Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (20 page)

Chapter 45

Mick and Jim were also sitting
comfortably in leather seats located in the huge
Plexiglass blisters on either side of the
Catalina’s fuselage. In World War II, this is where the
.50 calibre machine guns were installed. But, now,
they gave Mick and Jim a fabulous panoramic view of clear blue skies and a less
fabulous view of the Caribbean Sea whizzing by, 200 feet below.

Both of them had to admit, that, sitting
in the blisters, they’d had a fantastic view of the take-off. After buzzing the
Police HQ, Mrs Hathaway pulled some lever or other and moved the
stabilising floats up to
form part of the wingtips, and that was it. Sit tight and Amazon here we come!

It wasn’t
luxury, but it wasn’t bad. There was a small fridge with food and drinks for
the journey. The seats reclined right back. And the newly installed toilet was
as good as anything you’d get on a commercial jet.

Originally, Catalinas were very noisy
inside, but thanks to a newly installed communication system, they could easily
talk to each other over headsets.

Initially,
Mick and Jim fiddled around, doing funny voices and making up silly names for
themselves, before realising it was really useful. They could talk to Mrs
Hathaway, without leaving their seats.

‘Hello, Mrs
Hathaway,’ this is Jim here. ‘How fast are we going?’

‘Around 190
mph,’ answered Mrs Hathaway.

‘How far is
it to wherever we’re going?’

‘Around 4000
miles.’

Jim punched
the numbers into the tiny calculator on his Casio wristwatch.

‘Christ, it’s
going to take 15 years!’

‘Check the
decimal points,’ said Mick staring absent-mindedly out of his blister.

More
punching - this time, not so rapid.

‘Oh yeah -
it’s 15 hours - sorry about that.’

‘Easily
done,’ said Mick. ‘I remember speeding through a calculation in a physics
lesson at school. I was first in the class with the answer.’

‘Which
was?’

‘The soap
bubble weighs 5 tons.’

‘Decimal
points?’

‘Correct.’

‘I can
still remember the impact of
Cowlishaw’s An
Appreciation of Molecular Cohesion in Liquid Films
on the back of my head.
Mild concussion. Doctor phoned. Head resting on matron’s heaving bosom for
fifteen minutes. So it wasn’t
all
bad.’

‘Yeah,’
said Jim, moving the subject on, ‘but 15 hours is a hell of a time to be
flying.’

‘Don’t
worry’ chipped in Mrs Hathaway, ‘I’ve mapped out a couple of deserted coves
where we can land and get some sleep, if we need to. I’ve got a sandwich and a
flask of chamomile - and to be honest, I’m having the time of my life.’

The word
‘sleep,’ coupled with Mrs Hathaway’s assurances that all was well, helped guide
Mick and Jim into a cosy, sense of security. Although they knew they ought to
be up in the cockpit giving Mrs Hathaway lots of support and encouragement,
they were nothing if not self-centred, idle bastards. So they tipped back their
seats and dozed off.

*

Jim awoke
around two hours later, and, as usual, wondered where he was. He scratched
himself, stood up, sauntered over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water,
realised where he was, sat down and strapped himself in.

This
triggered Mick to do the same, so after a few minutes, they were both settled
back in their seats, and drowsily toasting one another with unopened bottles.
After a few minutes of recuperative silence, Jim came on the communications
system.

‘Mick?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Something’s
up.’

‘What?’

‘You’re not
going to believe this.’

‘Try me,
mon
jolly old
brave
. Nothing ventured, nothing whatever it is.’

Jim’s voice
was starting to wobble.

‘I’ve got a
bloke outside the plane - and he’s looking straight in at me.’

There was a
short pause.

‘Strange,’
replied Mick, in a cracked falsetto, ‘there’s one outside my window, too!’

Whether these
startling observations were correct or incorrect, one thing was absolutely certain.

During the
next five minutes, the ‘They Win. You Lose.’ philosophy would be tested to
unimaginable limits.

Chapter 46

While Roberto was out getting a bedside
light to go with the newly made-up cell bed, Aubrey set about rustling up some
grub in the Police HQ’s microwave. Roberto ate out, mostly at Big Dick’s, so
there wasn’t much in the tiny fridge-freezer. However, Aubrey found a ready
meal pack called
Bolas de Cabra - Jumbos.
Ten minutes on full blast and it
went
down a treat.

Aubrey’s normal state was to be at a
loose end, but, now, alone in the quiet of the HQ, that loose end was dangling
about and flapping pointlessly in the breeze. He was bored. Really bored. He
ambled over to Roberto’s bookshelf and thumbed along the titles, with a
spectacular amount of disinterest.

There was
Bicycle maintenance for policemen, Work permit law and how to use it to
your advantage,
a well-thumbed brochure for the Golden Legover, and a
first-aid book called
How to deal neatly
with the aftermath of a great white attack.
The rest of Roberto’s bookcase
was filled with books on reggae music and bass guitar manuals.

Whenever life started to torment him,
Aubrey’s number one solution was to have a kip. He went into his cell, and was
just about to answer this compelling call of nature, when he stubbed his foot
on something sticking out from under the bed. He bent down, and pulled out a
dark red bass guitar. It certainly wasn’t Roberto’s
1960 Fender Deluxe Jazz
Bass, which he’d had described to him in incomprehensible detail, as they
walked back from his arrest at the bay.

He laid it
across his knees and looked down at it, with a degree of suspicion and
curiosity. It was thick with dust and surprisingly solid and heavy. Aubrey had
never been near a musical instrument in his life. Except once, when he was hit
with a drum kit.

It happened a
long time ago, when he was strolling near the Elephant and Castle and saw a
sign outside a pub saying “England v. Brazil Live on TV Tonight!” He went in,
and the place was packed with lads, either sinking pints or waving scarves
above their heads and chanting ‘In-ger-land’!

However, it
turned out “England v. Brazil Live on TV Tonight!” was the rather long name of
a rock band. When they appeared on stage, the lead singer went to the
microphone and said ‘Good evening, we’re “England v. Brazil Live on TV
Tonight!”’ And then it all kicked off.

Later on, in
the ambulance, although he was slightly concussed, Aubrey had a chance to talk
to a couple of the band members as they shared a cylinder of gas and air.

‘The name
pulls in the punters,’ they explained, ‘it’s just when they find out we’re a
band - they always reckon they’ve been conned - and that’s when the trouble
starts. We can only do one gig a month, ‘cos of the time it takes for everyone
to be released from medical supervision.’

Poor lads,
thought Aubrey. Still, next day, he shopped them to his colleagues at the Tax
Office, and they did a dawn raid on the band’s squat in Camberwell. It turned
out they were losing about 300 quid a month. Money down the drain, plus regular
GBH. Who’d do that as a hobby?

So, thought Aubrey, looking down at the
bass, this was what all that bookcase stuff was about - a bleeding electric
guitar. He casually ran his finger over the surface of the body, while
wondering glumly how long Roberto was going to be. And then something really
strange happened. It wasn’t quite like Mozart having his first go on a piano,
but Aubrey’s 10 watt brain was suddenly infused with a warm glow, unlike
anything he’d ever experienced. Where his finger had traced a line in the dust,
he could see the bass wasn’t just red, it was
shiny
red. In fact, it was shiny red and some clever sod had put
shiny bits of metal in the shiny red paint, or whatever it was.

Almost in a trance, he walked over to
the sink, picked up a roll of kitchen paper and returned to his cell. He sat
down and began to gently wipe the dust from the guitar body. When that was
done, he began to polish the whole thing until it shone. He held it up, and
twisted it so it caught the light. He looked at the back. It was fabulous. He
looked at the silvery knob things on the end of the long, thin bit. He looked
at the silvery knobs on the body. He looked at the strings and saw they went
from thin to thick. He looked at the metal lines going across the long, thin
bit. And he thought that was great, too. He stood up. Then he sat down. He
stood up, again and walked across his cell to look back at the bass lying on
his bed. It looked fantastic from every angle. He put his hands on his hips and
sighed a sigh of complete and absolute contentment.

For the first time in his life,
Aubrey Capability Brown
was totally, passionately and
irrevocably
in love.

Chapter 47

When Roberto returned, he was in a
hurry. He was looking to shower, change and be down the Golden Legover for the
start of the show. Roberto reckoned, as Chief of Police, he had to be
impeccably dressed for
all
social
occasions. He also reckoned that, in St Bernards’ society, he was considered as
a pretty sophisticated man-about-the-island. So he wasn’t happy that, when
cycling back to HQ, his bicycle chain had come off, five times. His hands, arms
and knees were covered in oil. He went into the bathroom and ran the shower.
Tomorrow, he would
definitely
put in
a requisition for a bike chain link remover.

After he’d showered, he suddenly
realised he hadn’t seen or heard a peep out of Aubrey. Maybe he’d gone off to
the club early to get a good seat. Anyway, he had to put the new bedside light
in Aubrey’s cell, so he’d do that now, because if he got lucky later on, and
Aubrey came home alone, he didn’t want him fumbling about in the dark, and
wrecking things. He was keen to take care of Aubrey - after all, he’d just
picked up a grand for a quick bike ride and a bit of acting.

Roberto opened Aubrey’s cell door, and
stopped dead in his tracks. Aubrey was sitting on the bed, hunched over
Roberto’s old dark red, nothing-special bass. A pile of his bass manuals was on
the bed, and he could easily see Aubrey was working on
Advanced Reggae Slap Techniques Book 5
.

‘Hey man!’ said Roberto with a huge
smile, ‘I didn’t know you played!

Aubrey didn’t look up.

Roberto sat down on the cell’s only
chair.

‘I said, I didn’t know you
played!’

‘Oh!’ said Aubrey in a far away voice, ‘no
- not really.’

‘Oh no?
Advanced Reggae Slap Techniques Book 5
- come on! That’s some cool
stuff you got there.’

‘Well,’ said Aubrey looking a little
embarrassed, ‘I just got interested, while you were away. I done all the
basics, notes and scales - major, minor, diatonic chromatic an all that. Then I
done hammer-ons, pull-offs, ghost notes, double stops, double pops, now I’m on
to left-hand slaps and double slaps...

‘What!’ said Roberto in amazement.
‘Since I
left
?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Look, I’ve been playing for ten years,
and
I’m
only just getting round to left-hand
slaps and double slaps. Play me something.

‘What now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You won’t take the piss?’

‘No.’

‘It’s from memory, so there might be...’

Roberto sighed. Aubrey started playing.

It was the complicated bass intro to Bob
Marley’s
Could you be loved?

Roberto’s mouth dropped open.

Aubrey moved into the rest of the song.
Apart from an occasional glance at the fretboard, his eyes were closed.

‘In four hours!’ gasped Roberto. ‘Four
bloody hours! Man that’s
unbelievable!
’

‘Well, I dunno,’ said Aubrey, apologetically.
‘I had to use them books. They tell you where to put your fingers and
everythin’.’

‘No! Look!’ said Roberto putting his
hands on Aubrey’s shoulders and looking straight into his eyes.

‘People take, five, ten, fifteen years
to get that good. I mean, at least you must have a reggae fan before?’

‘Nope,’ said Aubrey. ‘All I know is the
bits in them books.’

‘Woho, my friend!’ said Roberto leaping
to his feet. ‘Time for some revelations!’ He went over to his office desk, took
out a remote control.

 
‘Check this out.’

The room was filled with the sounds of
Bob and the Wailers playing
Could you be
loved?

Aubrey moved back into his trance and
played along.

‘Man,’ said Roberto, ‘you have the vibe
too. My old dad was a big reggae fan - like hello
Roberto!
He heard Bob play live. He used to say, “play with your
heart and the instrument will do the talking.” And that’s what you’re doing -
you’re not playing the
notes
, you’re
feeling the
groove
.’

Aubrey stopped. ‘My fingers are hurtin’
a bit now. But I want to keep on goin’.’

‘Now, don’t get greedy - take a break.
Reggae is all about taking your time. Keeping it cool. Don’t fill the space
with notes. The music’s gotta
breathe
.’

While he was talking, Roberto was
unpacking his Fender.

‘Sit down and relax. I’ll show you a few
tips and tricks.’

‘OK by me,’ said Aubrey.

‘But,’ said Roberto, ‘we have to do this
properly.’

He opened his desk drawer and within
seconds had rolled two spectacular joints.

‘Hey! Don’t look so worried - this is
standard police issue ganja. Guaranteed to have no effect!’

For the next hour, Roberto took Aubrey
through a few songs pointing out the intricate way the bass related to the
other instruments. Aubrey started to get itchy fingers, and soon they were both
playing and swapping ideas.

Robert introduced him to early roots
reggae -
Winston Holness
's
Blood & Fire
and
Yabby You
's
Conquering
Lion
.

Aubrey picked it all up in seconds.

Roberto made a couple of cups of black
coffee.

‘’Ere,’ said Aubrey. ‘What’s the best
thing about playin’ bass?’

‘I enjoy it,’ said Roberto, ‘and so do
the ladies.’

‘How come? They ain’t playin’ anythin’.’

 
The wider aspects of playing an instrument on
stage, and how it might engage with the thoughts, desires and needs of
individuals in the audience had not crossed Aubrey’s mind. He was in love with
the bass guitar, and that, for the moment, was enough.

‘Ladies - well, at least,
some
ladies - like musicians. You ever
heard of groupies?’

‘Is it a fish with a big gob, like you
see on the telly?’

‘No,’ said Roberto. ‘Groupies are women
who like to hang around bands.’

‘So what? They hang around.’

‘No,’ said Roberto. ‘Groupies are women
who like to have
sex
with bands. You
heard of sex haven’t you?

‘Yes.’

‘Good, we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Ain’t that a bit shallow, though?’ said
Aubrey.

For some reason, perhaps it was the
police issue ganja, his thoughts had swirled back to groupies and the sea - so ‘shallow’
seemed an appropriate word - although it was a 50-50 toss up with ‘deep’.

‘You feel great on stage,’ said Roberto.
‘The music is sexy, the ladies in the audience are sexy, your bass is sexy, so
you feel sexy. It’s fantastic.’

‘Ere,’ said Aubrey, say that last fing
again.’

‘It’s fantastic!’

‘No, before that.’

‘So you feel sexy?’

Whoever packed the police issue ganja
for delivery, must have lobbed in some Lambsbread High Grade.

The words ‘so you feel sexy’ floated
around in the back of Aubrey’s brain as they sat an talked and played and
enthused and laughed until the small hours - until the Caribbean moon had risen
like one of the big silver knobs on Roberto’s old, dark red, nothing special
bass, and the last of the long-forgotten lap dancers had retired exhausted to
her bed.