Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (4 page)

Chapter 7

 
‘
Hello, this is the
maintenance lady, I need to check your electricity supply,’ repeated Vic, his
glassy eyes staring blankly at the sputtering neon tube down the corridor.

‘Darling,’ said Vlad,
knocking on the door again, ‘it’s Vlad and Vic here. Sorry to be back so soon,
but could we have a quick word?’

‘
Hello, this is the
maintenance lady, I need to check your grumph - Jesus!’

Inside her apartment, Mrs
Hathaway was fully awake and moving at lightning speed. She shot into the
bedroom, dragged the unconscious Aubrey down to bottom edge of the bed and
roughed the duvet, so it appeared the bed was unmade.

This was a trick she’d
learned as a young girl, when she once stayed under the bedclothes, still and
silent, for hours while her parents went mad with worry. They called in the
police who set up roadblocks, dragged the river and made announcements on radio
and TV. Of course, there was hell to pay, and not a little parental violence,
when she was discovered. It was a trick you could play only once, and in
Aubrey’s case, this was that time.

She
patted him in place, ran over to the door and opened it quickly.

‘Oh hello, gentlemen,’ she
said. ‘Sorry I took so long, I was just finishing my treadmill session.’

Vlad was filling the
doorframe as usual, but behind him, a purple-faced Vic was doubled up,
clutching his groin.

She
peered round Vlad’s bulky frame with an expression of genuine concern.

‘Oh don’t worry about Vic,’
said Vlad, with a smile. ‘Since he met up with Mohammed Hathaway, he’s not been
in the real world!’

‘Well
that certainly looks like a real-world injury!’

‘Nah! He’ll get over it.
It’s just like them Pavlova’s Dogs in reverse. Whenever he sees a door, he
keeps repeatin’ that stuff about maintenance ladies and electricity supplies.
So I just apply a little pressure, occasionally, to remind him that’s not how
normal people behave.’

She gave Vlad a
disapproving look, which made him shuffle his Gucci-clad feet awkwardly.

‘So,
what can I do for you?’

‘We’re lookin’ for another
business associate of ours - goes by the name of Aubrey. Looks like a
nicotine-stained ferret wearing a homburg. He’s been specially selected, you know,
like when you win a raffle, and we want to make sure he gets what’s comin’ to
him, as soon as possible.’

‘Well,
I’ve never heard of him.’

Vlad gave her an
ultra-intimidating glare. It wasn’t that he was suspicious, it was just a
habit. Sometimes, that look got people to blurt out a confession. Then, it was
just a case of deciding where to dispose of the body.

Vic had
straightened up and the pallor had returned to his face. He came and stood next
to Vlad, and put his head on his shoulder, oblivious to the fact that it was
his twin brother who had so recently twisted his testicles.

‘Well I
suppose you’d better come in and see for yourself -
again
!’ said Mrs Hathaway.

She moved her
left hand up to smooth her hair back into place. Vic instinctively flinched and
ducked behind Vlad. There was a strange rasping noise and a strong smell of
carbolic soap.

‘Make it
quick,’ she said. ‘I’m always busy, busy, busy.’

Vlad strode
into the room. Vic shuffled in as well, crouching down and clutching Vlad’s
suit - positioning his body so his big twin was always between Mrs Hathaway and
himself.

Vlad
correctly thought it would be faster to check the place without Vic’s sweaty
hands clutching his £5,000
Huntsman
two-piece.
He sat Vic down on the sofa, where he happily began reading a knitting pattern.
Vlad started his search by walking over to the punch bag. He unzipped it and turned
to Mrs Hathaway.

‘You never
know, the little bleeder - sorry colleague - would just about fit in here!’

Vlad laughed.

Her heart was
beating rapidly, but she put on her stern look, which she suspected Vlad rather
liked.

‘Now come
on,’ she said, ‘get on with it.’

Vlad checked
the bathroom.

‘Hmm! Can't
be many flats in London with a view as nice as this.’

 
He came out smirking, and moved towards the
bedroom door. At the same time, Vic stood up and flicked the knitting pattern
onto the opposite chair.

‘Bloody hell,
Vlad, them magazines aren’t half crap.’

He wandered
over to join Vlad at the bedroom door.

Mrs Hathaway stepped in front of them.

‘I’d rather you didn't go in there,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ said Vlad, slowly.

‘Yeah, why
not?’ said Vic, feeling he ought to be taking part, now that blood was
returning to his scrotum.

‘Well, it’s my - well, sort of boudoir - and it’s, well, a little
untidy.
’

‘Don't worry,’ said Vic, ‘yer seen one untidy boudoir, you seen ‘em
all.’

Once inside,
a quick check of the wardrobe, a quick glance under the bed and it was clear to
the V-twins, the room was empty. They turned to go.

Just as they
approached the bedroom door, there was a muffled, but unmistakable sound. It
was Aubrey, breaking serious wind under the duvet.

Vlad stopped dead in his tracks. Mrs Hathaway looked at the ceiling and
prayed.

Vlad turned
and grabbed Vic by the lapels.

‘Look, I know
you’re havin’ six enemas a day for your concussion, but that’s no excuse for
droppin’ a big one in a lady’s - what was it?

‘Boudoir.’

‘…in a lady’s
boudoir. You fink she’s going to enjoy dozin’ off tonight with the reek of
carbolic soap lingerin’ in her nostrils. Get out!’

He pushed Vic
roughly into the main room, and continued pushing him until they reached the apartment
door.

Vlad turned
to Mrs Hathaway.

‘Look,
darlin’ I’m sorry about Vicky-boy blow-trousers here, but since you whacked
him, his bodily functions have been a bit
ipso
facto
, if you know what I mean.’

She didn't. But she nodded sympathetically.

Vlad and Vic
ambled off down the corridor, past the spluttering neon. She waved goodbye,
closed the door quietly, leaned against the candlewick dressing gown and blew
out her cheeks. Wasn’t this how that
Groundhog
Day
film started? She fully expected there to be another knock on the door
within seconds with a high-pitched voice saying
‘
Hello, this is the maintenance lady, I need to check your electricity supply.’

Instead, the
bedroom door opened and Aubrey stood there, stark naked. Considering what he
had on display, he looked surprisingly ashamed.

‘Sorry I farted,’ he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders in an apologetic
sort of way.

Mrs
Hathaway’s cheeks coloured, and in a soft voice she simply whispered, ‘Aubrey
darling, I forgive you.’

She held out
her arms and smiled.

‘Come here.
Let me give you a cuddle.’

Chapter 8

‘Eh?’ said Aubrey.

‘Come here. Let me give you a cuddle.’

‘Eh?’ said Aubrey again.

‘Look, you’ve
been through a lot. You’ve been zipped into a punch bag and badly beaten by a
20-stone thug. You’ve been unconscious for two hours, you’re being hunted by
mobsters who mean you a lot of harm - why shouldn't I give you a cuddle?’

Aubrey thought for a second.

‘Well for a start, I’m bollock naked.’

‘But there’s no need to be ashamed. Being naked is a natural state.’

Although even
she
had to admit there was nothing
natural about the way Aubrey looked when he was naked.

Aubrey thought for a few more seconds.

‘Got any grub?’

Mrs Hathaway
was somewhat taken aback by this change of tack, but she responded immediately.

‘I could do
you some chopped egg in a cup with bread and butter soldiers - my mother always
used to do that for me when I’d been poorly.’

‘I was finkin’ more about, like, a mutton vindaloo with chana bhuna
extras.’

‘Well,
there’s an Indian restaurant in Frith Street, but if I go to get it, what will
you do if your work colleagues decide to pop back with a few more questions?’

Aubrey reconsidered.

‘OK, how big’s the cup?’

‘Get back into bed, and I’ll do it for you.’

Aubrey turned
away and was confused. It wasn’t just the industrial-grade pummelling he’d
recently taken, it wasn’t the fact that when he closed his eyes he saw strange
flashing lights and clips from Rocky IV - it was all this cuddling stuff.

For as long
as he could remember, no one had ever said anything nice to him. Nothing
friendly. Nothing caring. Nothing pleasant. Nothing complimentary. And
certainly nothing loving. That was absolutely true. Not a single fuckin’ word.

He got into
bed and dragged his appendage after him. He made it comfortable, propped
himself up on a pillow and waited for his chopped egg.

After three
and a half minutes of propping, the cup of chopped egg arrived, complete with a
shiny teaspoon and bread and butter soldiers on a bone china plate.

‘Ta,’ said Aubrey, looking at the cup, suspiciously.

Mrs Hathaway
sat down in a chair next to the bed and looked carefully at Aubrey.

‘Eat it up,
it’ll do you good.’

Aubrey knew
what would
really
do him good, a
mutton vindaloo, chana bhuna, five pints of cold lager and a dozen brandy
chasers - plus a large fuckin’ meteorite smacking into Charlie Sumkins’
penthouse office suite, just as he was offering Vlad and Vic an extra bonus for
bringing him in, or failing that, bringing bits of him in.

‘And while you’re enjoying your food, I think we should have a little
chat.’

‘OK,’ said
Aubrey indifferently, while spooning some egg between the swollen purple things
that used to be his lips.

He obviously
had no feeling anywhere in his face, as his first spoonful caught on his
over-extended bottom lip and flipped a good dollop of chopped egg upwards,
partially blocking the only nostril to have fully reappeared to date.

‘Oh!’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘That’s not going to get the baby bathed, is
it?’

She leaned forward with a tissue.

‘Here, let’s clean you up.’

She wiped the
egg off Aubrey’s face and held another tissue to his nostril.

‘Big blow for
Tallulah, then,’ she said.

Aubrey blew. It was an extremely unpleasant noise, but it did the job.

As soon as his nose was clear, he spoke.

‘Tall-fuckin-ulah?’

‘
Language
Aubrey!’

‘Sorry, but is that your moniker?’

‘I was named after Tallulah Bankhead - a famous actress.’

‘Never heard of her,’ mumbled Aubrey.

Then, by way of offering an olive branch, said, ‘Sorry about the
effing.’

‘Maybe I ought to take an extra big tissue and clean up your language.’

He managed a
few more spoonfuls of chopped egg and shoved a soldier down the hole in his
face.

‘’Ere,’ said
Aubrey, ‘you gorra mirror?’

She guessed
what was coming.

‘I don't
think that’s a good idea, Aubrey.’

‘Go on,’ pleaded Aubrey. ‘I got a right to know what I look like - Tallulah.’

The pause, and the Tallulah, hit the spot. She opened the bedside table
drawer.

Aubrey held
up the hand mirror, and saw the damage.

His reaction
was far worse than she could possibly have imagined.

He screamed
and sat bolt upright in bed. The cup and its contents hit the ceiling and
cascaded back down over the duvet.

‘Shit a
brick,’ he cried, with genuine terror in his voice. ‘Look what they done! And
they didn’t even know I was in the punch bag. When they get me proper, I’m a
goner! I’ve had it!
Finito Benito!
Not a fucking chance! I’m fucked! I’m fucked! I’m fucked! I’m fucked! I’m
fucked!’

Mrs Hathaway
removed some chopped egg from her hair and placed her hand on Aubrey’s
shuddering shoulder.

‘No you’re
not, Aubrey.’

She looked
directly, deep into his brutally beaten eyes.

‘You are not
going to be ‘that-worded,’ because I will protect you. I will make sure you can
live your life free from the threat of extreme violence, or even ordinary
violence, from Vlad, Vic, Charlie Sumkins, or any of his criminal associates.’

For the first
time, Aubrey really listened to what she was saying. Sure, a lot of the
attention he gave to her words was generated by self-interest. But,
nevertheless, he listened.

Mrs Hathaway
sensed the welcome change in mood, and decided to play her cards close to her
delightful chest. It was time to get some more information about this troubled
little man who had so unexpectedly burst in on, what she would readily
acknowledge, was her rather mundane and predictable life.

‘But first…’
she said.

‘What?’ said
Aubrey, gloomily sinking down into the egg-splattered duvet.

‘I need the
answer to a few simple questions.’

‘When I was cleaning you up in the bath, I couldn't help noticing…’

‘Yeah, massive innit,’ interrupted Aubrey.

‘Well, yes, I
suppose that’s a word that would apply.’

‘Biggest
you’ve ever seen?’

‘Well yes,’ she
said, rather taken aback by Aubrey’s candour.

‘Probably the
biggest in the world.’

‘I’m not
really qualified to judge.’

‘Well it is.
And I’ll tell you something else it is.’

‘What?’

‘Useless.’

‘Useless?’

‘Yeah - it
don't work.’

‘What do you
mean?’

‘It don't do
the business.’

‘Business?’

‘Gor blimey
lady - it don’t change from looking like
this
.’

Aubrey pulled
back the duvet violently, scattering bits of egg over the opposite wall.

‘You mean you
can't get an erection?’

‘Got it in
ten.’

‘But that’s dreadful,’
she said. ‘Haven't you been to the doctor’s?’

‘Doctors,
specialists, consultants, homeothingies, even one of them lady sex therapists
round the back of Euston Station.’

‘And she
couldn't help?’

‘No. I mean,
she tried everythin’. Like
everythin’
- if you know what I mean.’

‘And
nothing?’

‘Nothin’. She
said I was a special case, and took a picture of it.’

‘That was
probably for her medical records.’

‘I dunno. She
set the camera on self-timer then rushed round and knelt next to it.’

‘Strange.’

‘Yeah, and
I’d swear she was smiling.’

‘How
terrible,’ said Mrs Hathaway, blushing guiltily as she used her seemingly
endless supply of tissues to wipe the egg off the wall.

There was
silence until the cleaning operation was over. Then she returned to her chair,
and looked down at Aubrey’s magnificent, but apparently useless, organ.

‘I have
another question.
You had a
little chuckle about “Tallulah”. Well I want to know about that tattoo, ESONI.
It’s not the name of a criminal gang or secret, black arts society?’

“Nah,’ said
Aubrey.

Mrs Hathaway
thought she detected a glimmer of amusement pass across his pulverised
features.

‘Lift it up
and have a look.’

Mrs Hathaway
was dubious. He was, after all, a strange man lying in her bed. But within
seconds, curiosity got the better of her. At first, she reached out and tried
to lift it with a delicate thumb and forefinger, but soon realised it was a
two-hand job.

‘See there,’
said Aubrey. ‘Start with the letter E. To the left side of it, there’s an H -
and on the right side there’s an R. So when you read it across, it spells HER.’

‘Go on - try
the rest - it don’t bother me.’

Mrs Hathaway worked
her way along the tattoo and, sure enough, each letter visible from above had
other letters tattooed to the left and right to make up a complete word.

After a few
seconds, she’d cracked it. ‘E’ was part of HER. ‘S’ was part of MAJESTY’S. ‘O’
was part of CUSTOMS.

So that was
it! In full, the ESONI tattoo read HER MAJESTY’S CUSTOMS AND EXCISE.

Now some
cynics might think that the tattoo was somewhat ironic, given the number of
people who are regularly shafted by the UK tax system. But Mrs Hathaway was in
‘pastel image - sweet music’ mode and saw the tattoo as a rather noble way of
Aubrey demonstrating his dedication to his former employers - particularly as
the tattoo used the correct typeface.

She heaved Aubrey’s
extremity back into place, patted it down and sat him up against the pillow.

‘Right,’ she said in a business-like way, ‘we’ve got all the names
sorted out. Now for the plan…’

But before she could carry on, Aubrey said, ‘Don't suppose there’s a
chance of some more egg in a cup?’

The pastel images in her head exploded in a riot of beautiful, vibrant
colours, the sweet music swelled to an unimaginable volume, and she seemed to
rise a foot off the ground.

‘Of course you can, my sweetheart.’

Mrs Hathaway turned and almost skipped into the kitchen to put another
egg on to boil. This was better than she had ever imagined. She had a man, who,
although of little use in an important department, was someone who needed her,
someone she could care for, someone with whom she could build a loving
relationship, someone to stroll alongside, happily into the future.

She could see clearly that life was going to be absolutely wonderful,
provided the plans she had for the next 48 hours, didn't result in their sudden
and very violent deaths.