Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (14 page)

Chapter 30

It’s very difficult, if not disturbing,
trying to get to know someone who continually flinches and makes ‘duck and
dive’ head movements while they’re talking.

Mrs Hathaway understood about Aubrey’s
conditioning at the hands of Charlie Sumkins. One word out of place, could
result in various parts of his body ending up out of place. The solution was to
keep moving, and if you couldn’t keep moving, have a panic attack.

It
was
very difficult, but, slowly, she began to guide Aubrey in a direction that
would enable him to mix, albeit for short periods of time, with normal society.

She stopped him drinking. And that
stopped the shakes. She introduced him to chamomile tea. And the shakes started
again. So she switched him to chamomile tea with a drop of brandy and that
seemed to strike an acceptable balance.

She took him for walks whenever she felt
he was mentally strong enough to go outside. This went very well, apart from
his tendency to throw himself at off-license windows and shout ‘Come to daddy!’

Back in the apartment, they had a
‘conversation hour’ each day. Initially, this lasted about five minutes, but
gradually the time extended, particularly if the brandy to chamomile ratio was
increased.

Tallulah would tell Aubrey a little bit
about her life. Then Aubrey would tell her nothing about his. Tallulah would
ask Aubrey his opinion on something, such as the country’s membership of the
European Union. And Aubrey would say ‘What?’ in a flat tone which communicated
that the topic of conversation was over. She took this as a success, because,
at least, he was communicating. And communicating on a topic that didn’t
involve lager, Indian food or his own personal safety.

However, she could clearly see this
approach was going to take months, if not years, and she was already getting
calls from Giles to say the yacht was ready, and had she found out where Mick
and Jim were hiding.

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 rather 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.