by Stan Arnold
Giles had forgotten how Daring Dooz readers tended to be incompetent dreamers for whom the arrival of his magazine was the highlight of their month.
‘Why don't we all go over there and gang up on ‘em,’ said Splatter in a matter of fact way.
Giles nearly put the phone down.
‘Splatter, my old mate, you don't seem to understand, there are five or six bandits and they mean business.’
‘So, you think Daring Doozers don't mean business.’
‘Well, er- no, but…’
‘…but nothing, if you’ll pardon my French. This is our magazine, Mrs Hathaway is our hero. Even Aubrey’s got a little fan base, on the side. And I know, ‘cos I have 3 million Daring Doozers as Facebook fans and they all love her to bits. We’re talking about her all day, every day.’
‘But it’s in the middle of the Amazon jungle.’
‘OK, so we get to Manaus International. You can get a boat up river, takes about a week.’
Giles was impressed with Splatter’s knowledge of the Amazonian transportation infrastructure, but he countered with, ‘But we’ve only got four days!’
‘Right,’ said Splatter. ‘Then we fly ‘em in. Get everyone to Manaus, so Mrs H can pick ‘em up in the Catalina.
‘It would only hold ten people, at most.’
There was a pause while Splatter digested this information. Then he spoke. You could feel the camera zooming in for a big close-up.
‘We’re going to need a bigger flying boat.’
Giles, thought about that for a second, then said, ‘Splatter, I’ll do whatever it takes.’ Although, he had no idea what.
‘I’ll stick a message on Facebook, asking ‘em to get to Manaus on vital Daring Dooz business - two days max.’
‘And I’ll get headquarters to send the message out to our subscriber email list - must be about four or five million.’
‘Great,’ said Splatter. ‘I tell you, Daring Doozers can make your average couch potatoes look like hunting cheetahs, but I reckon if it’s Tallulah up the duff, you’ll get plenty of takers. Most of them do sod all, apart from computer games and facebook. This could be their chance to get out there and do something useful. Not just do ‘something’. Something useful for Mrs H and the mag.’
‘What about you, Splatter, can you make it?’
‘Ah well,’ said Splatter, ‘it’s X Factor Revisited on the telly, and I wouldn't want to miss it.’
There was a pause.
‘Only joking - just I’m brassic.’
‘I’ll pay for a taxi to Heathrow, and whatever flights it takes.’
‘You’re on,’ said Splatter, ‘I got some holiday due - take about an hour to fix - so, as soon as you’re ready.’
‘My people will sort out the details. I’ll have a satellite phone ready for you at check in - so we can keep in touch. I want you to organise the Daring Doozers as they come into Manaus, get them on the flying boat and save the day.’
Giles phoned HQ, dictated the email message for the five million subscribers, and asked them to make all necessary travel arrangements for Splatter - absolutely no expense spared.
He felt he’d ticked all the boxes, apart from one.
Where the hell was he going to get a large flying boat?
He sat down and looked in vain for inspiration from the London skyline.
It was then he realised there was another box he hadn't ticked.
In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to mention to Splatter that the five or six bandits were armed to the teeth with high-powered automatic weapons.
Chapter 66
Mrs Hathaway was restless - like a cat ready to pounce, but with nothing to pounce at. She sat in the pilot’s seat with her bronzed legs propped up on the instrument panel. She walked to the fridge and spent some time selecting a bottle of water, she checked the inflatable dinghy was in working order, three times, then she gave the cockpit and windows a good clean from top to bottom.
She tried to pass some time by phoning Aubrey. Best not to tell him how bad the situation was. Not that she had a chance, as Aubrey was very excited about playing bass at the Golden Legover.
‘And, after I’d finished playing, lots of bints came up and wanted my autograph.’
‘Bints?’
‘Ladies.’
‘You didn't write anything vulgar?
‘No, course not, you trained me proper.’
Mrs Hathaway, felt a little flush of pride at that, so it was no problem to let him ramble on.
‘There was lights and a stage and I did a solo and the crowd went wild, shoutin’ Aub, Aub, Aubrey! It was really excitin’ Tallulah. More excitin’ than anyfin’, ever. I’m not a tax inspector, I’m not a gangster’s gofer, I’m a bass player in a band.’ And then he added, ‘and women like me.’
Mrs Hathaway missed the final part of Aubrey’s sentence, because a rather large fly had splatted into the Catalina’s cockpit window and ruined all her work.
‘Well Aubrey, it all sounds very nice, you must play something for me, when we meet.’
‘Can't wait,’ said Aubrey with an unusual amount of enthusiasm, ‘can't wait. When d’you reckon?’
‘Oh, just a few more days, then everything will be settled.’
‘Great,’ said Aubrey, ‘and one more fing.’
‘Can I say - I love you?’
‘Of course you can.’
So he did.
After the call, Mrs Hathaway was in what she would call ‘a tizz’. Her energy levels doubled and she re-cleaned the cockpit windows over and over again till they shone and sparkled in the late evening sun.
That evening, she went to bed in the fold-down seats next to the Plexiglass blisters. Her heart felt young, her skin was glowing, her head was full of exciting Aubrey thoughts. It would have been the perfect way to doze off to sleep, apart from the fact that an M16 assault rifle lay diagonally across her body, and her finger was on the trigger.
Chapter 67
Giles snapped his worldwide office network into action. Their mission, which they had no option but to accept, was to find a large flying boat which could get down to the Hidroviaria do Amazonas Riverboat Terminal in the next four days. He gave them an hour.
Fifty-five minutes later, he had a result. A US Navy veteran, organising sports fishing trips out of Tobago, had seen his business recently devastated by a major oil slick. He was facing ruin, but when he was a younger and wealthier man, he’d completed a restoration project on the plane his father used to fly in World War II - a four-engined, 200-foot wingspan Hawaii Mars flying boat.
When he was told the nature of the mission, he refused point blank. When they mentioned how much Daring Dooz would be willing to pay, and the size of the advance, he said, ‘Give me 24 hours to get a crew together.’
With only a little massaging of the truth, the Daring Dooz logistics specialists obtained all the necessary permits and permissions. There would be no need to fly at 200 feet.
Giles was thrilled things were underway so quickly. Splatter was hurtling down the M4 in a taxi, shuttle flights had been arranged for him in Brazil. There was still the automatic weapons to consider, but one thing at a time.
He pulled a chair over to the window and felt like the master of all he surveyed. He asked for it to be done, and it was done. Then he had another feeling which wasn’t so nice.
There he was, sitting on his arse, when Splatter and a couple of hundred Daring Doozers were spending their hard-earned cash flying half way round the world to rescue Mrs Hathaway, with no thought of financial gain. While he sat here all high and mighty, the world’s No. 1 Couch Potato. It might be a solid gold couch, studded with diamonds, but it was still as much a couch as the basic, build-it-yourself Bumaik range from Ikea.
*
Back in the long house, Mick and Jim would have given anything for an Ikea Bumaik couch. They’d been sitting on the floor for two days, guarded by bandits who looked as bored as they were. The GUA had long run out, and w
hen they went to perform their necessary bodily functions, they were watched over by one of the guards and, for all they knew, by the anaconda, who must, by now have digested Alfonso, and be looking around for another take-away.
They were getting to the point where they just wanted something to happen. And, of course, happen it did. But in a way they would never have guessed in a million years.
*
Back in the Catalina, Mrs Hathaway, spent most of her day doing exercises. Giles had phoned her as soon as Splatter had agreed to fly over. She couldn't see the point, as she’d be the only one with an automatic assault rifle, unless the customs in Brazil were a lot laxer than she’d ever imagined.
She whiled away a little more time by phoning Aubrey who’d been rebooked at the Golden Legover. Again, it was a fabulous success, with screams and cheers and a banner saying ‘Aubrey - King of Bass’. Again, he went on about a strange warm feeling flowing through his body. This rang no bells with Mrs Hathaway. All she was concerned with was the unrelenting boredom. She was getting to the point where, she just wanted something to happen. And, of course, happen it did. But in a way she would never have guessed in a million years.
*
Back in the Shard, Giles was ruminating over his short, but highly successful life. He might be Giles Montagu-Scott, CEO and owner of Daring Dooz and UFO News International, but, at heart, he suspected he was still Cyril Tweedy, scared of his own shadow.
The Daring Doozers were stupid, gullible fantasists, but they weren’t scared. He suspected if it got out that he wasn’t at the rescue, it could be a very tricky PR situation. But it was more than that. Bloody hell, he had to break with the past, he had to become his own man. He had, in short, to grow up.
Giles thought it through for another five worrying minutes, then picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers.
‘Morning Clarissa, could you book me flights for Manaus International, for today.’
‘One-way, or return, sir?’
Giles was as clueless about the future as Mick, Jim and Mrs Hathaway, but he felt he owed it to himself to back his gamble.
‘I think we’ll make it a return.’
Chapter 68
It was late evening when Hamish was pushed into the long house. He looked terrible. There was a large cut on his cheek and his face was bruised. He’d obviously been badly beaten. He fell to the floor. The guards stepped in to push away the women who moved to try and help him.
A few seconds later, a heavily armed Pango arrived, with the air of a man who has just got what he wanted, and couldn't care less about how he’d got it.
‘Is oil!’ he announced. ‘Big pool of oil! Big bucks! And Hamish pig take me wrong trail, so I persuade him do it right. So we know what and we know where, compadres. Nothing go wrong, now.’
At that moment, all the lights went out. The waterwheel’s lack of TLC since Zac’s disappearance was bearing fruit.
‘Shit!’ cried Pango. ‘Get oil lamps. Anyone who moves, kill.’
After a few minutes, in which no one moved, the oil lamps were found and lit.
‘Right,’ said Pango, two film poofy boys and Hamish Head Man - my office, now.
Pango hung up the oil light, sat in the largest chair and threw a piece of paper onto the coffee table.
‘Is legal - sign or we shoot village people.’
Hamish tried to grab him, but Pango hit him with the butt of his rifle, and he fell back into a corner.
‘Fat Boy - Scrawny, check contract. Sign all land from here to Black Pool over to Pango. Plus agree eviction, tomorrow. Bad news if oil men have 150 primitives to dump.’
He held out a pen.
‘Put X or thumb mark here. No business funnies, or I shoot few hostages for target practice.’
Hamish got to his knees and crawled to the table. He looked at Mick and Jim.
‘It's what he says it is,’ said Mick. ‘Sorry mate.’
Hamish signed in an elegant ecclesiastical italic script, just how Zac had taught him.
‘Fuck me,’ said Pango. ‘That’s cool.’ He folded the contract and slotted it into top pocket of his overalls.
‘Now for bad news. We shoot all you, start in few minutes.’
Mick and Jim both said, ‘But…’
Pango cut them off. ‘You squeal to cops, hey! Trouble for Pango. My story simple. You sign contract, wander off in jungle.’
‘Real story. Useful river. Caiman, piranhas. One hour after bang-bang, no trace of anyone.’
‘When is this bang-bang time?’ asked Jim.
‘Right now, Scrawny. You want be first?’
Pango held the oil light up, higher.
‘Me like see what I do.’
He laughed again.
Mick got desperate. ‘But we’re nothing to do with this. We just happened to be here doing a video job.’
‘Look,’ said Pango. ‘You here and, few seconds, bang-bang, you not here. Keep things simple.’
He moved forward and raised his M16. But just as he was about to pull the trigger, something very strange happened.
A rather podgy index finger had pushed up through the rattan flooring and started wiggling.
Even Pango was intrigued. He bent down and looked at the finger. It wiggled some more, then moved slowly forward, making a rip about a foot long in the rattan. Pango moved the end of the rifle barrel closer to the rip. Whoever it was had chosen to gatecrash the wrong party.
After a few seconds, a man’s head pushed slowly up through the gap. The light was poor and it was impossible to see any features.
‘Come out!’ shouted Pango. ‘Time for first target practice.’
He turned to Jim, ‘OK with you, Scrawny?’
Jim, as you might expect, nodded.
Suddenly, the head spoke - quietly, and in measured tones.
‘Before you pull the trigger, take a closer look at my face.’
‘Why fuck should I?’ said Pango.
‘Just take a closer look at my face, then, if you want, you can pull the trigger.’
It was only a head, so Pango knelt down and moved the oil lamp closer.
The lamp cast a rich, golden glow, but even in its rather pleasant, flattering light, you could see the blood drain rapidly from Pango’s face.
His mouth opened and closed a few times, and the oil lamp began to wobble in his trembling hands.
‘Mother of mercy and all the saints,’ he cried, putting down the lamp and crossing himself, ‘What going on?’
‘Dunno,’ said Charlie Sumkins’ head, ‘suppose you tell me?’
Chapter 69
Pango backed away, trembling terribly. The M16 hung limply by his side.
‘Mr Sumkins, sir, I no idea…’
‘’Course you didn't,’ said Charlie’s head in the most menacing tone imaginable.
There was a grunt from beneath the floor and Charlie rose up. He was wearing his Alec Guinness Man in the White Suit suit. Ignoring the large hole his arrival had made in the floor, he moved over to sit in Pango’s chair.
Pango stood to attention in the corner. His face was bathed in sweat. Shiny, wringing-wet patches had appeared on his overalls.
‘Was joke, Mr Sumkins, sir. Just keep everyone safe ‘til you here.’
Charlie looked relaxed. He sat back in the chair and placed the tips of his fingers together.
‘Even for a toe-rag like you, that must count as the shittiest excuse on record.’
‘Let me tell you what’s been happenin’. You are holdin’ two of my dearest fiends in this room at gunpoint, and from what I heard under the floor, you was about to bump them off.’
Mick and Jim were amazed. First, that Charlie’s evil reputation still had terrifying power in a backwater, 1000 miles up the Amazon. And secondly, that he’d referred to them as his dearest friends.
‘And do you know why they’re my dearest friends?’
‘No, Mr Sumkins, sir.’
‘Shall I tell you why they’re my dearest frien
ds?’
‘Yes, Mr Sumkins, sir.’
‘Because, they were lookin’ after, and takin’ very special care of, my very best friend in the whole world.’
Pango’s knees started to knock.
‘And I don’t fink she’s around. And that makes me cross. You wouldn't have anything to do with her not being around, would you?’
Pango fell to his knees.
‘She ran off.’
‘Ran off, did she?’ said Charlie. ‘And who made her run off?’
Pango started sobbing. ‘Gone in fly boat.’
A guard called, ‘You alright, boss?’
Charlie gave Pango a look.
‘Yeah,’ he called back.
Charlie leaned forward.
‘Now listen to me, shit face Pango Demetrio Alvarez of Flat 3, Juan Smith Rua Visconde de Porto Seguro 1238. Your fuckin’ number is up. I know where you live, where you pretend to work, I know the names and addresses of all your relatives, including, your grandmother and grandfather.’
He put his hand up to a small earpiece, ‘I’ve just been informed that granddad Alvarez is puttin’ the rubbish out. Does that every night, doesn’t he? Well, if you don't release everyone here quick, and bugger off back to where you came from, he won't have the bother of puttin’ the rubbish out, ever again.’
Charlie stood up.
Mick and Jim were starting to enjoy the evening.
‘And the same goes for all your fuckin’ scumbag family.’
Mick and Jim could see the spit starting to fly across the room. They’d never seen Charlie Sumkins get really cross.
‘I’ll wipe the whole lot of you off the face of the fuckin’ earth. That includes Carlos who services your granddad’s car, the woman who gives your auntie Conchita embroidery lessons and Spot the fuckin’ dog.’
‘And I got similar info on the rest of the scrotes in your band of imitation desperados.’
Mick noticed Charlie’s face was now so purple, it had almost doubled the light values in the room.
Pango made one last attempt.
‘It was joke, Mr Sumkins, your honour. Look, gun not loaded.’
