat, what’s it called again…?’
‘A Catalina.’
‘Yeah! For all the air traffic controllers to, like, you know, ‘not see’ your Catalina…’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s - er - got to fly all the way at - er - an altitude of - er - under 200 feet.’
‘What!’
‘Or it might have been 150 feet, hang on, I wrote it down somewhere.’
There was the sound of shuffling papers, while Mrs Hathaway’s blood temperature shot to well above boiling point.
‘No, you’re in luck, it’s 200 feet!’
Though her throat was constricting rapidly, and she felt her eyes were starting to bulge, she managed to say ‘thank you’. But she struggled to put the receiver down without slamming the whole phone through the top of the reception desk.
200 feet was not an altitude. 200 feet was how high she could hit a baseball - at least on a video simulator.
4000 miles at 200 feet! She breathed in. She breathed out. She breathed in, again, deeper this time and held it, until she thought she was going to burst. Then let the air out in a thin controlled stream.
Mrs Hathaway waved across at Mick. He smiled, waved back and raised his glass in salute. Perhaps, she thought, it was time for a little chat with Mick about his ‘They Win. You Lose.’ philosophy, and how it could stop you murdering people.
Chapter 42
One of the strangest things to happen over the next few days was the dramatic increase in Aubrey’s enthusiasm for the venture. He asked questions about the Catalina and its history in World War II. He poured over maps - usually it was lager he poured over them, but nevertheless, he poked his finger at the dry areas and asked questions like ‘What’s them blue bits?’ and ‘So this Amazon’s a river then?’ He confided in Mrs Hathaway that he was excited about the flight.
‘I never flown before. I expect it won't be as rough as the yacht fing?’
‘No, Aubrey,’ said Mrs Hathaway with her fingers crossed behind her back. ‘It will be as smooth as glass - remember, I’ve got the manual!’
He also asked about where he’d be sitting and wondered if he’d get a good view. She was brutally honest and told him about the 200 feet altitude limit, but he reacted very positively.
‘I don't mind lookin’ at waves, specially if I’m not getting’ wet and they can't sweep you overboard.’
This was a remarkable turnround in Aubrey’s attitude to danger and discomfort. She was most impressed - it was another positive step on the journey.
As for the rest of the team, Mick and Jim half-heartedly continued their training, and Roberto Velazquez remained un-murdered, but only just.
Mrs Hathaway had calmed down and, after a ‘They Win. You Lose.’ therapy session with Mick, and, fortified by several brandies, had realised getting cross was a waste of time, particularly when she had £2 million in her bank account.
On Monday, an email arrived saying the Catalina would be arriving that day, at a specific map reference.
When they looked at a map, the arrival point was in the bay on the north side of the island where Uncle Sodding Jocelyn said he was planning his millionaire’s boating pond.
‘Poetic justice,’ exclaimed Mick. Though nobody could quite work out why he said it.
Pierre had been mending his pick-up truck all week and, despite oily engine parts and back axles appearing on the reception desk at meal times, he had succeeded, and was in triumphant mode as he strode into the dining area.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I believe your flying boat is due to arrive any minute. How about I run you all down to the bay, courtesy of the Hotel du Lack.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘Most kind.’
‘No problem,’ said Pierre, ‘that’ll be three dollars each.’
They paid up and arrived at the bay. It was completely deserted and the Catalina was nowhere to be seen. They all agreed to wait, standing in a little group on the wooden pier. This was the right decision, as a few minutes later, Mrs Hathaway spotted a tiny speck on the horizon. Soon it was clear the Catalina was heading straight for them. They were all genuinely excited, especially Aubrey.
‘This is it Tallulah,’ he exclaimed, as he jumped up and down, clapping his hands. ‘Woooo Hoooo! We’re goin’ for an adventure in a Catalina to that Amazon place!’
It was a beautiful aircraft. It roared overhead and the pilot dipped its wings to show he’d spotted the little group at the end of the wooden pier. He banked the plane and came round for the landing. As the Catalina made contact with the blue waters of the bay, a white plumes shot out on either side. Perfection.
‘Ere, ‘ere, over ‘ere,’ shouted Aubrey jumping up and down and waving his hands above his head.
The engines were switched off and the Catalina dropped anchor. The passenger door swun
g open and an inflatable dinghy appeared. The pilot lowered himself into it, started the outboard and sped towards the pier.
The pilot was tall and thin wearing a ‘Catalina’ branded baseball cap and a World War II leather flying jacket over a Britney Spears t-shirt.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘I’m Hank. And you, I presume, are Mrs Hathaway?’
He started to offer his hand then stopped in his tracks.
‘Hey!’ he said changing the handshake to an exaggerated point. ‘You’re the Enfield Bin Lady. Wow!’
And he performed the actions.
‘Grab, Flip, Whack. I can't tell you how much me and the boys back at the hanger appreciate that. For the first week, they ran it on repeat on the canteen TV screens.’
He repeated the action.
‘Grab, Flip, Whack. Lady, that was priceless! So what you doin’ here?’
‘That wasn’t me. That was my twin sister,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ever mindful of Giles’ concern about the Darin Dooz story getting out.
‘Oh hell, sorry, my mistake. But, let your sis’ know she is hot stuff and I tell you, she is much appreciated by…’
‘The boys back in the hanger.’
‘You got it!’
Hank said hello to everyone else, but couldn't take his eyes of Tallulah.
‘Right, let’s get started, jump in and I’ll run you through the controls, especially the new sat nav stuff.’
She stepped into the dinghy and turned to the team.
‘This will take some time, and it’s all the boring bits. Probably best if you go back to the hotel. I’ll make my own way back.’
‘But, I’m interested,’ pleaded Aubrey. ‘Let me come as well, I want to know all about everythin’.’
Impressed as Mrs Hathaway was by this new thirst for knowledge, she insisted he went back to the hotel with everyone else. So off he went, as Tallulah and Hank made the short dinghy trip to the Catalina and climbed into its belly.
Hank made a call for a helicopter to pick him up in an hour. Then started his guided tour by asking questions about her previous flying experience.
Mrs Hathaway saw this as a direct threat to Daring Dooz Challenge Two and, consequently, to the financial security of her future with Aubrey. So she lied. She said an experienced Catalina pilot would be arriving in a few days, and she just wanted to know her way around the controls, in case he got ill.
Hank took her through the basics, and was amazed at how much she knew. The Catalina needed a specialist pilot, but he reckoned that, with a months’ intensive, she’d be up there with the best of them.
An hour later, right on time, Hank’s chopper arrived. Mrs Hathaway refused a lift back to the hotel, not just because Hank said she would have to sit on his knee, but because she didn’t want him asking around about her fictitious pilot.
After she waved goodbye to Hank, she headed back to the Catalina. Now she was alone with the beast. She sat in the cockpit and flicked open her manual. It was time to get serious.
Chapter 43
‘So what time are we off tomorrow?’ said Mick, as they sat around eating their evening meal.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘it will be early. But it won't be tomorrow.’
‘Oh, really,’ said Jim, in a voice pitched somewhere between panic and relief.
While everyone was eating chicken, he’d specially requested microwaved frozen sausages to remind himself why he was involved in this lunatic venture.
Based on her experiments that afternoon, Mrs Hathaway knew she could she could take off, fly at around 200 feet and land safely. But now, she had other things on her mind.
‘I don't want to teach you two how to suck eggs,’ she said, ‘but last night, I was reading a manual on video production and editing. And, it seems we could make things a lot better with different camera angles. I think it would be a bit boring if you just shot out of the windows, particularly when we take off.’
Mick could see something was coming, and tried to head her off at the pass. The first rule was to agree.
‘I know, I know,’ he said, ‘we don't want it to look like you’ve stuck an iPhone up against the window while you’re taking off from Gatwick.’
Second rule: Move smoothly on to casting doubt.
‘But, I feel Daring Dooz will be thinking more about getting on with the challenge than worrying about camera angles.’
‘I spoke to Giles last night,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘and he thought it was an excellent idea. Maybe we could do a DVD of everything.’
Third rule: Agree, but make it sound too complicated.
‘I understand,’ said Mick, ‘but it’s not that easy, I’m afraid. We’d need at least a week. First, we’d have to recce the flying boat, then the surrounding countryside, particularly that promontory where we could get a long shot - must involve at least a mile trekking through scrub. On video, it’s only a few seconds but, we’re talking hours to set up just one shot - and you’d have to do trial runs in the sea plane so we could get the focussing and camera movements just right.’
‘Mick’s got a good point,’ added Jim, who had suddenly realised something rather unpleasant might be on the cards.
‘Same with the sound. I mean, if you want pristine audio, you need the best sound balance, where the rejection null of the microphone’s polar pattern rejects the most unwanted noise. And you have to consider that peaks and nulls are in different angular positions at different frequencies, so any moving off-axis sounds will sound phased, or flanged.’
Mick was glad of the support. His ‘tent on the beach and frozen sausages’ threat was obviously working well.
‘But I was just thinking of taking off with you both strapped to the outside of the plane,’ said Mrs Hathaway, as though nothing could be simpler.
Fourth and final rule: Use the Health and Safety gambit.
‘Ah!’ said Mick, choking slightly, ‘but there are Health and Safety considerations. You have to assess whether adequate preventive or control measures have been taken, or whether you can do more to ensure minimum legal standards are met.’
Mrs Hathaway suspected fear-driven prevarication, and it didn't take much fear-driven prevarication for her to dispense with the social niceties.
‘Forget legal standards.’ she said, firmly. There was no way these two wimps were going to stand in the way of her future with Aubrey. This could be the thin end of a very unpleasant wedge, and she was not standing any nonsense.
‘I’m afraid legality just doesn't come into it. May I remind you you’re getting an illegal, tax-free payment of £200,000 between you. So I expect a little co-operation. I’m not qualified to fly the Catalina, the flight path is illegal, I don't expect us to enter or exit Brazil legally. We have no paperwork, and any we have will be forged. And probably everything else you video or record will be unlawful. This whole venture is illegal from start to finish. So, you're both accessories before the fact”’
‘OK,’ said Mick, hoping to pick holes in some of the detail, ‘how are you going to fix us to the plane?’
Jim was appalled at how quickly Mick had thrown in the non-existent giant, white fluffy, monogrammed, Hotel du Lack bathroom towel - he could, at least, have said they both had a deadly allergy to salt water spray.
‘I’ve asked Pierre to make two chipboard planks for you to lie on. They’ll slot over the Catalina’s wing struts. You’ll be nice and near the water. Don't worry - I won't take off. It’ll all be over in a minute.’
‘What about falling off?’ said Jim, who felt it was time to get down to basics.
‘You’ll be tied on with rope. Pierre will lend us his washing line.’
‘Sounds professional.’ said Jim, glumly.
‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Hathaway, smiling happily, ‘it has a three-strand polypropylene core and a wipe-clean, highly durable PVC outer sheath. I’d recommend it anywhere.’
It was at this point Mick and Jim gave up.
Chapter 44
Mick and Jim were d
runks first, wimps second and professionals third - with sarcastic sods coming in a close fourth. But when the drunks and wimps options were removed, they only had their professionalism and sarcasm to fall back on.
It was a lovey morning, apart from the fact that they were lying on Pierre’s chipboard platforms on either side of the Catalina as it bobbed at anchor. The platforms fitted snugly under the wings, with cut-aways slotting perfectly into the supporting wing struts.
Mrs Hathaway tootled around in the dinghy, tying the hapless sound and vision team in place with her favourite washing line.
‘I gave Pierre the technical drawings from the information pack.’
‘Well he’s done an excellent job,’ said Mick. ‘Despite our many years of audio-visual experience, I’m sure we are both inspired by his superlative chipboard-sawing skills.’
Mrs Hathaway ignored him.
The fact was Mick was quite looking forward to the morning. He hadn’t shot any footage since Vlad and Vic’s pop video on Southsea promenade. He had his camera in its best waterproof splash housing, and planned to hang it down close to the water to get some great shots of the spray coming up from the Catalina’s bows.
Jim had nothing. As far as he was concerned, he was just there as an expendable counter-weight on the other side of the plane. There was no such thing as a waterproof microphone case, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk his Sennheiser on the whim of some Pledge-wielding, Spielberg wannabe, fussing around them in a yellow polka dot bikini, with a fabulous tan, superb toned body and eyes that made you want to crawl a mile over broken Studer C37 recorder bits, just to splice one of her tapes.
That apart, as a token gesture, he had a telescopic boom arm topped by a furry windshield which hid the fact there was no microphone inside.
His plan was based on some student work experience he did with the BBC, where they had some superb footage of two Kenyan bull elephants fighting. Obviously, the cameraman was not going to get in close to 18 tons of testosterone-fuelled dog dinner. He’d have been a hundred yards away, in an air-conditioned Land Rover, using a high-quality telephoto lens. So there was no sound. The producer just picked up a sound effects CD called Unpleasant sounds of elephants goring each other to death and selected a suitably blood-curdling track that dubbed nicely onto the footage. The programme went out live on air, with the public none the wiser.
