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

Chapter 3

Aubrey spun round on one
heel, which made him dizzy and even more detached from reality. The corridor
was dark, apart from a sputtering neon tube. There was a door. He put his shoes
back on then, from force of habit, looked left and right, pulled up his coat
collar, went over and knocked.

A
woman’s voice shouted from across a room.

‘Who’s
that?’

‘It’s
er…’ said Aubrey.

‘Er
what?’ asked the woman’s voice, confident, and closer to the door, by now.

‘Err…insurance.’

‘Never
heard of you.’

‘We’re on the telly,’ said
Aubrey with an element of desperation creeping into his voice.

‘Never
seen you.’

‘You know - we got a great
jingle:
To Err is human
sung to the
tune of
Wide-eyed and legless.’

‘Never
heard it.’

Aubrey
dropped all pretence.

‘Open
the door, please missus,’ he said.

The door opened a little.
It was on a chain. A tall, thin, handsome woman with silver hair tied in a bun
and piercing light blue eyes peered through the crack.

‘What
sort of insurance?’

‘The sort of insurance what’ll
stop you getting my blood and broken bits of teeth splattered all over your
nice front door.’

The
game stopped.

‘You
in trouble?’ asked the lady, quietly.

‘Yeah,’
said Aubrey, wiping his nose.

The door opened wide. But
despite his expectation of a horrible, imminent, painful death, Aubrey stood
rooted to the spot.

The woman was amazing -
about sixty, tall, thin and elegant with fine cheekbones and impossibly shiny
silver hair. She had toned muscles and a supreme air of confidence. Even more
impressive was that she was dressed in a red silk vest, yellow silk Everlast
shorts and ring boots, with a pair of bright red Cleto Reyes boxing gloves.

She tapped her gloves
together gently, while slowly eyeing Aubrey up and down. It was a strange image
- one of refinement and sophistication, coupled with a brooding menace. If you
could imagine a Jane Austen heroine who was a professional welterweight, you’d
be getting close.

‘Come
in, and shut the door before it gets any blood on it.’

‘Sit
over there,’ she said, waving to a sofa.

Aubrey shuffled across the
room, and was startled by what he saw. The room was split into two distinct
halves. One half had a comfy sofa covered in flowery material and two old wingback
armchairs, which more or less matched. There was a highly polished dark wood
coffee table with curved legs on which sat a tea pot shaped like a thatched
cottage, flowery coasters and a tea cup with ‘A present from Ilfracombe’
emblazoned on its side. The walls were covered in a range of framed, officially
signed certificates.

The other half of the room,
next to the windows, was a mini-gymnasium, with a parquet floor, punch bag,
treadmill, weights, rings and wall bars.

He sank into the sofa,
dazed as much by the bizarre environment as by his perilous predicament.

‘Now,’ she said, sitting
opposite him, ‘my name is Mrs Hathaway, I’m the cleaning lady for the offices
in this block. And
you
are?’

‘Aubrey.
Aubrey Brown.’

‘I suspect you haven't got
a lot of time, Aubrey, so tell me everything that’s going on - and no porkies.’

She poured him a cup of tea,
and he told her everything. He felt she understood what he said, despite the
clattering noise he was making with his cup and saucer.

‘So you reckon Vlad and Vic
will be back any minute now to check the corridor, find you and - what do
people say, nowadays - fill you in?’

Aubrey nodded; relieved he
had got his message across. But had hardly finished his last nod, when there
was a knock at the door.

‘Hello,
this is the maintenance lady, I need to check your electricity supply.’

‘Quick,’ said Mrs Hathaway.
She dragged Aubrey, who had started gibbering incoherently, over to the punch
bag. There was a long zip on one side. She undid the zip with one hand, and
with the other, picked Aubrey up, stuffed him inside and began re-zipping the
bag.

Aubrey’s little face poked
out at the top of the bag, mouthing, I’m a ‘fuckin’ goner, I’m a fuckin’ goner.’

‘Shut up, you idiot,’ she
hissed.

Aubrey screwed his eyes
shut and did what he was told. Then, for some unknown reason, she leaned
forward and kissed him gently on the forehead, before zipping him up
completely.

She ran to the door, and
opened it wide. No point in looking like she had something to hide. Vlad and
Vic were crouched on the other side of the corridor ready to perform a synchronised
repeat of Vlad’s unique approach to entering rooms. She dropped her chin
slightly, tilted her head and looked at them with a reproachful eye. They
responded by blushing a bit and pretending to tie their shoelaces.

‘Bulgarian
Gucci copies,’ said Vlad, looking up. ‘Always coming undone.’

‘How
can I help you?’

They stood up, and were
obviously struck by Mrs Hathaway’s exceptional looks and athletic appearance.

‘We was wonderin’ if you
knew any places round here what sells decent shoelaces?’ said Vic, with a
smirk.

Vlad put his hand on Vic’s
shoulder in a way which caused his smirk to disappear and his legs to buckle,
momentarily.

‘Jokin’ apart,’ said Vlad,
‘we’re lookin’ for a couple of our best friends - perhaps you know them - Mick
and Jim from Implosion Productions, just down the hall.’

‘Yes I know them,’ she said.
‘You both look very smart and respectable, what are you doing with those two
drunks?’

‘Ah
well, we’re more like
business
associates.’

‘Hm! From what I could see,
they did very little business - they just drank themselves into oblivion. I had
to clean up their disgusting mess, three or four times a week.’

‘Yeah well,’ said Vic
trying to redeem himself, ‘we was wonderin’ if they might be with you.’

‘Not
here, I’m afraid.’

Vlad
glowered.

‘Hm!’ she said, frowning
back, ‘if it’s
that
important, come
in and look round. But make it quick, I’m in the middle of a training session.’

Vlad and Vic moved slowly
into the room, looking left and right as if expecting a heavily armed terrorist
to jump out from behind the chintz curtains.

‘Hey,’ said Vic, ‘like the
gym! I wouldn’t have though an old broad, er - senior citizen - like yourself
would have been a bit of a brawler.’

‘I have an interest in the
noble art. I’ve been taking correspondence and video courses for over ten years
- and I really enjoy it.’

‘Oh
yeah,’ said Vic smirking across at Vlad, ‘and, like, who’s your favourite
fighter?’

‘Oh! Mohammed Ali without a
doubt - so fast and powerful. Although I disapproved of the way he constantly
pulled on the back of Joe Frazier’s neck when they met in ‘74. You know the
referee, Tony Perez, said it was OK to hold as long as long as you didn't hit
at the same time, but I think Ali was a naughty boy that night.’

Vic was up for this.

‘OK lady,’ he said, ‘give
me your best shot.’

He crouched, put up his
fists and began bobbing from left to right.

‘You can be as naughty as
you like.’

‘Oh, I couldn't,’ said Mrs
Hathaway. ‘I mean, all I’ve ever done is hit the punch bag and practice like
they tell you on the videos - it’s just for the exercise, you know - I couldn't
hit a
real
person.’

‘Now come on babe,’ said
Vic, ‘if you talk the talk, you have to walk the walk. Give me your best shot,
I promise I won't hurt you.’

More smirks in Vlad’s
direction.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I have
to finish my training, then I have a pile of ironing to get through. I can't be
doing with this nonsense.’

‘Come
on,’ said Vic, ‘just humour me. I haven't had a laugh all day.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Mrs
Hathaway, ‘if you insist.’

She shrugged helplessly at
Vlad, turned to face Vic, sighed slightly, hung her gloves by her side, then
performed a perfect version of the Ali shuffle.

Despite
this, Vic still smiled confidently.

She crouched slightly and,
swaying smoothly from side to side, moved forwards, eventually throwing a left
jab which missed Vic’s right ear by a few inches. Vic’s smile increased.

Vic was still smiling half
a second later when the left jab curved round the back of his neck and pulled
him down onto four vicious, high-speed uppercuts.

The smile was still on his
face after the attack, because the punches were so fast, his face muscles
hadn’t had time to readjust and deliver an agonised scream, and anyway, after
the third uppercut, he lost consciousness. As he took the fourth hit, blood
started to pump from his nose and he dropped to his knees.

‘Woo hoo!’ shouted Vlad,
with a grin from ear to ear.

He picked Vic up roughly,
and blocked his bleeding nose with his handkerchief.

‘Sodding Pochette Square
ran me 20 sodding quid,’ said Vlad. ‘100 per cent silk, hand-made by Italian
craftsmen, and now it’s all covered with blood and snot.’

He looked at Mrs Hathaway
and winked. ‘Still, it was worth it, darlin’.’

With his free hand, Vlad
fumbled in the top pocket of his suit.

‘Look, here’s Charlie
Sumkins’ card. If you ever need a part-time job, good money and lots of - you
know - er - practice, give him a call and say I recommended you.’

‘Well
thank you, but I’m happy with my cleaning job. By the way, how’s your friend?’

‘My
twin brother
is fine,’ said Vlad with some exasperation, ‘I’ll prop
him in the corner ‘til he comes round.’

While Vlad dragged Vic’s
considerable frame across the room, there was a lull in the social niceties.
Having made Vic as comfortable as you can make a person with severe concussion,
Vlad broke the silence.

‘You got an impressive gym
here, lady.’

‘I’ve
built it up over the years.’

‘I used to work out with
the old punch bag,’ said Vlad, as he walked across the room. ‘Mind if I have a
go?’

‘I’d
rather you didn't, I’m not sure it’s fixed too well to the ceiling.’

‘Oh go on, I just fancy a
bit.’ And, without asking her again, Vlad delivered three really vicious
haymakers to the bag.

The
bag made a noise that sounded like three stifled grunts.

Vlad
spun round. ‘Here,’ he said, suspiciously, ‘your bag just grunted.’

‘Oh that!’ said Mrs
Hathaway, thinking faster than she’d ever thought in her life, ‘It’s a piece of
Taiwanese electronic nonsense you put in the bag and when you punch it - it
makes a noise. It’s supposed to sound like you’re fighting a real person.
Anyway, I think you ought to be off now, your brother is coming round.’

Vlad looked across the room,
and it was true. Vic was stirring and asking for his mother.

‘Just one quick last go,’
said Vlad, and gave the bag a brutal, extended combination of right and left
hooks.

‘Fuck
me!’ gasped the bag.

Vlad
looked closely into Mrs Hathaway’s eyes. She didn't blink.

‘Unfortunate really,’ she
said, ‘but I’m going to have to send the thing back to Taiwan - sometimes the
language is a little too ripe for an old lady like me!’

Fortunately, the
conversation ended there as Vic had clawed his way up the wall and was swaying
dangerously in the corner.

Vlad strolled over and
caught him just before he fell. He shoved his handkerchief further up Vic’s
nostrils, put his brother’s arm over his shoulder and shuffled him to the open
door. At the threshold, Vlad stopped and turned.

‘Well, Mrs…?’

‘Hathaway.’

‘Well darlin,’ I have to
say it’s been very interesting.’ He looked down at Vic’s battered face, and
tutted.

‘After
all
I’ve taught the useless bleeder.’

‘Cheerio,’ she said, as
they lumbered off down the corridor, past the flashing neon light, and round
the corner.

She
gave them a friendly wave.

‘Pleasure
meeting you.’

Mrs Hathaway closed the
door quietly, leaned back heavily on the candlewick dressing gown hanging from
its hook, and puffed out her cheeks in a huge sigh of relief.

As she walked, a little
unsteadily across to her gym area, she realised, for the first time, that the
knuckles on her right hand were beginning to bruise.

She stood in front of the
punch bag, which was awfully quiet, breathed in deeply and prepared to unzip
Aubrey back into the world.