Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (25 page)

Chapter 58

‘Shaggin’
caimans!’ cried Mick his voice rising so high, the rest his next sentence could
only be heard by the village dogs and a panther that was wandering around the
jungle’s edge looking for lunch.

‘What the
fuck do caimans want to shag for? And why
tomorrow
?
Is every Tuesday shagathon day?’

Hamish
unsuccessfully tried to calm Mick down by carefully repeating the nightmarish
information.

He
told him how the caiman breeding season - which only happened every two or
three years - was due to start tonight, the night of the full moon, and that it
would go on for a month. It involved male caimans coming down the tributary to
mate with females gathered at the bottom of the waterfall. So, from time to
time, caimans would arrive at the waterfall and launch themselves over the drop
to the females waiting below.

‘So,’
said Mick, ‘let me get this straight. While we’re Daring fucking Doozing about
on a wire 150-feet above a reptilian orgy, randy, 1000lb, man-eating crocs will
be whistling past our heads every couple of seconds.

‘Aye!
That’s aboot it.’

*

That
evening, on the pretext of being terribly interested in flying, Mick borrowed
the Catalina pilot’s manual from Mrs Hathaway. As he knew all along, it was
mind-bogglingly complicated. And so, after 20 minutes, with his mind suitably
boggled, he fell into a fitful, restless, twitching state. A state that an
idiot, prone to wild exaggeration, might, on a day when he’d forgot his medication,
call sleep.

On
the other hand, Mrs Hathaway and Jim were busy.

Jim
put in a quick satellite call to Charlie Sumkins to discuss the finer points of
The Love Lottery
starring David
Niven.

Mrs
Hathaway called Giles who was deliriously happy about the worldwide attention being
received by the video of her rescuing Aubrey in the Atlantic, and it had over 20
million hits on YouTube, and
Daring Dooz
readership, worldwide, was up by 50 per cent.

 
He was also
hyper
-delirious about the notes, stills and footage Mrs Hathaway
had emailed over from the Catalina flight.

‘What
the
hell
was going on?

‘No
idea. We just went into the fog tunnel then out - 3,000 miles in 15 minutes.’

‘But
the stills and footage are
incredible
,’
said Giles.

‘And
it fits with all the Bermuda Triangle/UFO-type stuff we’ve added to the
magazine - but this was
real!

‘Well,’
said Mrs Hathaway, who was rather uncomfortable with praise, ‘Challenge Three
is all ready for tomorrow.’

‘How
dangerous is it?’ asked Giles. ‘I’ve only seen the aerial photographs.’

‘Oh,
quite dangerous, I believe. Mick says if I fall off, I’ll be pulverised on the
rocks.’

‘Great!’

Mrs
Hathaway didn't
quite
see it like
that, and ignored his enthusiasm.

‘But
I
won't
be falling off. I’ve done two
days’ practice, including forward flips and back summersaults. And before you
ask, I will be wearing the t-shirt and leather shorts with the thigh straps.’

‘With
the knife?’

‘With
the knife.’

Giles
made a final request.

‘Yes,
I
will
put my hair in a long plait,
if you
insist.
’

Much
to her annoyance, the £2million still exerted an influence.

Finally,
she made a quick call to Aubrey, to blow him a goodnight kiss. The call didn't
go according to her very short script. Aubrey rambled on for over 10 minutes
about how he was playing bass guitar, and was practicing second inversion,
diminished triads, adding the fifths below the root, and that Roberto had
invited him to play with his band, as a warm up act at the Golden Legover
.

‘Doesn't
that break your bail conditions?’ she said, getting straight to the point. She knew
the score, but wasn’t going to let Aubrey off the hook that easily.

‘Oh,
er, no,’ stuttered Aubrey, ‘they got a special permit fing sort of signed by
the, er, top man.’

‘Alright
then,’ she said, and blew him his kiss.

She
switched off the sat phone.

Aubrey
might be a lying little toad, but he was
her
lying little toad. And anyway, it was nice to talk to the love of your life,
particularly, as there was a full moon. And particularly if, tomorrow, you were
planning to tightrope walk across a rickety piece of old shite over a 150-foot
drop. It could be the last kiss you would ever blow to anyone.

Chapter 59

The morning
was bright and fresh and, thankfully, there was no wind at all. From the far
side of the waterfall, Jim had a clear view of Mrs Hathaway and Mick as they
struggled to locate the Mick-mobile’s wheels on top of the armoured cable. He
was treated to snippets of Mick’s impressive range of expletives, but otherwise
all he could hear was the relentless thunder as thousands of tons of black
water plunged relentlessly into the abyss.

Eventually,
Mrs Hathaway gave a thumbs-up sign, then picked up a bow and fired over an
arrow attached to a fine nylon line - another find from Zac’s treasure trove.

Jim hauled
in the line, which was attached to the rope he would use to pull the Mick-mobile.

So far so
good, and not one plunging croc.

Mick
lowered his bulky form into his box - effectively an old red vulcanised fibre crate
- bottom first. It swayed, but seemed relatively stable. He made himself
comfortable, and checked his camera in its waterproof housing.

‘Action!’ he
shouted.

Although it
was impossible to hear him above the roar of the water, they all sensed that this
was it. Jim started to pull gently on the rope, Mrs Hathaway put her foot on
the cable, Mick pressed record, and they were off.

Apart from
the fact that his heart was pounding against his rib cage, his blood pressure
had gone off the dial, his palms were sweating and he had peed his pants slightly
when he first stepped into the box, Mick was fine.

He noticed
the faint spray coming up from below had layered itself onto Mrs Hathaway’s
sun-tanned thighs. He mused on how those thighs might be the last thing he ever
saw on earth if Albert the Overweight Alligator decided to freefall into his
box at forty miles an hour. He also mused on how, after years of training and
award-winning productions, he was now filming dangerous soft porn for millions
of saddos who wouldn't lift a finger to save Mrs Hathaway, especially if it
meant leaving the security of their sticky little bedsits.

His muse
only lasted a second, because now they were a yard into the walk, and his ‘They
Win. You Lose.’ professionalism kicked in. He had to admit Mrs Hathaway look
great as a supercharged Lara Croft. She moved confidently, head held high, arms
outstretched. Even Jim did his bit by pulling the box across in as smoothly as possible,
given the circumstances.

At one
point, there was a huge flash of sheet lightning out of a clear blue sky, and
Mick thought they were in for a tropical downpour, but thankfully, it passed.

In no time
at all, they’d reached the half way mark. Mick felt it was going well, and was
looking forward to a mega shot of
Glenfiddich
Urban Alternative as soon as he reached the opposite bank.

It’s strange how it only takes a second,
or a direct hit from 12-foot of a rapidly travelling, sexually excited reptile,
to change a general feeling of well being.

Albert took
the hit in his stride. 65 million years ago, his ancestors had survived the
impact of a 6-mile-wide boulder traveling a 20 miles a second. So, hitting an
industrial process container stuffed with a fat bloke his videocamera and 42
inch collapsible reflector was, really, a non-event.

To Mick, it
was exactly the opposite. The colossal impact was completely unexpected, and so
unbelievably violent, he was sure his brain had rotated through 90 degrees. The
camera eyepiece severely distended his nostril. And the reflector floated gently
after the caiman as it plunged towards the eagerly waiting females. The impact
on the Mick-mobile was not dead centre, so it whipped, lurched and spun in a
way that caused Mick’s breakfast of piranha fish soup to make a sudden and
widespread reappearance.

Mrs Hathaway
looked worried.

‘The
reflectors gone!’

Mick wanted
to say Fuck the reflector. Fuck You. Fuck Jim. Fuck the waterfall. Fuck this
box. Fuck the fuckin’ caiman and Fuck Daring Dooz.

But instead he
fell back on that old industry stalwart.

‘Don’t worry,
we’ll fix it in post-production.’

Mrs Hathaway
seemed pleased.

‘Carry on, James,’
she cried.

Jim, however,
could not carry on. He had bad news.

‘The ropes
stuck.’

‘What do mean
stuck
!’ screamed Mick.

‘I mean it’s
jammed in the pulley. I can't pull you.’

Mick expressed
his frustration by scooping up a handful of regurgitated piranha soup and
slapping it on his bald head. He was just about to deliver his postponed ‘Fuck
the reflector’ speech, when Mrs Hathaway intervened.

‘James, we’re
in a pickle,’ she called. ‘So I’m afraid it’s up to you. Come out here and free
the rope.’

‘I can’t
tightrope walk,’ shouted Jim.

‘No need,’
she called back, ‘just sit with your legs on either side of the cable. Take it
slowly, and come and sort out this pulley.’

Jim was not
often noble, and this situation was no exception. However, after a five-second assessment,
he realised that, if he did nothing, and they managed to free the pulley
themselves, his chances of getting a lift back to St Bernards were zero. He’d
lose £100,000 and face years of going to sleep in the long house, wondering if he’d
be woken by a Bushwacker sinking its fangs into his groin.

And speaking
of groins, if he did go for the pulley, he’d be sitting astride an armoured
cable. It could be
very
uncomfortable.
It could be
very
painful. It could
ruin his love life, such as it wasn’t, for ever. But when it came down to
Bushwacker Fangs v Ruined Love Life, there was no contest.

‘Just give me
a second, and I’ll be there,’ he shouted.

‘Good man,’
cried Mrs Hathaway.

‘Tell the
bastard to get a move on,’ growled Mick.

‘Now Michael,
I’ll have none of that! Film him coming to the rescue.’

Reluctantly,
Mick rolled on his side to get the shot of Superman grimacing as he slowly
inched along the cable towards them.

Mrs Hathaway
balanced, patiently.

All went well
until Jim was about two yards from the jammed pulley.

They say
lightning never strikes twice, at least not in the same place. That must also
be true of 12-foot-long caimans.

The rampant, 1000lb
of reptilian muscle shot over the waterfall edge, straight at Jim. He turned
sideways and, for a split second all he could see was mouth, teeth and naked, writhing
aggression, right in his face. Then, thanks to gravity, it was gone.

No doubt
there are professors of zoology who, after a few bottles of vintage port at some
Oxbridge top table, would be prepared to discuss the extent to which Amazonian
caimans understand the concept of gravity. All this particular caiman knew was
that a ready-made meal, straddling a wire, had suddenly disappeared.

It was snapping
its powerful jaws in frustration as it plunged towards the waiting females,
when, more by luck than hunting prowess, it managed to clamp itself onto Jim’s
boots.

This immediately
added 1000lb to Jim’s bodyweight. But thanks to Rory DeFreise and Anton Cumberbatch,
Jim had
only
to cope with a massive and
sudden increase in the pain already coursing through his testicles.

Some months
earlier, as design consultant to
Daring
Dooz International
, Rory DeFreise been wandering around London’s Covent
Garden Market tasked with selecting tropical wear for Mick and Jim.

He was very
happy with everything, apart from the boots. Wandering around the Doc Martens
store, he met Anton, design consultant for
Strapped
for Cash
magazine, and over a coffee, they realized they had a mutual
interest in boots.

‘I think you
need something very masculine,’ said Anton, ‘and I think I know the little man
you need.’

Arthur
Pedigrew and Sons had been gentlemens’ boot makers for 150 years. They paid off
the small mortgage on their shop in 1910, and so had been able to stay in
Covent Garden, to witness the restaurants, bars, pubs, shops, advertising
agencies, PR consultancies and white-faced mime artists that now filled the
place to bursting point.

Somehow, Arthur
Pedigrew and his sons had failed to keep up with the times, and the shop was on
the verge of bankruptcy, until about a year ago, when the editor of
Strapped for Cash
popped in to enquire
whether they could make 8-inch, stiletto-heeled thigh boots in black PVC.

Ten minutes
later, a deal was done. Advertisements would appear in the magazine at no
charge, and
Strapped for Cash
would
take a percentage of sales. The boots were a roaring success, and another
traditional British craft had been saved for posterity.

‘We’re
looking for a man’s jungle boot with a big butch steel casing, right up over
the ankle, caressed in soft beige chamois,’ said Anton. ‘That’s my concept. Put
them on, and you’ll know you’re wearing a real
man’s
boot. Like, you’re down the Limpopo and district, and out
pops one of them alligator things and gives your boot a good chomp. And it’s
clang, lots of teeth twanging into the undergrowth, and off it has to wander,
looking for something to suck to death.’

‘I like it,’
said Rory.

So did Mr
Pedigrew. And one week later, the boots were ready to be tucked away in Jim’s
Daring Dooz flight case.

Back on the armoured
cable, lucky design encounters in Covent Garden, were as far from Jim’s mind,
as possible. The pain and pressure on his groin was so intense, he couldn't
speak. His mouth stayed wide open and his facial colouring alternated between
deep purple and deadly white - one second on, one second off. The caiman was
determine to have, at least, a snack on its way to the orgy, and was thrashing
wildly in an attempt, basically, to rip Jim’s feet off. But Mr Pedigrew’s steel-lined
boots held firm. British engineering at its finest.

‘This is
not
getting the baby’s botty powdered,’
said Mrs Hathaway. She leaded forward, putting her hand on Mick’s head in a way
which neatly avoided the piranha soup-vomit mix. Instinctively, Mick turned the
camera round, just in time to see her remove the knife from her thigh strap and
throw it with surprising amount of venom, so it hit the caiman right between
the eyes.

‘Did you get
that?’ said Mrs Hathaway grimly, as the caiman fell away, still snapping.

‘Yes,’ said
Mick, ‘but not as much as the croc did.’

 
He smiled. Mrs Hathaway smiled. While Jim
stared ashen-faced into the middle distance, which, as far as he was concerned,
was about three inches away.

The next ten
minutes were tough for Jim. He inched painfully forward, sorted the jammed
pulley, then inched his way back to the bank where, after a few more minutes of
whimpering, he resumed tugging on the rope.

It wasn’t
long before Mick and a fully videoed Mrs Hathaway arrived safely on Jim’s side
of the waterfall. Mrs Hathaway then did a couple more crossings for long shots
and telephoto close-ups. Mick recorded the sound of the waterfall, leaving Jim to
have a quick check down the front of his designer shorts to assess the extent
of the damage, which was, indeed, considerable.

Still, Daring
Dooz Challenge Three was complete. Exhausted, the three of them made their way
down to the waiting canoe.

Initially, Jim
felt he couldn't walk a step, but, after downing the contents of Mick’s flask
of
Glenfiddich Urban Alternative, he
managed the descent quite easily. Although from time to time, he tried to dive
into the frothing pool of gigantic, over-sexed, over-incisured reptiles,
crying, ‘Let me at the bastards, I’ll fuckin’ show ‘em what happens when they
mess with
James
Redfern Chartwell.’