Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (11 page)

‘What
everything
!’
exclaimed Mrs Hathaway, when Giles had finished.

‘Yes, everything,’ he said, quietly looking down at his pride and
joy.

‘Look there,’ he said, ‘it’s terracotta and pale blue - you don't
often see them that colour. It’s a genuine
Ziegler Mahal. I ask you, 200,000 dollars for a
carpet! I’m surrounded by money. I making it so fast, I can't spend it. But I
tell you what, I’d give it all away, well, most of it, if I could start telling
real
stories about
real
heroes and heroines - people who
take on challenges and see them through.’

‘People,’ and he looked deep into Mrs Hathaway’s pale blue eyes,
‘people like you, Tallulah.’

It was his last shot. It was brilliant. But he could see he’d failed.

‘That’s all very well,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact sort of way. ‘But
I’m happy doing my cleaning. So we’ll thank you for the refreshments, and say
goodbye.’

They got up and made for the door. Giles raced ahead, his brain whirring
so fast the bearings were starting to seize. He was the man who, just before
the presses started running, had come up with the happy ending for the story
about the female contortionist sealed in a septic tank full of electric eels.
If he could do
that
, he could do
anything.

They stood on the threshold. There was moment of hopelessness, then a
moment of total despair, followed by a blinding flash of clarity.

‘Oh,’ said Giles casually. ‘And give my regards to Aub... Aub… what was
his name again?

Mrs Hathaway tried to reply, but could only manage a faint stutter.

Let me guess - Aub? Aub?
Aubrey
!

Yes! He could tell by her face - it was a bullseye.

‘You haven't been telling me the whole story have you, now? Who
is
this Aubrey? If I remember correctly,
you said ‘
I
just want Aub…’

‘Would I be correct in assuming Aubrey isn't quite
yours
yet, and that you'd like him to be. And, if that happens, I
have to ask you, how comfortable will your life be, together?’

He moved closer to her. His tone was measured and his annunciation clear
and precise.

‘Two months maximum, I set the challenges, you do them, I interview you
and write the stories - the
true
stories, plus everything filmed and photographed. In return, a million pounds
in advance. Then you and Aubrey will have everything you need to do whatever
you’re planning to do.’

Mrs Hathaway looked truly stunned. ‘I, er,’ she breathed.

‘OK, play hardball if you must, two million - and that’s my final
offer.’

There was a dull thud as Digby’s head and the rest of his body hit the
hallway carpet.

‘What do you say?’ said Giles, pushing home his advantage.

‘It’s a lot more than £8 an hour,’ said Mrs Hathaway, closing the door
behind her, leaving the comatose Digby outside.

She sat on the arm of a chair, still with a dazed expression

‘Two million pounds,’ she said, staring vaguely out at the city below.
‘Are you sure?’

‘If we tie up the details, 2 million pounds will be in your bank account
by the end of the week.’

‘Fuck me!’ cried a tinny voice from over near the telephone.

Giles ran across the room and found the bug in seconds.

‘Who
is
this?’ he shouted.

Back in his office, Charlie ripped out the connection. Jesus, what part
of ‘one-way sound’ didn't those two surveillance geniuses understand?
And
it couldn't pick up the fuckin’
whispered stuff!

Charlie was very cross. Still, a quick call to Vlad and Vic should get
the surveillance team sorted out, as long as they brought back the overalls
without bloodstains. There was a five quid deposit to collect.

Chapter 22

 
Between them, they made sure
Digby was OK. Mrs Hathaway wrote him a note and tucked the envelope into his
inside jacket pocket, while Giles called the in-house medic.

Digby returned to consciousness in seventh heaven. Mrs Hathaway was
kneeling beside him, cradling his head in her arms whispering, ‘It’s alright
Digby, you’re going to be alright.’

She’d felt rather ashamed of herself shutting the door on his
seemingly lifeless form to discuss Giles’ amazing financial offer.

‘If you were going to pass out, this is the place to do it - good
thick carpet,’ said the brisk young doctor. ‘I suspect your cranium hardly
noticed the impact! And whisky tends to make you relaxed when you fall, even at
10.30 in the morning!’

Digby, on the other hand, felt he’d been hit by a baseball bat
wrapped in high quality shag pile. He sat up gingerly. Mrs Hathaway kissed his
bald head. He concentrated hard on remaining conscious. If she was going to be
kissing him, he didn't want to miss a single pucker.

Once he could stand, they took him down in the lift.

‘How many fingers am I holding up?’ she asked.

‘Six and a half,’ said Digby, quickly followed by ‘only joking -
four or five.’

He was obviously still struggling to get out of the twilight zone.

They hailed a cab, and Giles gave the driver an extra twenty pounds
to make sure Digby got into his office and was safely sat in his chair with a
cup of coffee.

‘OK mate,’ said the cheerful cabbie, and off they went. Digby waved
goodbye out of the window, but it was the window opposite the pavement.

Nevertheless, they both waved back before taking the lift up to the
restaurant on the 28th floor, which they were sure would be bug free.

As it was early, they easily found a table next to the
floor-to-ceiling windows with yet another spectacular cityscape at the
tablecloth’s end.

But Mrs Hathaway was focused on other things.

‘Just how dangerous will all this be?’

‘Oh, well - there’ll have to be an element of danger to make it
exciting for the Daring Doozers, but if there’s anything you think is over the
top hazard-wise, just say, and we’ll think of something else.’

‘Where will all this danger be taking place?’

‘No idea, yet,’ replied Giles.

‘That sounds like a plan,’ she said, a little sarcastically. Then
she thought of the two million pounds and the wonderful life she was going to
have with Aubrey.

‘But I’m sure someone as brilliant as you will come up with
something.’

‘’Course,’ said Giles, basking in the compliment. ‘We’ll have to get
a video crew sorted out.’

‘Yes.’

‘They’ll have to be as brave as you. They’ll not have to flinch at
danger. They’ll have to the ultimate professionals, willing to follow your
every exploit, no matter how life threatening.’

‘Or, strapped for cash.’

‘You know someone?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘I’m not sure about the bravery, but
I know they were strapped for cash.’

‘Who?’

‘
Michael Selwyn Barton
and
James Redfern Chartwell
of Implosion Productions. I used to
clean their office. They were drunk most the time and revoltingly unhygienic,
but they told me they’d won awards in their youth - even had a few
documentaries on TV.’

‘Still, they sound dodgy.’

‘I agree. But I believe I can get them off the booze, stiffen their
backbones and get you what you want. I think, underneath, they’re nice enough
people. And I’d like to work with nice people rather than people I don't know.’

‘Up to you,’ said Giles. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘Only trouble is - they’ve gone missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘Yes, I believe the popular phrase is “done a runner”. I heard they
got behind with their rent, and escaped just before they had run in with Vlad,
Vic and Charlie Sumkins.’

Giles didn't like any sentence with the words Vlad, Vic and Charlie
Sumkins in it. He’s read the papers, and their reputation sent shivers running
from his ankles to his earlobes.

‘But they’re maniacs!’

‘Oh, they're not too bad, if you know how to handle them.’

Bloody hell, thought Giles, she handles Vlad, Vic and Charlie
Sumkins - this was going to be even better than he thought.

‘So how do we find these Implosion guys? If Charlie and the V-Twins
are on their trail, they’ll be well under cover, by now.’

 
If Charlie and the V-Twins
were on Giles’ trail, he’d have bought a mausoleum in an obscure suburb of
Djakarta, under a false name and lived in it, until he died.

‘Oh, I have the terrible trio eating out of my hand. I’m sure I can
coax them into telling me where Mick and Jim are. In fact, pass me your mobile
and I’ll phone Charlie, now.’

When Charlie’s office phone rang, he’d just come off the line to
Vlad and Vic, and was shoving the remains of the surveillance gear into his
waste bin.

‘Allo’

‘This is Mrs Hathaway.’

‘And?’

‘I’m interested in Mick and Jim from Implosion Productions.’

‘So, why should I want to know about your disgustin’ sex life?’

‘I want to speak to them, as soon as you find them.’

‘Is that before, or after, I deal with ‘em? Cos if it’s “after”
you’re goin’ to have to hire a spiritualist.’

‘Before, of course! I suspect they're well hidden by now, but when
you find them, your first call is to me, is that clear?

‘’Course it is,’ said Charlie, and put the phone down, abruptly.

Giles was impressed. ‘Was that…?’

‘Charlie Sumkins. I have information - very secret information -
about Mr S. He’ll do anything I tell him.’

Giles was intrigued, but there were plans to make.

‘Look, you know it might take months to dig out these Mick and Jim
characters from their hidey-hole. But thinking about it, that’s not much of a
problem, we work on Daring Dooz about three editions ahead, so there’s plenty
of time.’

‘Hey!’ he said, bouncing out of his seat. “I’ve just had a great
idea. When we find out where Mick and Jim are, your first challenge could be to
sail some ocean-going yacht, single-handed to meet them. With a bit of luck,
it’ll be somewhere hot, so you can wear a bikini. I can see the shots now -
standing at the wheel with a gorgeous tan, your blue eyes sparkling as you gaze
out fearlessly at 30-foot waves.’

Mrs Hathaway wasn’t too happy with the bikini bit, but thoughts of
the two million and a happy life by Aubrey’s side made her move on.

‘But if I’m travelling alone, how will we take video and
photographs?

‘We can rig up remotes all over the yacht, no problem,’ said Giles.

‘There is one other thing.’

‘You got it!’

‘I will
have
to take
Aubrey.’

‘But it’s supposed to be single-handed!’

‘It will still be single-handed, even with Aubrey - he’s a lovely
little man, but absolutely clueless.’

Reluctantly, Giles agreed.

‘So, how are you with yachts?’

‘I’ve read all the manuals; from
Super Snarks to AC72 catamarans -
and
single-handed yachts like the
Open 60.’

‘Yes, but have you ever been
sailing?

‘Well, no not
exactly
, but I’ve seen videos - and I
always believe that, if you have a good manual, and a well-shot video, you’ll
be fine, plus I presume I’ll have
GPS, VHF radio, autopilots and all that. I also did
a computer-based course
Rounding Cape
Horn In Winter, The Easy Way
. So it shouldn't be a problem.’

This, thought Giles, was
going to be one hell of a ride. Two million quid, and already he could see it
was going to be worth every penny.

Chapter 23

The cabbie did a good job. Digby had started feeling better during the
trip back to his office, so it wasn’t a problem to get him ensconced in his
chair with a steaming mug of black coffee in front of him.

‘You alright then, mate?’

‘Tallulah,’ said Digby, quietly, looking down at his coffee.

‘Great,’ said the cabbie, and left.

Once Digby was alone, the enormity of what had happened sunk in.
She was so beautiful - and those eyes! But
she was going out of his life, for ever. How could he live with the heartache?
He could see nothing ahead but melancholy, depression and a slow, pathetic
decline. He sniffed a long, sad, slow sniff. And drank his coffee down in one.

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.